#teeth cleaning services silver spring

[quecksilvereyes]

songbird.

Sir Robert Gadlen is a brute and a cheat, and you have, in common tongue and common mouth, always been too beautiful by half to be his son. His hands are calloused where they hold you, and his hair is ever coarse. There is laughter in his throat most days, too loud and too sharp to be anything but a dog's bark, and his table is never clean.

Fine damask, finer silk, golden thread and silvered claws, a dog is still a dog no matter how you dress it. The teeth will not be filed, not by sugar nor decadene or courtly love. The muscle will not melt, not in heat nor years or little boys with scraped knees and hands made of cashmere. The claws do not dull, and the fur, groomed on iron-soaked fields and steel shavings, does not change its colour.

It is still brown, shorter by the throat than is fashionable, longer by the hind limbs than is decent, a coat made for scrapping. A dog, says the girl with the dark eyes and the pearl-stitched cap who once made of her palms an offering for your mouth to drink from. A mutt, says the steward, when your mother has retired and your father has taken the bow from the wall, hands twitching.

Mouth laughing.

Too much money, says one of the kitchen girls, red-aproned; red-mouthed, not enough sense. Her eyes are bright things, and her freckles stretch from the bloom of her forehead to the spread of her shoulders. Red-dotted, red-chested.

Your teeth are dull. Your hair is fine and soft with oils, the roof of your mouth is glutted on sugar. In the turning of your hands lies a childhood cushioned with care, and in the curling of your mouth lies a bird's song. In the flush of your skin lies your mother's legacy - a splotched blush, a spread of moles.

Little bird, says your father, his mouth pressed to the crown of your head. Little bird, flap your wings. His beard is wiry - sharp - and his voice is rough. His hands, callouses and all, are soft, soft things. Close your eyes. Laugh with him.

-

Lady Eleanor Gadlen is a marvel and a beauty, and you have, in truth and sleepless nights, always been too hot-headed to be her son. The parlour is never locked, no guest is turned away. There is ever ale in the pantry and soup on the stoves, and when asked for hospitality, the lady laughs and offers. She is, by grace of her husband, gold-capped and finely embroidered, cherished and warmed by the hearth lit in the dog's maw. She is, in spite of her husband, a noble thing, swan-delicate and fair as the first spring day of a cold year.

In the evenings, she curls into the roughness of Sir Gadlen like a homecoming, and drinks from his mouth his ever-present laughter. Hob, she says. Dearling. Into the undoing of her cap and the spill of the fine hair you both share, she does not flinch from claws or rough palms.

When she has warmed herself by the fire until the heat drips from her fingertips, she runs them through your curls. You rest your head against her chest, the beat of her steadfast heart. One-and-two.

Too good for him, says the girl, and the pearls drop from her cap into your parched mouth. When she smiles, they dissolve on your lips. A shame, says the steward into the frantic rush of the working kitchen, when your mother has donned her good riding boots in pursuit of your restless, chainless father.

She could have had her pick, says the courtier whose name is the same as the five men who have come to lament before him. Well-bred, and comely as she is, she might have had something pedigreed, instead. Your knuckles are wet and swollen by morning, and the courtier's throat is thick with bites only dull teeth can press into pompous skin.

The Lady Eleanor's smile is dimpled at the edges, and her hands are fine-boned and soft in the way of a woman who has never known labour. When she takes her dog to church, she talks with the parish after the service has ended, swaying skirts and sunlit eyes. Gifts smiles as easy as bread. Sir Gadlen lets her.

Lets her write and hunt and pick. Lets her collar and leash him. Laughing mouth, crow's feet around his eyes.

Your chest is bruised. Your lip is split. Your dull teeth have long since learned how to mine for copper in the depths of gossipping mouths. Your nails are short and bend where they grow, but your fingers are strong and your tongue is vicious.

Little songbird, says your mother, red-chested and crowing, will you sing a song of loving?

-

Come on. Open your beak and sweetly sing. With your ribs in bloom and your mother's soft hands wrapped around a dagger's end, with your father's brutishness in a sick boy's throat:

The wooden planks underneath you have had their fill of your blood. Soon, they will swell beyond a nail's grasp and leave stumbling blocks in their wake. The boy between your teeth makes a sound as a wounded, rabid thing does when it is trapped - thin wire and white-foamed mouth.

Let me go, he says. Let me up.

His hands are soft where they touch yours, trembling knuckles and sharp, sick steel. Your palms are all torn by now and every breath is a rattle. Drag him down, little songbird, and drink the foam from his lips. His mouth is a flood of ale and bile. His skin is cracked with salt.

Is this not a homecoming?

[isvara-das-blog]

Rome Wasn’t Built In A Day

If you want something done right, do it yourself - that’s what his father had always told him. The black rain courted the rims of his lenses, and Hemel made no attempt to halt or hinder. One would be hard pushed to see much of anything anyway, at that time of night. There was quite a mess, but he could see how it would work to his favour, eventually. Letting out a light chuckle, he thought that he may well be fate’s acting conduit here; this soil may well be lacking iron, it could be I’m providing a much needed service here, to my little ecosystem. He smiled, as he moved over to the left arm, and began again to push hacksaw against grain. I’m going to need new boots - the thought crossed his mind as a whirling torrent of ink rained through the black; coating equally both the ever soddening soil and too his ankle cut Dr Martins. If only I’d had time to change out of these clothes, before he came into my house, with his ultimatums, his slander. I should have known it be too good to be true, that he should carry out all my dirty work, and ask no questions. Hemel had had time to throw on a navy blue waterproof jacket, and some surgical gloves, but had thought a full revision of dress would be tempting fate, in lieu of the marked time constraint.

The wavering dance of a lit candle, from the window of his study, fought for recognition to the East, just about making itself known through the dense forest and the unrelenting downpour. Following it for a short minute, Hemel gripped steel in hand, and dragged the rust-worn wood chipper out to the tree line. One at a time he fed lumps and chunks through grinding teeth, the scrape of the engine barely audible for the beating of sky on earth. Thank goodness, he thought, that it not be a clear night. The Morrel’s would for sure hear this racket, from over the hill. Left with just a head and an upper torso, Hemel retreated down into the basement. Only the pineal gland and the heart, everything else was waste matter, mushroom food. Each went into separate, designated freezers, and he turn on the hose. Bleached, scoured, boiled, yes, downstairs is clean - he coaxed the wood chipper back over to the outhouse, and sighed. I must remember to turn that soil, once or twice, in the morning.

The bulk of the work over, he retreated to the house, and shed layers. Chips of paint, maybe once a forest green though now sun bleached to sherbet pastel, fell to russet tile. I must paint that chipper, come spring. One at a time, he laid articles of clothing upon the ground, until he stood all but nude in the warm, well-lit kitchen. For an old man, he had enviable dermal health; nothing sagged where one would not expect sagging, there were no imperfections or affixments. From a pan, atop a cast iron log burner, he decanted a portion of a bubbling soup, to a silver chalice. Bmmmmmmm. A singing bowl, resting on the windowsill, rose to life under his delicate hand and, after engaging several of these bronze instruments in a similar manner, he took up a shawl of goat skins and sat cross legged in front of the fire. Pink sludge hung from his curt, blonde moustache, and he broke into a humming drone which rose to meet pitch with the crisp ring, which engulfed the downstairs. I’m sorry, Lawrence, I really am, but you know how important this work is to me. You know nothing gets in the way of this. When I have the evidence, when I can back these claims, well, then this will all have been worth it. But for now I must act in caution, after all there is no rush. Rome was not built in a day. The pressing gaze, of generals and scientists, watched from ornate frames as the whites of his eyes revealed themselves to the firelight. He stayed like this, for some time.

See you soon -

īśvara-das

[boxofbonesfic]

Mud

Title: Mud

Pairing: Dark!Steve x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: During the worst drought of your life, a dangerous and unwelcome guest arrives in your dry, desert town. 

Warnings: Stalking, Obsession, dubious consent, abuse mention (not detailed), Supernatural stuff

Word Count: 5,713

A/N: Whew chile this took it out of me, lol. This is my entry for @stargazingfangirl18 Soft Dark Challenge! I kind of got a bee in my bonnet about Devil!Steve coming for our reader, so I played with that, and I actually really like what I came up with. Fingies crossed that you’ll all enjoy it too 😬. Please let me know what you think in the comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! 

This is a work of FICTION, and it is Dark, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! Minors, DNI! 

Enjoy😘

🖤

You should have known better. That would be the only thought in your head after all of this was said and done. You know better than anyone how the dry desert heat can addle the brain, fry it like an egg on a hot iron skillet. You know better than anyone how thirst feels, dry and aching in the back of your throat. Water crazy, your grandmother said, spitting into the dust as she rocked endlessly in her chair on the porch. She’s long buried now, but her ghost lives in your memories, and in every corner of the old, rickety house she left you on the edge of that dry, dying town. 

 So when the rain doesn’t come that spring, and the fickle winds bring something else into town, you hear her again, watching disdainfully from your porch as their bikes kick up whirlwinds of dust on the barely-paved street. No rain. Water crazy is comin’. The air feels thick, almost like it could rain—but the endless blue sky above you makes you doubtful of that. Your eyes are drawn to the one leading the pack; a slim, powerful looking chopper, all white and silver and shining too bright in the desert sun. You raise a hand to brush sweat sticky curls from your forehead. 

 You can almost hear her voice again, low and reverent as if in prayer. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death and Hell followed with him… You’re not one for prayer, never have been. You’d clasped your hands and knelt during Sunday service until your knees were sore, but if there was a God, he’d certainly never answered you. As they passed, cold dread settled like lead in your belly, and you felt the urge to send up a prayer for deliverance. 

 A pale horse…

 ———

 When it comes time for your shift at Rattlesnakes, they’re already there. Loud, drunk, lousy tippers to boot—and you haven’t the strength to handle them on your own. When you complain to Leonard, though, he just tells you to hush up, keep your wits about you, even as bottles smash against the faded wallpaper, and cigarette smoke begins curling through the stagnant air. 

 “They’ll be gone before you know it.” 

 Maybe it’s the water rationing that’s shortened your temper, the sharp tinge of thirst like broken glass in your throat as you swallow thickly and try to nod convincingly. Water crazy. 

 Another bottle smashes, and you grit your teeth. “What, you sick of beer, Tony?” Someone laughs loudly. “They don’t have anything else in this shithole.” Leonard cowers behind the bar, his eyes trained on the counter as another bottle shatters, the shards flying wildly, twinkling in the dim lighting like tiny shooting stars. You throw down your towel, slapping your hands against the bar-top. 

 “Hey!” Leonard is pulling at your apron, muttering over and over just leave it alone, we’ll clean it up, it’s fine—but you can’t. You lick your dry lips. “This ain’t a goddamn alleyway.” The laughter dies down just a bit as some of the men turn to face you. Some of them look amused at your outburst, but still more frown at you, glaring from the other end of the bar. You feel a little less brave when one of them stands up, running a hand through his short, blond hair. “You can’t do that in here.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest anyway. 

 Out of the corner of your eye, you see a few of the regulars start to clear out, downing what little is left of their drinks as they make for the exit. The man turns cold blue eyes on you, resting large hands against the worn counter as he leans over it. 

 “My boys are just letting off a little steam.” He says in a voice like black honey. “I’m sure you understand.” You’re not sure how something can sound so reasonable, and still feel like a threat, but it does, and you shiver just a little. He smiles at you, but you don’t feel comforted. 

 And his name that sat upon him was Death. 

 “Well they can’t do it in here.” You said shortly. “If you want to take the bottles out into town and break them, you’re welcome to do that. But not in here.” 

 “Are there any other rules I should know, kitten?” He asks, the pet name making your stomach do uncomfortable flip-flops. Your hands clench into fists against the bar top. Behind him, his men laugh. His eyes stay on you, though, and you can feel them moving over every inch of you like a lover’s hands. 

 “Just stop wrecking the bar, and I’m pretty sure we’ll be square.” You want to escape the weight of his gaze, tell him to stop looking at you like that, like he’s seeing every nook and cranny in your goddamn soul—when he finally looks away. You stare past his head, unwilling to be caught in the trap again. 

 “Anything for you kitten.” He says lowly, and behind him, someone meows. 

 And Hell followed with him. 

 ———-

“What do you mean, tighter rationing?” Grace’s voice is high pitched and trembling, her army of children racing through the church pews as she speaks. You’re wondering the same thing, and so is every other person in Bane. There’s already barely enough water to go around, how can there be even less? Murmurs of outrage spread through the crowd like wildfire, and you can see the sweat shining on the Mayor’s forehead as he dabs at it uselessly with a cloth. 

 “Y-yes, w-well it’s just that, well, since we’ve not had any rain yet this year, it’s—”

 “Are you sayin’ the well’s empty?” Someone shouts from the back of the church. “He’s sayin’ it’s empty!” Louder, more panicked murmurs begin to spread, even as the Mayor raises his hands in an attempt to quiet them. You’d never seen a drought last longer than a few months, but it was going on a year since the last time you could remember rain turning the dry, dusty roads of Bane into a thick, muddy slurry. 

 “No, not empty,” He said, and you knew he was only telling half the truth. Not empty, you thought sourly. Just close to it. You leave the town hall meeting before it descends into further chaos, pushing open the church doors and making your way out onto the dusty street. You’re blinded by the bright midday sun for a moment, and when your eyes clear, you see him. 

 Leaned up against a lamp post on the opposite side of the street, grinning at you. You weren’t sure if it was meant to be reassuring or not, but it made your blood go cold. Even the devil smiles, your grandmother said, her warning swimming up to you through the sea of your memories. Smiles while he lies. Next to him is the bike—the bright white one that almost hurts to look at. You turn away and try keep walking, feeling his eyes on you every step of the way. You make for the corner, and suddenly his presence is so close it’s hot, burning—and you turn to see him behind you. 

 “Water trouble?” He asks, and you scoff, knowing he already knows the answer. 

 “What do you think?” You say smartly. “It ain’t easy finding water in the desert.” He holds up his hands placatingly. 

 “Easy kitten. No claws, we’re just talking.” 

 You scowl at him. You don’t know this man, don’t know him from Adam, but you know there’s no just talking with him. He’s got eyes like the bookie that used to work the betting tables in town—tallying. Always tallying up the score. 

 “I’m not much for talking.” You reply curtly, intending to continue walking. His arm snakes out faster than you thought a man as big as him could move, wrapping around your wrist. 

 “I’m not finished with you, kitten.” Ice shot through your veins. “Now I know you’re a good girl with manners, so you know how this works. I introduce myself, you introduce yourself…” He waved his other hand as he spoke, his expression and tone casual though his grip was like iron on your wrist. “Get the picture?” His grip tightens and you wince, nodding quickly. You weren’t sure if he would break your arm, but you didn’t much feel like testing him to find out. “Good. I’m Steve.” 

 You spat your name at him, your brow furrowing as you avoided his gaze. You regretted it instantly. Why didn’t I lie? A slow smile spread across his handsome features.

  “Good girl.” You tried to snatch your arm away from him, and this time he lets you, his eyes sparkling with amusement. You don’t like the uncanny heat of his touch, the way his eyes seemed to bore into your own. You rubbed your wrist as you eyed him warily. “Now tell me, kitten, what’s there for a man to get into around here?” You couldn’t help the sardonic laugh that bubbled from your lips. There was nothing in Bane—nothing but angry, thirsty people too poor to move twenty feet from their front doors. 

 “City’s about two hours away,” You said. “Plenty to do there.” 

 “But you’re not there, kitten.” 

 “There’s the Snake and the theater. If those are closed, you’re shit outta luck.” You said through gritted teeth. He chuckles heartily at your ire, which incenses you even more. 

 “If it’s so terrible here, why don’t you leave?” He asks, his voice dripping with faux innocence. He had to know—one look at Bane would have told him or anyone else—there wasn’t anybody left here who could leave. Almost no jobs, practically no economy to speak of; Bane was barely a dot on the most detailed maps of the state. Leaving Bane was like tapping into a fresh well in your backyard—an impossibility. 

 “ ‘Cause money’s about as hard to come by as water ‘round here.” You answered, your mouth moving without your permission. You didn’t want to keep talking, didn’t want to tell him anything, but it was like you had to. Those eyes… you couldn’t lie when they were on you. 

 “Pretty girl like you ought to have a man taking care of you anyway,” He said flippantly, and you bristled. “Though I suppose it’s pretty slim pickings around here, isn’t that right, kitten?” 

 “...yes.” You speak haltingly, biting your tongue to keep more words from spilling out. Sure, it felt like a death sentence to have been born and raised here, but he doesn’t need to know that. You didn’t want him to know, but somehow you get the feeling that he does anyway, and your words are only confirmation. “I have to go get ready for work now.” Your voice is tight, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. His eyes seem to release their magnetic hold on you and you can breathe again as he leans against the wall. A hot breeze stirs the few curls at the nape of your neck that have escaped your pineapple puff at the top of your head. 

 “That’s okay, kitten. I’ll see you later.” He winks at you. God I fuckin’ hope not, you think vehemently, facing away as you make to cross the street.

 The sky above you is still endlessly blue, stretching clear and unbroken in every direction. You’d read somewhere that insanity was colored yellow, but as you looked up at the cloudless sky, you found yourself disagreeing—it was blue.

————

 Steve is already at the bar when you get there, seated in front of the beer taps and surrounded by his men. Leonard is there too, hiding in the storeroom as he pretends to take inventory, something you’ve never seen him do since you started working at the Snake when you were sixteen. You throw a black bar apron over your shorts, and check to make sure your wild mane of curls is adequately contained before you step behind the counter. 

 “Can I get a water, darlin’?” Pete slurs, already drunk, the remaining whiskey in his tumblr sloshing over the sides as he leans closer to you. “I’m powerful thirsty.” You resist the urge to wince at his breath. You can feel the weight of Steve’s eyes on you too, making you uneasy. 

 “ ‘Course, Pete.” You’re only allowed to go through one jug of water a night with the water rationing, and when Pete drains his glass and offers it up to you for a refill, you swallow thickly. “You know I can’t, Pete.” You try to sound as apologetic as possible, even though you’d rather see him kicked out on his ass than continue to serve him. He frowns at you, and slams the glass down, his finger jutting into your face accusingly. Water crazy, granny says again, her voice choked and dry like reeds in your mind. 

 “Y’know damn well it’s all a load of bullshit,” His words all jumble together as he shouts at you, his spit flecking your face. You flinch and wipe at it with your hand, cursing. 

 “Goddammit Pete, I don’t want to have to kick you out—” You did though, you really, really did—“but you’re not gonna be in here yellin’ like that!” You move to slap his hand out of your face, but you blink as your palm meets only open air. Steve had grabbed him, that easy, calm expression still on his face even as Pete struggles in his grip. Steve had at least a foot on Pete, and though Pete easily outweighs him, none of it was muscle. Steve holds him by the scruff of the neck with one hand, the other gripping his wrist tightly. It’s almost been comical—or it would be if your heart wasn’t threatening to beat out of your damn rib cage. 

 “You raise a hand to her again, and I’ll cut it off.” The entire bar was so silent, you could hear the dripping of the faucet way in the back. You hate this moment with all your being. You hate Pete’s fearful glance at you, as though you have some power over the mountain of a man holding onto him. You hate that he might be right; and some part of you gloats at this. You hate that you feel gratitude well up in your chest for half an instant. 

 “Steve, stop.” Your voice trembles, and you hate that too. He looks up at you curiously, as though he isn’t holding Pete by the neck like an overgrown puppy. 

 “He threatened you.” 

 “He’s drunk. He’s drunk and for the love of fuck just let him go!” Your voice cracks just a little with fear as you see his bright blue eyes narrow. “Please.” You add, and you see the fury lessen just a little. 

 “I like when you ask nice, kitten. One more time.” You feel humiliation heating your cheeks as your tongue wets your lips. 

 “Please.” 

 He nods. “When you get off work, we’re going for a ride, how’s that sound?” He asked, his knuckles still tight on Pete’s collar. This isn’t a conversation—it’s a negotiation. 

 “G-good. It sounds real good, Steve. Please let him go.” 

 He releases him instantly, and Pete sags to the ground like a bag of rice before he rights himself with a drunken wobble. He doesn’t look at you, nor at Steve as he runs for the door. You can’t help the sinking feeling that you’ve done something forbidden, something you can’t take back as Steve appraises you appreciatively. 

 Death.

 —————

 There’s only a little water in the jug at the end of the night, just enough for you to take a greedy mouthful, and splash the rest over your tired face. Pete didn’t come back, and the rest of the patrons refused to come by the bar to order, not with Steve sitting there like he owned it. 

 You’d closed early, and now your stomach was tight with anxiety as you prepared yourself. Where would he take you? Would you come back? Would you even want to? You dried your face with a clean bar-towel, before bidding Leonard an icy goodnight. You still hadn’t forgiven him for his cowardice, and you didn’t know if you ever would. 

 Steve waits for you outside, leaned against his pale bike. He grins at you, and for a moment—just a moment—you swear you see a forked tongue flick behind his teeth as he greets you. 

 “Hello, kitten.” 

 “Where are we going?” You ask stiffly, and he chuckles. 

 “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” His warm hand smooths over your back, pushing you gently toward the bike. “Let’s get a move on, doll.” You reluctantly climb on, and he steadies you with gentle hands before climbing on himself. “Hold on.” He only gives you that single warning as he starts it up, the engine vibrating powerfully between your legs. 

 Dust whips against your legs as he takes off, and you hide your face against his back to shield it from the biting wind. It’s too loud to talk, and you’re grateful for that—you don’t want to hear that black honey voice in your ears, nor see the crystalline eyes you can’t help but speak truth to. You feel him turn the bike off the road, and you chance a peek over his shoulder. You squint into the wind before gasping—he was taking you into the desert. 

 You have no choice but to hold onto him, your heart pounding. You know how easy it is to get lost out here, how quickly the wind and dirt cover tracks. When he finally stops, the road is nowhere in sight, and the sky is brighter than Vegas above you. Steve pulls the helmet from his head and kicks his boot against the bike-stand. 

 “Come on, doll. I want to show you.” He removes a blanket from his saddlebag, and spreads it onto the ground. Steve smiles charmingly at you before holding a hand out expectantly. “Or should I go back and ask Pete how he’s holding up?” He spoke so jovially you almost miss the threat. You gulp audibly and reach for his hand. He pulls you down to the blanket, settling you between his legs. 

 “Cozy.” You say dryly, and he laughs. 

 “Look, it’s starting.” He pointed up at the star-lit sky. At first that was all you could see, a dazzling band of the milky way, unpolluted by bright city lights. And then—something bright streaked across the sky. And then another, and another. Meteor showers? I don’t remember hearing about any… You can’t help but gasp with awe as the night sky lit up even brighter. 

 “Do you like it?” He asks, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. 

 “I...it’s beautiful.” You said evasively, and he tucked a hand under your chin, holding your head still as you attempted to duck away. 

 “It’s for you.” He said, and a cold shiver ran down your spine. For me?

 And his name that sat upon him was Death.

 You jerked away from him, scrambling off of the blanket. Your fingers dig into the hard, dry earth as you watch him watching you, his expression neutral. The sky continues to explode with comets, bursting into color all around you. 

 “You don’t like the gift.” Steve’s voice is soft and disappointed, and you’re not sure if the mirrored emotions you see in his luminous eyes is genuine or false. 

 “What are you?” Your heart is hammering in your chest so loud you don’t think you’ll be able to hear his answer. But when he speaks, it’s like it’s reverberating inside your skull. 

 “What would you like me to be?” His eyes—those fucking eyes—are hot on you again, their weight moving across your skin. “I would be anything for you.” The air between you is heavy and thick, but instead of rain, you wish that the sky would crack open and the dark would swallow you whole, just to get away from him. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought—he is the dark. “I came here for you.” He says, though in your heart you already know this with absolute certainty. His eyes glow brighter in the dark, then, and for a moment, you see flickering blue flames in their endless depths.

        “I don’t have anything to give you.” You hate the way your voice shakes as you rebuff him—but how can it not when the Morningstar is sat in front of you, wearing the skin of a man like clothing? “I don’t have anything.”

 “Oh?” Steve purrs, rising to his feet. The dirt crunches under his boots as he steps towards you. Your eyes can’t help but follow him warily, watching as he began to circle you. He took a deep breath then, his nostrils flaring as his eyes roll to half mast. “I could smell you.”

 Your stomach trembled. “Stop it.” 

 “Your needs.” He circles closer. “Your desires. They all came to me on the wind.” You whimper, and he crouches in front of you, cupping your face with hands that are almost too warm for comfort. His breath puffs against your cheek as he leans closer, and looks up with a sardonic glare. “Do you think he’s listening, kitten?” 

 “I-I-I-don’t—” You try to pull away from him, but he won’t let you, forcing you to face him even as fear and something eerily similar to desire blooms in your belly. 

 “He’s abandoned you.” He licks his lips. “But I can save you. I can free you, kitten. Wouldn’t you like that?” Steve strokes his thumb affectionately across the swell of your cheek and you jerk. 

 “You’re lying!” You push helplessly at his arms, and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

 “Not about this.” His hand leaves your face, and he traces the exposed skin of your throat with a single finger. “Name your price, kitten. What would you have me do? Raise the dead?” A knowing smirk rests on his lips, and a choked sob escapes you. Why does he know you? As if reading your mind, the sardonic smile on his handsome face widens. “I know because you’re mine.” 

 Temptation sits heavily on your chest for the first time since Steve began offering you gifts. The devil smiles while he lies. To be free of Bane, to be really free… You had dreamt of destroying your own shackles when you were young, to free yourself from the generational curses of poverty and goddamn dust—but you couldn’t. You were withering away, rotting in Bane just like everything else. 

 No God had ever answered you, not when your father had blacked your eye at nine. Not when your mother had left you at your grandmother’s house, her hands shaking with need and promising that she’d “be back soon”—only to never return. He hadn’t answered you when you’d lowered your granny into her grave, dry earth covering the only person who had ever loved you. Silence. 

 “And what do you get? You ask breathlessly, your eyes dragging slowly up his face to meet his gaze. “My soul?” 

 “Yes.” He breathed, his lips only a hair’s breadth from your own. “And I will treasure it.” Steve’s mouth is almost burning hot as he growls against you, his tongue pressing insistently between your lips. You whimper, and he drinks it greedily, swallowing the sound as his arms encircle you, pulling you against his chest. When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen and bruised from him, and he looks down at you with a pleased expression, admiring his handiwork. “Say you’re mine, and I will give you everything.” 

 “And if I say no?” You ask, though you already know the answer.

 “Kitten there is no place in heaven or hell that could stop me from coming for what’s mine.” Something cold and wet drips onto your scalp through your hair, while answering droplets form on your face and arms. It’s raining. The sky, which had been blazing bright with stars was now dark and foreboding as rain softly patters against the starved earth beneath your dusty knees.

 “I want to be free.” You whisper, your voice sounding traitorous to your own ears. Steve holds you tighter, sinking his teeth into the skin at your throat hard enough to bruise. 

 “Then freedom you shall have.” The light rain suddenly becomes a torrent, soaking the both of you. Steve is on you in an instant, pressing you into the mud as his hands rip furiously at your clothes. His mouth is hungry against your own, drinking every surprised cry and hesitant moan with equal fervor. His hands are everywhere, so much so that it seems like he’s got more than two; they are unhooking your bra and cupping your breasts, tracing a soft line on your dripping wet skin from your throat to the dip of your belly button. 

 “So soft,” He groans, following the same path with his tongue. “Waited so long for you…” Steve’s voice seems to double, a low growl and a needy, harsh moan all at once. You stiffen at his confession, and he chuckles, his fingers finding and plucking at your taut nipples. 

 “You waited for me?” 

 “I kept you safe,” He growls, his wet hands fisting in your now loose, messy curls. He runs his tongue up the side of your trembling throat. “Don’t you remember?” His tone is sardonic and angry. He runs his tongue along the shell of your ear. “Otis Arley.”

 Your back arched against him as he rolled your nipple between his thick fingers again, even as your eyes popped open in realization. Otis had moved away when you were teenagers. He was a bully—a violent one. He’d almost broken your arm one day, but… he’d started screaming, like he’d been beset by demons only he could see. His parents had left town shortly after.

 “Y-you did that?” 

 He hooked his thumbs underneath the plain white cotton panties plastered to your skin and grins at you. “I would do it again, and again, and again, if only for the pleasure of knowing that he can never touch you again.” He slides them down and his eyes narrow as he groans at the sight of you. You don’t have any more time or brainpower to consider Steve’s other appearances in your past as he swipes his thumb over your swollen clit. Mud is soaking through your ruined clothing beneath you, warm and wet on your back as the rain continues pouring down in wet sheets. 

 “So wet for me, kitten, like you should be,” He praises, thumbing your clit again as his other fingers slide tenderly through the soaked folds of your pussy. You bite your lip, silencing the moan that threatens to escape you, and Steve frowns. “No. Let me hear it.” A thick finger probes against your entrance, and the quiet whimper that leaves your parted lips makes him sigh with pleasure. He kisses your hip, nipping your skin with sharp teeth. 

 “Oh god,” You mumble, your hips arching shamefully into his hand. 

 “Not here, kitten.” He growls, his breath ghosting against the swollen petals of your sex. “Only me.” His tongue parts you eagerly, dipping down into your tight pussy and then back up to your clit in a maddening rhythm. Your eyes stare up unseeingly into the dark sky as he wrings pleasure from your trembling body, his fingers and tongue delving into you with abandon. The resolve to hold in your voice—to keep just this one thing from him—crumbles when he curls his finger inside you, a wild moan tears loose from your throat and drowns in the pouring rain. 

 “That’s it, doll.” Steve sucks hard on your clit and your body jackknifes, forcing him to push your hips back down with a firm hand. You’ve never felt this before, the hot pleasure arcing over your skin. Not alone, not with anyone else. You’re so close—so fucking close—to sweet, pleasurable oblivion that when Steve pulls away, swiping the back of his hand across his glistening mouth, you whine. He smiles down at you lovingly. “You made me wait so long, kitten. You can be patient for me.”

 Steve tugs the wet, clingy fabric of his shirt up over his head, and your eyes rake shamefully over the glistening, muscular planes of his chest. You reach up with a shaking hand, feeling the impossible heat of his skin under your palm. He moans softly at your touch, his fingers working feverishly at the button of his jeans. You let out a strangled gasp as he frees his cock, hard and throbbing from it’s confines. 

 He doesn’t give you time to be fearful, aligning himself with your entrance as your pussy throbs hotly. You don’t want to want this, but you do; every cell in your body is singing with his touch, and even when he sheathes himself inside you in a single thrust, you still ache for him. His hands are tight on your hips as he pants above you, his head thrown back with pleasure. 

 “So fucking tight…” Steve hisses, and you can only mewl in response. You’ve never been this full. Your pussy clenches around him hungrily and he growls, reaching beneath you to hoist you up, your hard nipples rubbing against his chest as he moves you lazily up and down his cock.

  “All mine.” His voice is a growl against your throat while his cock continues to split you open. You don’t have words to reply with as the head of his cock pushes against your cervix and you groan.You’re choking on pleasure, drowning in it as he presses inside of you over and over again. “Tell me you’re fuckin mine.” His hips snap up hard, and your pussy sucks at his cock, milking it. You whine and cry in his arms, your fingers raking reddened lines over his shoulders and back. “Tell me!”

 “Yours!” You gasp, and one of his hands fists in your hair, pulling your head back as he thrusts up into you. His mouth claims your own again furiously, and you aren’t sure if the wet squelches you hear echoing around you are from you or the rain. Your body feels like it’s on fire, Steve’s scorching touches burning across your skin, and his cock hard and hot inside you, branding you there too. He laves another kiss against your collar bone before he withdraws slowly, the head of his cock popping out of you wetly. 

 “On your knees, kitten.” You scramble to obey, intoxicated by him. “Good girl.” You position yourself for him, your hands slipping in the mud. Your pussy clenches wantonly at his praise, and Steve groans at the sight of it, fisting his hand around his cock as he taps it against your ass. He slides it down to probe at your cunt again, and although he was just inside you, it’s just as tight of a fit as before and he lets out a ragged moan. “Fuckin’ meant to be mine.”

 Your answering shout is lost in the rain as he fills you again, fucking you open until your arms collapse beneath you, and your forehead falls onto them, his arms the only thing holding your hips up. You’re muttering gibberish now, praise and prayers that fall only on his ears as he drives you relentlessly toward ecstasy. 

 “That’s it,” He snarls, leaning over your back to nip at the back of your throat. “You like being ruined on this cock, don’t you kitten?” Another sharp snap of his hips forces a groan from your throat. You could feel the cord tightening in your belly, pleasure building like a wave behind your closed eyes. “Gonna fill this pussy up, kitten, let everyone know it’s mine,” He rasps, reaching below you to circle your clit with deft fingers. 

 “Oh fu-uck,” You moan, your voice haggard even to your own ears as your body trembles. His cock parts you again as Steve’s fingers pull at your clit. A high, keening sound escapes your hoarse throat as you come apart on his cock, sucking it hungrily inside your spasming cunt. You clench again as you feel the heat of his cum spread inside you, his hips jerking as he groans long and loud. 

 And then darkness. 

 ————

 You wake as Steve carries you over to the bike. It’s still raining, though it’s slowed to a drizzle now, misting softly against your face. You’re naked but for his jacket, and your thighs are still sticky with him. He sits astride it easily, your small form still held tightly to his chest. 

 “Awake, kitten?” He asks, his voice rumbling in his chest pleasantly as you press your ear to it. Thump. Thump. Thump. You pull your head away, your brows furrowing. 

 “I never thought the devil would have a heartbeat.” He strokes your head with one hand. You don’t feel much different than you did before, except… lighter, perhaps. 

 “Would you prefer I didn’t?” 

 “No.” 

 You shiver, though not from cold as you peer over his shoulder. Inexplicably, you are only feet from the roadside. Additionally, all of his men are there, lined up silently and waiting, as if for orders. You hide behind Steve’s shoulder once more, and a low murmur moves through the crowd of men behind him. 

 He kickstarts the white bike and it flares to life below you.

  “Ride!” he shouts, and you hear a chorus of answering shouts and the roar of engines. They begin peeling off one by one, racing off into the dark. 

 “Am I… are we going back?” You ask quietly as he secures the kickstand with a practiced kick. 

 “No.” 

 You were damned in Bane, cursed to walk it’s empty streets until the desert reclaimed what man had stolen from it—but now… perhaps this devil, the one you didn’t know, was better than the one you did. 

 “Okay.” 

 And when Steve took off into the night, carrying you with him, you heard your grandmother one final time. 

 And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death. 

Fin.

[karmicstar]

YEMAYA...

Holy Queen Sea

Yemaya, Queen of the Sea, epitomizes motherhood and rules all issues pertaining to women. She is among the most powerful and beloved of the Seven African Powers, the sexy matriarch of the Yoruba spirits known as orishas. The translation of her name, “The Mother Whose Children are Fish” has dual implications:

• Yemaya’s children are innumerable: she is the mother of most of the orishas.

• Her generosity and benevolence have also garnered her countless human devotees, equivalent to the innumerable fish of the sea.

Yemaya has profound associations with the sea and saltwater. She resides in the sea, she is the spirit of the sea, and she is the sea, literally present in ocean water. Her nature resembles that of the sea: profound, beautiful, filled with treasure and generosity but also potentially tempestuous. Yemaya generously bestows abundance, wealth, healing, love, and fertility, but she is also the essence of tidal waves and rip currents.

Yemaya, a profoundly powerful orisha, may be petitioned for:

• Anything possibly considered a “woman’s issue”

• Fertility and reproductive issues

• Protection from domestic violence, which she despises

• Protection when traveling over the sea

However, those who develop an especially close relationship with Yemaya must be extra cautious when actually near the sea. Communicate with her constantly when in the water or beside it. Remind her that you are human and must live on land. Yemaya doesn’t intend to cause harm but likes to keep everything she loves—her treasures—near her.

Once upon a time, Yemaya lived in the cemetery and Oya in the sea. Yemaya tricked Oya into permanently trading places. Oya has never entirely forgiven her. Do not feed or venerate them side by side. Leave some distance between these two powerful orishas.

Yemaya is syncretized to the Stella Maris and the Black Madonna of Regla.

Favored people:

Anyone of African descent whose ancestors survived the Middle Passage to the West may consider their connection to Yemaya established. It is traditionally believed that anyone who survived did so through her grace, while those who did not survive were received into her body.

Yemaya also protects:

• Women and children

• Practitioners of the occult

• Those born under water signs, especially Cancers

Also known as:

Yemalla; Yemoja; Yemalia; Yemaja; Iemanja

Origin:

Yoruba (Nigeria)

Classifications:

Orisha; Mermaid

Manifestations:

Whether manifesting as woman or mermaid, Yemaya is always spectacularly beautiful. She can be sexually provocative with a rolling, hip-swaying walk that evokes the sea. Her traditional costume includes seven skirts. Her hair, clothes, and body may be ornamented with crystals, pearls, coral, or tiny bells.

Attributes:

Seashells, marine motifs

Emblem:

Star and half moon; Yemaya is the only orisha associated with two heavenly bodies—one isn’t sufficient to represent her beauty.

Colors:

Blue, white

Birds:

Doves, ducks, peacocks

Creatures:

Fish, all sea creatures

Element:

Water

Metal:

Silver

Number:

7

Planet:

Moon, which controls the sea

Plants:

> Indigo, seaweed, water hyacinth

Minerals:

Quartz crystal, pearls, coral

Places:

Originally the spirit of Nigeria’s Ogun River, her profound associations with the ocean may have coincided with the African slave trade.

Day:

Saturday

Time:

• 2 February

• Summer Solstice •15 August (Brazil)

• 7 September (Cuba)

• New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Midnight, the threshold between years, is her power moment.

Altar:

Devotees traditionally visit her at the ocean, bearing gifts. Alternatively, create an altar for Yemaya featuring saltwater and ocean motifs at home. Yemaya’s shrine should evoke the sea. Decorate it with nets, seashells, sea stars, and sea horses. Add salted water to a crystal glass containing small seashells.

Offerings:

Jewelry, perfume, brand new scented soap still in its wrapper; flowers, especially white roses. Yemaya’s favorite food offerings include wet seedy fruits like pomegranates and watermelon plus fish, duck, and lamb dishes. She likes to snack on pork cracklings, plantain or banana chips and pound or coconut cake. Garnish everything with generous libations of molasses. Gifts on behalf of the marine environment and sea creatures may also please her.

HOW TO PETITION YEMAYA

• Summon her with a gourd rattle.

• Petition her at the beach.

• Can’t get to the beach? Yemaya’s fellow water spirit, Oshun, spirit of sweet waters, will accept offerings on her behalf. Deposit gifts for Yemaya in flowing streams or rivers. Nothing is free, however: if utilizing Oshun’s services, be sure to speak to her first, explaining that you would like her to deliver your offering to Yemaya. Bring Oshun an appropriate gift, too.

YEMAYA CLEANSING SPELL

Re-create the sea: add sea salt to spring water.

• Murmur over it. Tell the water your goals and what you seek. Invoke, petition, or pray to Yemaya.

• Sprinkle the water over your naked body from head to toe using your fingers or a roseMary branch.

• Let the water remain on your body for a little while, and then gently pat yourself dry with a brand-new clean white towel or cloth.

• Put on clean clothes.

• Take the cloth to the sea with seven white roses; throw everything in the water.

• Walk away and don’t look back.

Although there is one Yemaya, she also has multiple paths, which may be venerated independently. Alternatively they may be understood as different facets of one extremely complex, profound goddess. Yemaya’s different paths are symbolized by different shades of blue (and sometimes by unique attributes). The particular hue represents each path’s specific natureand home. Thus the aspects of Yemaya who live closest to land or the water’s surface are represented by paler shades than those dwelling in the depths. Aggressive, violent aspects of Yemaya also claim the color red.

The following are but a few of her many aspects:

YEMAYA ASESUN

Yemaya Asesun, an ancient path of Yemaya, is Queen of Water Birds including ducks, geese, and swans. She rules the springs that gush forth from Earth, especially in deep forests.

Color:

Light blue

YEMAYA ASHAGBA

Yemaya Ashagba, “The Chain,” is Olokun’s first child and may be the oldest, most primordial aspect of Yemaya. (See Yembo below.) Queen of the Anchor, Yemaya Ashagba connects the bottom of the sea with the top. She is a spirit of divination and healing. When angered, floods, and tidal waves are her weapons.

Attribute:

Anchor

Color:

Light blue

YEMAYA ATAREMAWA

Yemaya Ataremawa, the queen who is ever so important, owns all treasures of the sea. She has a home in the forest.

Color:

Light blue

YEMAYA IBU AGANA

Yemaya Ibu Agana is a wrathful aspect of Yemaya who lives at the bottom of the sea where she churns destruction.

Color:

Deep blue

YEMAYA IBU ARO

Yemaya Ibu Aro distributes treasure. She controls trade routes and markets.

Colors:

Indigo blue, red coral

YEMAYA MAYALEWO

Yemaya Mayalewo, Queen of the Harbor, the One Who Tends to Commerce and Trade, lives at the bay’s entrance. She is queen of the marketplace, Oya’s prime competitor.

Color:

Light blue, teal

YEMAYA OGUNTé

Yemaya Ogunté is Warrior Yemaya: the courageous, fearless warrior who fights alongside Ogun. She lives on rocky, treacherous coastlines and wears a crown of seven machetes.

Color:

Midnight blue, red

YEMAYA OKOTO

Yemaya Okoto, the Pirate Queen, causes shipwrecks and drags ships and treasure down to the ocean floor. Her name means “the one who lives amongst the seashells.” Her crown is a shark’s jawbone. She clenches a dagger between her teeth. She rules all predatory marine creatures who serve as her messengers and servants, possibly including human pirates. Yemaya Okoto fills the sea with blood. The Red Sea is her official hideout, but she sails where she chooses. (To complicate matters further, Yemaya and her daughter, love goddess Oshun, may be alter-egos of Lady Asherah, another Red Sea Queen and her daughter, love goddess Astarte.) She is also known as Yemaya Ibu Okoto.

Color:

Indigo, navy blue, blood red

Altar:

Decorate with Jolly Rogers and pirate flags

YEMBO

Yembo may be Yemaya’s mother or the oldest form of Yemaya. Yembo may be the mother of the orishas. Because Ogun allegedly raped her, metal knives are not permitted in her presence or used in her offerings. Substitute crystal, stone, or wood

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Wet Sugar” [Part 19 of 30]

Summary: Erik teaches Yani a lesson and change is in the air...

NSFW. Mature Audience. Smut.

"Sunshine & the rain Sunshine & the rain I'm feelin that pressure, now, now I'm feelin that same old round and round I can't go forward

I need a boost to catapult me high feels like the come up is way too tight chokin and squeezin' my life, every time"

Joi—"Sunshine & The Rain"

Yani knew Erik watched her from the security cams when she left for the night. She made sure to walk in front of all visible optics in case Neal was lurking for her too. Huntsman commenting on her relationship with Erik frightened her. Did Klaue know about it too?

The thought worried her all night when she slept at Leona's apartment. When she arrived back at the compound to cook breakfast and prep for the dinner meal, she stayed in the front house the entire time. It wasn't until the men left for the day to explore island bars that she even took a bit of time to walk down to the cove to relax. Erik was gone with the men. She had hoped that he could stay behind with her, but he made a point of driving the others into town. She asked him to pick up bottled water and extra batteries just in case they needed them.

The sky was even grayer when the men returned late in the evening. She ignored them all, including Erik. The standing freezer had an abundance of nickel-sized scallops and prosciutto. Yani cooked thin spaghetti noodles with fish sauce and fresh garlic with the scallops and tossed together an Italian salad with the thin slices of cured ham. This particular crew wasn't particular or even cared for dessert, so she watched them eat her food and quickly cleaned up after them when they were done.

She heard Erik talking to the others in the front house den. He was encouraging the men to leave early in the morning before the storm arrived, but the captain of the boat had trepidations about sailing back to Florida. Erik mentioned Puerto Rico but there was grumbling. The point became moot when one of the men turned up the view screen and the weather report was dire. The storm had grown and would pass by the island sooner than originally predicted.

The men would stay longer.

Erik sent her a text.

Go home and don't come back here until I tell you. Get to safety with your family.

She quickly texted him back.

If it gets bad, the safest place here is under the middle house. There is a large crawlspace there right under the kitchen window outside. The panic room is only for you. No one else.

Hug the baby for me.

Yani put together a to-go plate for herself and slipped away from the grounds without the men noticing.

Her Aunt and cousins made plans to stay in a shelter and she packed up pull-ups and baby food for Sydette and a small clothing bag for herself. Piling blankets in her car, she drove herself, Sydette and Twyla to the church shelter they had used since she was a child. It was better to be safe than sorry, and the other islanders who thought the same were already hunkering down for the night. As a child she had survived a Category 3 storm, so she was only slightly anxious with a Category 2 on the way.

The entire night she listened to prayers, a short sermon from the Pastor, and soft whispers from all around her as they all waited to see what the next day would bring. She dozed off around two in the morning but was abruptly woken up with Sydette clutched in her embrace as the wind howled outside the church. It was seven in the morning but darkness surrounded them.

Yani sat up and looked at Leona and Twyla.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"We were lucky. The hurricane died down and didn't even come near us. Right now we are getting the tail end of a strong tropical storm. Praise God. Them say it'll pass through by evening," Leona said.

Yani exhaled with relief.

She changed Sydette's pull up and cleaned her hands with hand sanitizer before opening up a jar of baby food.

"We should go home," Twyla said.

"I think we should stay until we know for sure it is safe," Leona said.

Yani checked her cell. Erik sent a few texts while she was asleep. It looked like he was awake all night by the number of messages he left for her and the baby. She texted him back letting him know her family's plan to stay at the church longer. She was glad that their cell phones still worked.

Food was served throughout the day and by early evening, the winds had died away leaving a summer rain and the winking of sun rays peeking through the last of the clouded sky. She packed up her things and drove back to Leona's.

There was a time-sensitive notification in her emails that jumped out at her as she contacted relatives in the states to let them know they were okay. Although cell service worked on the island, it was crackly and hard to hear when they tried calling overseas.

The email was from the University.

A nursing student had dropped out of the early summer track for three online classes and Yani was offered the spot because of her high entry test scores. She accepted quickly and took a deep breath. She was going to start school sooner than expected. It meant she could qualify for three prerequisites for the newly created nurse/midwife track she wanted to get into. It also meant she had a shot at entering the accelerated program that was opening the following Spring.

It was happening.

Her career goals were coming to fruition.

Yani took a moment sitting in front of her Aunt's desktop computer in the living room. She touched her chest and felt her heart pounding. As long as she kept up her grades she would succeed. Gratefulness swelled inside of her. The time Erik gave her to relax and do some self-study on her own made her feel confident accepting the early start. She could do this. For herself and her baby.

She grabbed her phone.

"Killmonger."

"You and the baby good?"

Hearing his voice made her eyes water. She was glad she didn't face chat him.

"We're fine. Back at Auntie's. Killmonger…I get to start school early."

"Yeah?"

She spilled out her good news and Twyla walked in on her and saw the joy on her face. Her cousin's hand rubbing her back at the news made Yani feel happy.

School would start in a week.

She was ready.

###

Erik didn't allow Yani to return to the compound until the mercs had left.

He baked her a cake to congratulate her on her early start for school, and he damn near ran to her car when she pulled onto the property with the baby. His hand gripped her neck so tight once he had her in his arms. He didn't allow Sydette to leave his side once he had her back with him. The mercs leaving along with the storm made the compound feel light and free again.

Watching Yani eat the cake he made while feeding some to Sydette calmed his nerves. Their first night back together had them all cuddled together in one bed, and he spent the rest of the week spoiling Yani with fancy food, back rubs, foot massages and nights out with her friends while he looked after the baby.

Her last night going out before she started her classes found him cooking oxtails the way Leona showed him how to do it and attempting to make a decent batch of stew peas and rice. Sydette ran around him in the kitchen of Klaue's main house while Yani got showered for her evening of fun. He made the food for Yani's return because she was always starving after a late night out.

Packing the food up into the fridge, he gathered Sydette's overnight bag and carried the baby into the master bedroom.

"Aye Sweet Pea, say bye-bye to Mama. Kiss!" Yani said holding out her hands for Sydette.

Draped in a fluffy white bathrobe and face unmade, Erik watched Yani give smooches all over Sydette's face.

"Be a good girl for Twyla," she said.

"Be back," he said.

Taking Sydette away from her, Erik drove to Leona's and handed the baby over to Twyla. By the time he made it back to the compound, Yani had on her make-up and her clothes…

"The fuck you wearing?"

She stood in front of the master bedroom vanity mirror primping and smoothing oil onto her platinum-colored hair. Face beat like a Boss Bitch, her eyes dragged away from her own visage and gazed at him.

"What you mean?"

"Bend over."

Yani leaned forward slightly and the short form-fitting white shirt she was wearing like a mini dress raised up and he could see the underside of her ass cheeks clear as day.

"Nah…nah…put some pants on or get something else on—"

"Serious?"

She sucked her teeth at him.

"You ain't got no panties on—"

"Yes, I do."

She lifted up the dress higher and he saw silky white boy shorts.

Erik twisted up his lips. He didn't want to be that dude. He didn't want to sound or look like an insecure pooh butt. Women could wear what they wanted. He appreciated women who dressed sexy and were confident in that sexiness.

However…

"Yani, these niggas be ruthless in the club. Why you gotta have so much ass out? You know they gonna push up on you…I can see your cheeks, girl—"

"Barely. Just tell me you don't wahn mi grindin' on niggas—"

"I don't want you grindin' on niggas with that dress on."

"I'm not changing clothes."

She put her hand on her hip and her eyes challenged him to say different.

He fell back and watched her slip on her heels and grab her small purse.

"Who's picking you up?"

"Lesonne. I'm catching a cab back if I get tired early…stop trippin'. It's really not that short…"

His eyes dragged down to her thighs. He could see the tops of them. The dress shirt flared out on the sides hanging low enough to cover her hips, but the cut still showed a lot from the front and back.

Let her show off in peace.

The click-clack of her silver heels on the tiled floor broke him out of his thoughts of making her stay home with him. He seriously thought of going with her, but she was so bubbly gossiping with her girlfriends that he had to figure out why he was so agitated about a dress. A stupid dress he would've lusted over himself had he seen her in a club with it on. He would've been one of the men pushing up on her if he didn't know her.

She checked her phone.

"They're on their way," she said.

He followed her up to the main gate of the compound, and the longer they walked with her ahead of him, the more time he had to look at her hips twisting as she walked, her thighs all out teasing him. Erik felt that gnawing need to control what was happening. He reached out and stroked the right curve off her ass.

"Don't have them dudes—"

She brushed his hand away from her body.

His eyes narrowed and he pulled her arm back toward him.

"Are you listening to me?"

"I'll be a good girl."

She said the words, but the twist of her lips told him otherwise. He reached behind her and slapped her ass. Hard.

"Ow!"

She punched him in his chest.

"I'll be up waiting for you."

"I may not be back until early tomorrow."

Now he was really irritated.

"So what was the point of me taking Sydette to your Aunt's? We were supposed to have a grown- up night together before you start school—"

"I told you that I wasn't sure when I would be back—"

"You said no later than one or two."

"Well, it may be later than that—"

"So we not fucking?"

She checked her cell and fixed the thin white belt that cinched her waist.

"We'll see how I feel when I get back."

She rubbed his arm and turned around to show him her backside. Jiggling her cheeks, she giggled at him with her teasing.

"See, now you're being mean," he said.

He took his flat palm and smacked the shit out of her rump. She yelped and rubbed her ass.

"Save that for when I get—"

He yanked her panties down and slapped her vulva.

"Killmonger!"

Her hands tried to block his.

"Take them off."

"They're going to be here—"

"Take them off."

They heard Lesonne's car roll to the front of the gate, music blaring, tires screeching to a halt. Yani's phone vibrated in her purse. She pulled it out.

"Tell her you'll be out in a minute," he whispered.

Her fingers swiped her phone screen and she put her cell back in her purse.

"Panties."

Yani stepped out of her tiny boy shorts and held them. He moved up against her and traced his finger along her lips, the red matte lipstick rich on her mouth. He bent down and kissed her, serving her his warm tongue and he felt her body go limp against his.

Slipping two fingers between her legs, he separated her folds. She tugged on the bulge in his jeans. Inserting his fingers into her pussy, he thrust in and out slowly making her squirm. Her hand made his dick lift up so that it pointed at her.

"You wore that dress just to fuck with me," he whispered.

Her eyes were glassy and her pussy was dripping. The sticky fluid from her body made squishy sounds. He kept manipulating her folds until her legs shook. She vacillated between biting her lips, staring down at his fingers, and closing her eyes as he varied the depth and speed of his digits inside of her.

"Erik…fuck…"

"You come home at a decent hour so I can get in all this. Hear?"

Yani bit her lips as she tried to stifle the tiny groans coming from her mouth.

"I should fuck you right now, right here," he said.

"They're waiting…"

"So."

"Huuhnnn…"

Her hands rested against his chest, her warm fingers, pushing him back.

Hooking his fingers, Erik tapped on her walls and let his thumb flick over her clit.

"I should pick you up and let you slide down this dick. Fuck you standing up—"

"Stop!"

Yani removed his fingers from her slit and stepped away from him.

"Let me get going. I'll let you have it all when I get back."

He spun her around and pushed her against the gate. Dropping to his knees he pulled her soft ass cheeks apart and shoved his entire face into her pussy lips.

He heard Yani's hands slam against the metal gate bracing herself and she pushed her backside out giving him even more access to her private parts. Sliding his tongue along her outer labia, he licked his bottom lip that was wet with saliva.

He heard faint sounds escape her mouth as she tried to keep quiet as her friends waited on the other side of the gate. Shoving his tongue deep inside of her, Yani rocked her hips back to smash her ass into his face and he loved it. He gripped his dick through his pants and squeezed his balls to keep himself from cumming. He wanted to be knee-deep in her walls when he did that.

Removing his tongue, he let Yani's ass strike his face, getting his beard drenched with her sweet fluids. He had her soaking wet. It was time to make her pussy submit. Erik became a flurry of fingers and wet tongue kissing as he licked her engorged labia like icing off a cake. Bathing her pussy with his saliva, he dragged his tongue along all the sensitive parts that made her melt in his mouth.

"Daddy gon' chop this peach up when you get back."

He felt the heavy throbbing weight between his legs and before the surge from his balls could overtake him, Yani shuddered while his lips sucked on her clit, her release making her plump vulva spasm.

"Pussy sloppy, baby…"

He licked up all the excess juices that poured from her and kissed her folds gently, his full lips pressing against her skin, still feeling the slight spasms from the tail end of her orgasm.

"Watch yourself," he said.

She pulled her panties back on while he stood up and adjusted his dick. He was so horny for her.

"Just gonna leave Daddy like this?"

She rolled her eyes and he opened the gate for her.

His erection grew more rigid as he watched her walk away from him and get into the car.

Such a tease.

###

Erik surveyed some gun schematics on his laptop. It was nearing midnight and he was restless. He had tried to watch porn earlier, but none of the women he saw online excited him enough to rub one out. All he had eyes for was Yani and that mini dress. He took out some weed he got from Kendall and rolled a tight one. The baby wasn't there so he felt cool about indulging.

His cell buzzed and when he checked it, there were a series of pictures that Yani sent him. A few group shots with her friends, but a few with men at the club posing with her crew, and sure enough, that fucking dress was doing too much.

He went back to looking at gun designs and another text blew up his phone.

A video.

Yani and her girls dancing, but Yani was winding on some Rasta looking clown who was pressed up against her.

"See, this the shit I was talking about," he grumbled.

It didn't matter. He was going to use up a whole bottle of lube when she came home. A long drag on his herb had him toasted. Shit was potent as fuck.

The clip was only a minute long but long enough to let him know she was buzzing and showing off. Her girlfriends were egging her on and just as tipsy and feisty as she was.

He texted her.

Slow your roll, Ma. For real.

You not my daddy, lol!

She sent him more pictures, trying her best to be provocative. He didn't fall for it.

It wasn't until he saw a thirty-second video clip of another man grinding on her and patting her vulva through her dress that he jumped off the couch.

###

"We run tings. Tings nuh run we!"

The Flourgon song made Yani's hips dip, and she watched the crowd dance while she sipped on her apple martini in the V.I.P. section she reserved for her friends. It was ladies' night, and this particular club was a diverse mix of locals and white tourists. She liked the booth they were set up in. They could see what was happening around the club, but other patrons couldn't see what they were doing.

All of her friends were happy for her, and she was cutting up in the club with them, feeling powerful and ready to take on the world. Bottle service was popping and she was given extra drinks for free because of her connection to Kendall who had performed there the previous weekend.

The music switched to R&B and Yani followed her friends onto the floor and they became ridiculous with their dancing. She kicked off her heels and swung them in her hand as she downed shots and sang off-key to the music with her girls.

She took out her cell and took more video shots to send to Erik. She posted two pictures on her social media page of the group shots she had in their V.I.P. booth. On her way back to her section, she stopped by the bar to order hot wings and potato poppers to snack on and soak up the liquor in her belly.

Stepping near her booth, Lesonne tugged on her arm.

"Is that your man?"

Yani was confused by the question until she saw Erik bee-lining his way toward her. His lips were tight when he reached her group.

"There she is, Miz fatness."

The gruff island voice startled Yani as a man she had danced with earlier rubbed up against her, his hand sliding around her waist, his locs falling against her cheek.

In front of Erik.

Her man's eyes lowered to stare at the stranger's hand and Yani moved up on the single step that led to her booth to separate herself from the man. Her friends filed behind her, their eyes taking in the whole scene.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Erik shoved past the other man, his shoulder knocking him aside.

"Aye!"

"Fuck you want?" Erik said.

The stranger looked Erik up and down, and what he saw made him move along without another word.

Yani's friends stood away from them, leaning against the railing that separated their section. They looked out onto the dance floor. The tone of Erik's voice made Yani nervous.

"Why yuh here?"

She eased him into a corner of their section where no one on the floor could see them too well. But her friends could hear everything.

"You tryna be too cute. That's why I'm here. Got niggas touching your pussy in public—"

Yani heard her friend Milah let out an "Ooh…I knew it."

His eyes were on her dress again.

"Please. Don't make a scene, man. Not here. We're having a good time. You didn't need to come down here to tell me that. Coulda texted—"

"Nah, you wanted this attention."

His eyes were blazing. She caught a whiff of weed from his breath.

Lesonne placed a shot glass into Erik's hand.

"Drink up. It's a celebration," Lesonne said.

Erik tossed back the tequila and Yani moved over to the railing to watch the crowd and divert Erik's attention. She was shocked when she felt his palm strike under her ass. He pressed up against her and let his hands grip the railing, trapping her there. His hot breath tickled her ear as he leaned in to whisper.

"Didn't I tell you to watch yourself before you left? You think I was playing?"

"It was nothin'."

His hand reached down and clutched at her mound.

"He had his hand on you like this. Bitch, I can feel how fat your puss is through this dress. You let that nigga touch my shit."

Yani's eyes darted to the side. All four of her friends had their eyes glued to the dance floor, but she knew their ears were stinging from Erik's words.

"Let's talk about this at home—"

"No."

His voice was raspy against her ear.

"You tryna get fucked in the club?"

Now he was getting loud. She tried to turn around but he kept her in place, his groin shoved hard against her ass. She turned her head and his lips met hers. He wasn't gentle with her mouth, but he was gentle with his hips rocking into her. He dropped his right hand down and wiggled his fingers under the front of her dress and slipped them down her panties. The stimulation from his fingers across her plump clit had her mewling and pushing back against him. The blood in her body thrummed hot as his tongue slid against hers. No matter what happened between them, his kisses always disarmed her.

Her head dropped forward when his fingers sunk into her pussy.

"This what you wanted?"

"Ooh."

He was digging deep.

"I saw you out there dancing. All this big ass out in the open…"

Her friends pretended not to notice, but they could hear everything. Even her wet folds being assailed by his hand.

Erik removed his hand from her slit for a few seconds, and she felt him unzip his pants and lift up the back of her dress. She gripped her fingers around the railing. Two of her friends slipped away to the dance floor. The other two stood rooted, heads facing forward. Erik yanked her panties down to her knees.

Her skin felt tingly and once she felt him lining his glans against her opening, she accepted what she had done. She wanted to incite his ardor. She wanted to flaunt her body to get him enflamed for her. She wanted him begging for her pussy. At home.

But no.

He drove all the way across the island, walked into this club so he could-

"Fuck, Killmonger!"

His dick stretched out her opening, and from the angle he entered her, the head of his dick tugged down on her clit and the sensation shot out a hot ripple of pleasure up to her nipples and down to her toes.

From the floor, if anyone looked up, they would simply look like a couple hugged up watching the action. Erik kept his hands gripped on her waist as he rocked into her.

"Fucking slut."

His words slurred in her ear.

"Look at your friends. Making them watch Daddy fuck you like this."

Her eyes flicked over to glance at Milah and Lesonne who stayed behind. Milah's eyes were brazen and aroused watching Yani get pounded in public. Her eyes trailed down Yani's body until she was staring at Erik's dick pumping in and out of her.

"Shit, Yani. Yuh nasty. Him beating up that pum pum," Milah said.

Erik dragged her over to the back of the VIP section and away from her friends, his dick still rooted deep within her. He grabbed her arms to balance himself and really started to thrust. Yani chewed on her lips trying to keep quiet, but a few cries got out, drowned by the loud bass thudding throughout the club. Her balance was thrown off when he released her arms and she reached out to hold onto the wall.

Erik yanked her underwear back up as he pulled out.

"Be still."

She whimpered as he placed his erection between her thighs and jerked off his load into her panties. He swallowed the grunts in his throat as the last of his semen spilled out.

"Pull your panties back up," he said.

Yani did as she was told, her soaked underwear sticking to her vulva. She smoothed down her dress and still felt the thumping of her clit. She turned to face him and he zipped up his pants.

"Let somebody touch my shit now, girl."

He looked at her friends who avoided eye contact with both of them and left her standing there. They watched him move through the crowd, his swagger so acute that Yani had to pour herself a glass of champagne and gulp it down.

Panties filled with cum and a face filled with embarrassment, Yani said nothing to Milah or Lesonne.

###

Erik was reading in bed when Yani returned to the compound. He'd been at the house for over an hour before she came back.

She showered and crawled onto the bed next to him. He ignored her, even though she was butt naked. After a time, he put the book on the nightstand and looked at her.

"Rest of the night was cool?"

"Yeah."

His eyes tried not to stare at her body too much, but he couldn't help it. Her face looked pouty. He pinched one of her nipples.

"You fucked me in front of my friends."

"So. They didn't look bothered by it. They say something?"

"Not really."

"You need to apologize to me."

"For what?"

"Making me come out there. I had shit to do here. But you got out of pocket. Stole some work time from me."

Her fingers stroked his naked chest tracing the skin between his keloids.

"I'm sorry."

"Nah. Not like that. You know what I want."

He pulled the covers back from his body and lifted up his dick. Her fingers clasped it and she lowered her head and wrapped her lips around it.

"Damn," he hissed.

Once she had him standing at attention, her fingers slipped between her legs and she fondled her clit.

"Get it ready for me. You got some making up to do."

Her mouth sucked and licked up and down the sides of his length and he groaned from her loving tongue swiping against his balls. He reached for the lube next to his book and slathered his dick with it.

"Turn around. Sideways," he directed her.

He tilted his hips to the left slightly and Yani lowered her ass, her fingers holding open her labia.

"Slide down Daddy's dick, baby."

She was on her hands and knees and he had the pleasure of watching her entire side view as she bounced on his dick. His left hand rested on her ass cheek.

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

"Show me."

Her breasts jiggled and he reached over to play with her big nipple. She had a steady rhythm.

"You gon' let some other nigga touch my pussy again?"

Her lips curled up and she shook her head vigorously when he started thrusting up into her.

"What? I didn't hear you."

Her hand reached back and touched his side.

"Ooomph…Daddy!"

He was stretching her out real good.

"Answer me."

He slapped her backside. She leaned down on her elbows and pressed her face into the mattress. That wouldn't do. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to face him. She plucked on her nipples and pushed her breasts together for him. Her pussy was squeezing him while he let her do most of the work. He slapped the side of her hip and her eyes shot open.

"You betta answer me—"

"I won't let no one touch my pussy…just you…just you."

"This pussy is so good…you liked it when Daddy fucked you at the club, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You liked your friends watching me dick you down, huh?"

Her pussy clenched around him.

"Yeah, you liked that shit. You liked them seeing what you get all the time. Daddy's big dick all in your fat pussy."

She was wailing as she bounced on his dick. He played with her nipple and watched his thickness split her good. He lifted up and held her back, widening his thighs so he could get his balls all up in her ass. He held her in that position for a long time, punishing her folds until she was begging him to let her cum.

"Don't you ever let me catch you with some other man's hand on this pussy. Hear me?"

"Yeah!"

Erik pulled out and pushed her onto her stomach. He climbed on top of her and inserted his dick once more. He gave her slow thrusts until her fingers were clawing the pillows.

"Cum on me, Yani."

She screamed his name and fell apart on his dick. He didn't wait for her to finish as he sped up his pace and then pulled her on her knees so he could watch her rock back onto his length.

"Had all my cum in your panties…"

"Yeah…"

"You liked that, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

He groaned out loud.

"Cum in me, Daddy."

"Whatchu want Daddy to do? Tell me again…"

"Cum in my pussy…"

"…fill your pussy up?"

"Make a big mess, Daddy…"

"Like I did at the club?"

"Yeah."

"Wet your pussy up like I did those panties?"

"Please—"

"Tell me—"

"I want you to wet my pussy up. Make a big mess like you put in my panties—"

"That's what you want?"

"Yeah."

"You like it when I make you sloppy—"

"Yeah."

"Give you a big cream pie—"

"Mmmhmmm."

"Ah shit-!"

It never failed. Talking to her while watching the sexy dimpling in her ass, her thighs striking his, it never took long for him to let go whenever he was ready. He ejaculated, the tight pulling on his balls letting him know he had emptied out another huge load.

He stayed in her pussy for the rest of the night, fucking her until she fell asleep in his arms. The bottle of lube was empty like he thought it would be.

###

Erik worked hard to get a workable mock-up of the weapons he wanted to convert with the vibranium. He found it hard to concentrate for the last few weeks because he and Yani had both been busy. Sex was infrequent, and she was gone from the compound a lot. He thought her online classes would keep her close, but it actually took her away. She started a study group with a few other online students on the island and met with them three times a week. Her courses were time-consuming and her energy was spent on assignments, getting high grades on her quizzes and tests, and caring for Sydette. She was mentally drained by the end of the day and was often knocked out by the time he joined her in bed at night.

He felt displaced.

Their life had been perfect, but now he was losing her to school.

When her midterm rolled around and they were easing into August, she dropped some news on him that upset him. The apartment she was going to share with her roommate was available and the leasing agent wanted her and her roommate to take it right away or risk losing it to another tenant. She wanted to move out right away. Her roommate was ready to get the apartment too.

She told him while he took out braids from Sydette's hair on the porch.

Yani was going to settle on the other side of the island with the baby, leaving him at the compound alone.

As always, when it rained, it poured.

While Yani went out for several days with her roommate to buy furniture and cookware for her new apartment, he received word from Klaue: he was coming back to St. Thomas.

Early.

###

Chapter 20 Here

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[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

To my annoyance, I lacked several of the herbs I needed for the sleeping tonic I had in mind. But then I remembered the man Marguerite had told me about. Raymond the herb-seller, in the Rue de Varennes. A wizard, she had said. A place worth seeing. Well, then. Jamie would be at the warehouse all the morning. I had a coach and a footman at my disposal; I would go and see it.

A clean wooden counter ran the length of the shop on both sides, with shelves twice the height of a man extending from floor to ceiling behind it. Some of the shelves were enclosed with folding glass doors, protecting the rarer and more expensive substances, I supposed. Fat gilded cupids sprawled abandonedly above the cupboards, tooting horns, waving their draperies, and generally looking as though they had been imbibing some of the more alcoholic wares of the shop.

“Monsieur Raymond?” I inquired politely of the young woman behind the counter.

“Maître Raymond,” she corrected. She wiped a red nose inelegantly on her sleeve and gestured toward the end of the shop, where sinister clouds of a brownish smoke floated out over the transom of a half-door.

Wizard or not, Raymond had the right setting for it. Smoke drifted up from a black slate hearth to coil beneath the low black beams of the roof. Above the fire, a stone table pierced with holes held glass alembics, copper “pelicans”—metal cans with long noses from which sinister substances dripped into cups—and what appeared to be a small but serviceable still. I sniffed cautiously. Among the other strong odors in the shop, a heady alcoholic note was clearly distinguishable from the direction of the fire. A neat lineup of clean bottles along the sideboard reinforced my original suspicions. Whatever his trade in charms and potions, Master Raymond plainly did a roaring business in high-quality cherry brandy.

The distiller himself was crouched over the fire, poking errant bits of charcoal back into the grate. Hearing me come in, he straightened up and turned to greet me with a pleasant smile.

“How do you do?” I said politely to the top of his head. So strong was the impression that I had stepped into an enchanter’s den that I would not have been surprised to hear a croak in reply.

For Master Raymond resembled nothing so, much as a large, genial frog. A touch over four feet tall, barrel-chested and bandy-legged, he had the thick, clammy skin of a swamp dweller, and slightly bulbous, friendly black eyes. Aside from the minor fact that he wasn’t green, all he lacked was warts.

“Madonna!” he said, beaming expansively. “What may I have the pleasure of doing for you?” He lacked teeth altogether, enhancing the froggy impression still more, and I stared at him in fascination.

“Madonna?” he said, peering up at me questioningly.

Snapped abruptly to a realization of how rudely I had been staring, I blushed and said without thinking, “I was just wondering whether you’d ever been kissed by a beautiful young girl.”

I went still redder as he shouted with laughter. With a broad grin, he said “Many times, madonna. But alas, it does not help. As you see. Ribbit.”

We dissolved in helpless laughter, attracting the notice of the shopgirl, who peered over the half-door in alarm. Master Raymond waved her away, then hobbled to the window, coughing and clutching his sides, to open the leaded panes and allow some of the smoke to escape.

“Oh, that’s better!” he said, inhaling deeply as the cold spring air rushed in. He turned to me, smoothing back the long silver hair that brushed his shoulders. “Now, madonna. Since we are friends, perhaps you will wait a moment while I attend to something?”

Still blushing, I agreed at once, and he turned to his firing shelf, still hiccupping with laughter as he refilled the canister of the still. Taking the opportunity to restore my poise, I strolled about the workroom, looking at the amazing array of clutter.

A fairly good-sized crocodile, presumably stuffed, hung from the ceiling. I gazed up at the yellow belly-scutes, hard and shiny as pressed wax.

“Real, is it?” I asked, taking a seat at the scarred oak table.

Master Raymond glanced upward, smiling.

“My crocodile? Oh, to be sure, madonna. Gives the customers confidence.” He jerked his head toward the shelf that ran along the wall just above eye height. It was lined with white fired-porcelain jars, each ornamented with gilded curlicues, painted flowers and beasts, and a label, written in elaborate black script. Three of the jars closest to me were labeled in Latin, which I translated with some difficulty—crocodile’s blood, and the liver and bile of the same beast, presumably the one swinging sinisterly overhead in the draft from the main shop.

I picked up one of the jars, removed the stopper and sniffed delicately.

“Mustard,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “and thyme. In walnut oil, I think, but what did you use to make it nasty?” I tilted the jar, critically examining the sludgy black liquid within.

“Ah, so your nose is not purely decorative, madonna!” A wide grin split the toadlike face, revealing hard blue gums.

“The black stuff is the rotted pulp of a gourd,” he confided, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “As for the smell…well, that actually is blood.”

“Not from a crocodile,” I said, glancing upward.

“Such cynicism in one so young,” Raymond mourned. “The ladies and gentlemen of the Court are fortunately more trusting in nature, not that trust is the emotion that springs immediately to mind when one thinks of an aristocrat. No, in fact it is pig’s blood, madonna. Pigs being so much more available than crocodiles.”

“Mm, yes,” I agreed. “That one must have cost you a pretty penny.”

“Fortunately, I inherited it, along with much of my present stock, from the previous owner.” I thought I saw a faint flicker of unease in the depths of the soft black eyes, but I had become oversensitive to nuances of expression of late, from watching the faces at parties for tiny clues that might be useful to Jamie in his manipulations.

The stocky little proprietor leaned still closer, laying a hand confidentially on mine.

“A professional, are you?” he said. “I must say, you don’t look it.”

My first impulse was to jerk my hand away, but his touch was oddly comfortable; quite impersonal, but unexpectedly warm and soothing. I glanced at the frost riming the edge of the leaded-glass panes, and thought that that was it; his ungloved hands were warm, a highly unusual condition for anyone’s hands at this time of year.

“That depends entirely upon what you mean by the term ‘professional,’ ” I said primly. “I’m a healer.”

“Ah, a healer?” He tilted back in his chair, looking me over with interest. “Yes, I thought so. Anything else, though? No fortune-telling, no love philtres?”

I felt a twinge of conscience, recalling my days on the road with Murtagh, when we had sought Jamie through the Highlands of Scotland, telling fortunes and singing for our suppers like a couple of Gypsies.

“Nothing like that,” I said, blushing only slightly.

“Not a professional liar, at any rate,” he said, eyeing me in amusement. “Rather a pity. Still, how may I have the pleasure of serving you, madonna?”

— Dragonfly In Amber

Photos: Starz, Season Two, Episode Two, April 16, 2016

Gif: headoverfeels.com, Season Two, Episode Two, April 16, 2016

Book: Dragonfly In Amber, Diana Gabaldon, 1992

Tumblr: September 28, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Two Episode Two #S2E2 #Not In Scotland Anymore #Dragonfly In Amber #Chapter Eight #I remembered the man Marguerite had told me about. Raymond the herb-seller #Madonna!” What may I have the pleasure of doing for you?! #Claire Fraser #Maître Raymond #83 #092818

[strangelittlestories]

The Market of Rats and Water

This #microfiction makes me want to write more in this world. Damn it. I have enough novel ideas...

Today, like every Tuesday, is the Rats and Water Market at the town's old bank building. This means I'm up and through the Iron Gate early, as I need to beat the butchers to the best rat-catchers.

It used to have an honest-to-Courts Farmers' Market, but farms were one of the first places that got snapped up in the Reclamation.

The few independents left won't travel to town, but they have representatives there who'll sell you a pair of horseshoe boots that know the way.

The Spring and Summer aligned farms will sometimes have a stall, but by now most know the dangers of such 'seasonal' produce (I both love and hate that pun).

So people make do with what clean water, rodents and root vegetables they can afford from the market. And at the end of the day, these precious commodities are locked up in the old vault (long-since reinforced with an iron coating). The day's takings are added almost as an afterthought - for any thieves would prize clean water much more highly than mere trading tokens.

The water's not for me though. Nor the veg. Even the rats aren't for eating - I can't risk the iron-touched sustenance here, so I have to stay thirsty till I return through the Silver Gate.

I'm in luck. I arrive at the pens before the butchers with their teeth-like paring knives (any animals of a size that requires a larger knife are hard to come by) and I click my tongue and rub my beard and squeak at the rats in their wicker cages and I say:

"So. Which of you lovelies will I save from their sharp iron fangs today? Which pretty thing has sharp teeth, a sharper nose and the *sharpest* little brain, hmm?" I crow and croon and sing a high-pitched song that's still guttural in its cadences. The smarter rodents began to rise up on their hind legs and add their voices to the tune, to make their case. "Oh, yes, you're my brave little scouts, aren't you?"

The lights begin to flicker and I cut off the song before any of the glass shatters or any of the shadows come alive. You only make that mistake once.

I survey the rats who have volunteered their services. Too many for me to afford today. Which breaks my heart a little.

"So..." says the head rat-catcher, an old friend who won't let anyone else negotiate with me, "...how many can you afford?"

I show him my purse and try to strip the glamour from my smile. I've tried those tricks on her before, but she's learned too much from the rats and her beady, piercing eyes strip them away like poison rain.

"Perhaps you'll stand me a few on credit, eh? You know me. Reliable. Dependable. Solid. Only tried to cheat you the once?"

She huffed.

"Once too many."

"I have to try once! You know I have to try once. It's the *rules*. You may as well cut my soul with ferrous filings, as forbid me my one finagling..." I let the pleading creep into my voice. "Please, Catch. I couldn't bear all of these bright little things facing the butchers' blades."

Catch huffed and puffed, but she still brought her price down. A little, at least. Couldn't let me get away *too* pleased with myself.

Later, I'll introduce these little ones to their new siblings and we'll get on teaching them the first lessons.

These pretty things never stay in my care long. Just enough for them to learn how to sniff out the little bog-pockets of wild magic, and to spy the telltale signs of the mines (packed with ball bearings - foul things) that still little the meadows too far from the path.

If you plan to head out into the wilds, these little precious scouts are worth their weight in silver. They'll spy out any lurkies pixies and kelpies and pots of caustic golden magic still lurking - they'll turn a *way* into a *path*.

Yes, my little scouts will keep you safe. In return, you must only pay me a little something and promise *you'll* keep *them* safe too. On especially Summery days, I'd give them away for just the promise if you people would trust such a good deal.

It's just nice to get them a good home.

And I don't seem to be the only one to think so. There's a few I know who've bought my scouts and don't venture off the roads at all.

They're just happy to have a bit of company. And my scouts will be good friends to you. All it costs you is a promise.

I smile at the butchers as I walk out the market, my catch tucked safely in the folds and many pockets of my coat.

We squeal together as we go.

And the air is alive with the precious sound of ratsong.

[mosylufanfic]

Prompt: something involving Cisco and Caitlin vs. either Ammunet or Warden Wolfe? please?

I started this last weekend and hoped to have it done within a few days, but it just kept getting longer and longer and longer . . . until I looked up and it was 8k words and your very long week was almost at an end. Hope this helps anyway. 

Also, I wrote this entire thing before I went to check the Flash wiki for something and remembered that Warden Wolfe died at the end of "True Colors." Ooops. But let's all assume that this is the reality where he somehow escaped, and go on our merry way.

Cisco on the Inside

On the other side of the bulletproof glass, against the dour grey walls of the Iron Heights visiting room, Caitlin stood out like a sunbeam in her light summer dress and yellow blazer. She looked like she should be having brunch or something, not visiting a prison.

But damn, he was glad she was here.

Cisco picked up the handset and felt his whole body relax when her voice said, "Hey," in his ear.

"Hey," he said.

"How are you?" Her anxious eyes scanned his face and chest, presumably looking for gaping  wounds.

"It hasn't been my best couple of days ever," he admitted. "But would you believe it hasn't been my worst, either?"

She made a face. "Really, how is it?"

"Food's bad, wardrobe's pretty dismal." He plucked at his orange jumpsuit. "But other than that, it's actually sort of okay. I figure I can hang in here for awhile."

She bit her lip. "That's good. Because the preliminary hearing's not set yet."

"What's taking so long?"

"I don't know," she said. "I can't believe you're even in there. I can't believe you couldn't make bail."

"That'll teach me to blow my savings on a fixer-upper Corvette off Craigslist."

"Don't make jokes. This is awful."

"Well, I mean, I did build the cold gun for Snart. And he did do a lot of crime with it. And none of his gang are around anymore, so I guess someone had to be the fall guy."

"You weren't an accomplice, you were coerced!" she said fiercely.

"We'll get it all cleared up in front of the judge," he said.

She fiddled nervously with the silver crescent moon pendant she wore and glanced over her shoulder at the guard standing against the back wall. “Are they treating you okay?”

He shrugged. "Nobody’s beaten me up yet.”

She looked horrified.

“Kidding! It’s fine. I've been able to stay off the warden's radar, so that's a good thing. Right?"

She worried the crescent moon again. "Right. Yes. Just - just keep your head down, okay?" She lowered her voice. "Don't use your P-O-W-E-R-S - "

"Shhh," he hissed as one of the guards on her side looked over at her. "Christalive, Caitlin, they're not toddlers. They can spell!"

"I'm just saying," she mumbled, cupping her hand over her mouth as if she thought they might be able to read lips, too. It was about as subtle as a brick to the head. "Don't use them."

He scowled at her. "Fine," he said. "I won't. I'll keep my nose clean and my head down and I'm gonna have a totally uneventful stay in Iron Heights."

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to - "

"No," she cut him off. "Anything but that."

"I promise," he said instead. He ran his finger along the steel-wrapped cord that connected the handset to the wall. "So, uh. How's everybody? How are you?"

"Not great," she said. "But we're not the ones in prison. We - "

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he winced. "Time's up," said a guard's voice.

Cisco wanted to slap that hand off his shoulder, but he'd just promised that he'd behave himself. Instead, he twisted around. "I thought we got half an hour."

The guard shrugged. "Warden says your time is up."

He gritted his teeth, then turned back to Caitlin. "So, I gotta go," he said.

"Now," the guard said and took the handset out of his hand and hung it up.

"Jesus," he hissed between his teeth, but he got to his feet. Caitlin was watching through the glass, her eyes wide. Come back, he mouthed.

She nodded. He let the guard shove him toward the door to the rest of the prison, but as he went through it, he looked over his shoulder again.

She was still watching him, face pale, fingers wrapped around the crescent moon pendant.

The door shut between them.

One of the worst things about being in prison was the unbelievable boredom. The inmates were told when to sleep and when to wake up and when to shower and when to eat and when to go outside and when to come in and how long to do all of those things. But within that structure, there was very little to actually occupy his mind. No machines to fix, no music to listen to, a severely limited choice of TV.

In the yard, he saw one of the other D-Block guys sitting at the picnic table, reading a book. He tapped him on the shoulder, and a guard barked, "No touching!"

Cisco yanked his hands back, holding them up, until the guard looked away. He'd forgotten about that rule.

The reader hadn't looked up. But he said, "What."

"Just, uh, wanted to know if I could borrow that when you were done."

Without looking up, he asked, "What'll you give me for it?" in a way that didn't suggest please was what he was looking for.

Cisco recalculated very, very swiftly. "Actually, you know what, I think I've read it. So never mind."

The reader grunted and turned a page.

He fiddled with the cuffs of his jumpsuit and asked another D-Block inmate, "So, when is our library day again?" They got an hour in the prison library once a week.

"Friday, but you're not missing anything. They won't give us anything good. No Playboy, no Guns & Ammo. Not even nasty lady-porn books. Just fucking Martha Stewart and cat mysteries and shit."

"You dissin' on Martha?" a third guy growled, and Cisco pretended he wanted to go use the hand weights because even on his third day, he could tell when someone felt like fighting.

Barry had filled him in on a lot of how prison worked, from his dad's experiences and his own time in there, but Cisco was also a lifetime watcher-of-currents, and he knew how to avoid sharks.

Or if he couldn't avoid them, at least he knew how to swim alongside them so peacefully that they didn't think about eating him.

He nodded at the other guy doing curls. His name was Brixton and they'd sat at the same table for dinner the night before.

"Hey, man," Brixton said under the noise of the scuffle on the other side of the yard, and the guards rushing in to break it up. "How's the tat?"

Cisco rolled his shoulder a little and rubbed his chest through the jumpsuit. "Still sore. Little itchy." Two days before getting arrested and put in prison was probably about the worst time to get your very first tattoo, but he hadn't exactly had a choice in the matter.

"You wanna take care of those." Brixton pointed at a star inked just below his elbow. "When I got that one, it got infected."

"Eeesh," Cisco said. "Looks okay now, though."

"My lady put witch hazel on it until it healed up. Worked like a dream."

"You think they'll give me witch hazel in the infirmary?"

"That's a dream too," Brixton said, picking out his weights. He did a few curls with a weight the size of Cisco's head, as the yard went quiet again after the fighters had been taken away. "Saw you got a visitor today."

"Yep," Cisco said, picking up one of the available weights, testing it in his hand. He glanced around, set it down, and picked up the next largest size before settling in for his first set of bicep curls.

"She was fine. Was that your lady?"

“Don’t have a lady.” The pang he felt at saying it was starting to dull. It had been three months since he and Cynthia had called it quits, after he’d turned down Breacher’s job offer in the spring. "The woman who visited - she’s just a friend."

Brixton smirked. "Can't seal the deal?"

"Never tried. Like I said, friends." He started doing curls, counting out the Fibonacci sequence in his head.

He snorted. "Sure, whatever."

Cisco gritted his teeth, focusing on his counting. Was he on the five set, or the eight set?

"Those buttoned-up types always get me," Brixton said dreamily. "Makes you wonder what she'll do when you rip off those buttons. You think she's a screamer? Ahhhh, even if she's not, I could make it happen."

Cisco lost count and switched arms. "You remember the part where she's my friend?"

"Relax, man, I'm just speculating."

"You're talking about her like she's a piece of meat."

"You telling me how to talk now?"

He dropped the weight to the cement yard with a clang and stood. "I'm telling you to talk more respectfully about a human woman, is what I'm telling you."

Brixton dropped his weight too, with a much louder clang, and unfolded himself to a much greater height than Cisco. "Say that again."

Cisco stepped to him, clenching his jaw. "Shut your face. About my friend."

Brixton punched him. Or he tried, anyway. Cisco ducked and tackled him around the waist. it was like running into a slab of meat. And then it was like the slab of meat picked him up and flicked him four feet away.

He landed on his ass, skidding across the cement in a way that promised road rash later on, when his adrenaline had burned off. He looked up to see Brixton charging, and he instinctively flung out his arm and threw a blast.

As Brixton reeled backward and guards charged in, he said, "Oh, shit."

Warden Wolfe sat across the table, stone-faced and silent. Behind Cisco’s shoulders, the guards stood with the same expressions.

Cisco sat in the middle, sore from the fight, his head hanging. "Look," he said, picking at his thumbnail. "Uh, I'm sorry. And I won't do it again."

"Prison regulations state that metas cannot be held in the general population.” Warden Wolfe flipped through the file in front of him. “You didn't disclose your meta status upon arrest."

"I didn't think it was relevant!"

Wolfe gave him a hard look.

Cisco swallowed. "I mean, it didn't have anything to do with what I was arrested for. Sir."

"Failure to disclose meta status is a misdemeanor."

"Oh, that's not bad. That's, like, community service? I'll build houses or something."

If possible, the warden's face went harder.

"Come on, it doesn't have to be a thing. Sir. I swear I'll stay away from that guy, I won't use them again - "

"Them?"

"It," Cisco said hastily. "It, singular. I just have the one. Just one meta ability."

Wolfe eyed him coldly. "One or five or fifty, it doesn't matter. Prison regulations state that metas are to be held in the meta wing." He jerked his chin at the guards, who grabbed Cisco by each elbow and pulled him to his feet.

“Wait,” Cisco said. “What about - do I get visitors?”

“Warden’s discretion,” Wolfe said, making a note in his file.

Caitlin turned away from the prison door, pulling out her phone. “He’s been in the meta wing since last night,” she growled to the person on the other end of the line. “I hope you’re happy.” She listened for a moment, and said, “No, I wasn’t able to see him. They said maybe tomorrow. Give me a moment.”

She walked around the corner to where her car was parked, as close to the prison's north wall as permitted. She stood looking up at the high walls, the barbed wire, the merciless guard towers. “Please be okay,” she whispered, twisting her moon necklace in her fingers.

Cisco regretted ever complaining about boredom in gen-pop. Shit, gen-pop had been a never-ending pachanga compared to the meta wing. Their food got delivered to them on trays and they got half an hour of yard time a day, each of them with a guard looming over them and power-dampening cuffs on their wrists. Otherwise, they were confined to their cells. No library privileges or weight room time.

“Warden’s discretion,” was the only answer he ever got when he asked about visiting hours. But from the little sneers and snorts that he heard from the other cells, he gathered that hardly anybody got to see their visitors.

When he found himself doing push-ups in his cell to pass the time, he understood how dudes got so jacked in prison.

It was a different set of guards in the meta wing, too. The gen-pop guards were okay. Still prison guards, obviously, so it wasn't like they were anybody's best friend. But they could be friendly and they would call you by your last name, at least.

The meta-wing guards were harder-faced, and called everyone "inmate," and spoke mostly in orders. When Cisco asked a question or made some comment, all he got was a one-word answer or a flick of the eyes in response.

If they responded at all.

It was a full day before he saw Warden Wolfe again, and when he did, he jumped up from his cot so fast, he got dizzy. "Hey!" he yelled through the bars. "Hey, Warden! Did I get any visitors? Hey! It was visiting day, did I get a visitor?"

"Yes," Wolfe said.

"Why didn't I see her, then? I get a half an hour on visiting day, up to four hours a month."

"That's gen-pop," the warden said. "You're in meta wing. Visitors are at my discretion only."

"I want to see my visitor," Cisco said. "I want to see her next time she comes. And I want to get a library book or something, I'm bored as hell."

Wolfe turned his back and left the meta wing.

Nothing daunted, Cisco kept it up whenever he saw a guard, or the warden, asking to see his visitor, asking for something to read or write or do, asking for more time in the yard or a chance to go the weight room.

The way the cells were arranged, he couldn't really see and barely even talk to the other metas confined with him. He did see them in the yard, during their half hour. Mostly they all kept to themselves, but one day, one of them gestured at him. "Mijo, come here."

Her name was Fabiana Duarte. She was plump and middle-aged, with streaks of grey in her black hair and comfortably wrinkly skin a shade or two darker than his. She gave off the general air of a daycare teacher.

He was kind of sure she was the one who'd stolen thousands and thousands of dollars by lifting people's bank cards and reading their minds for the PINs.

But she looked like one of his aunties and her dampener cuffs were brightly lit, and their guards were sharing a cigarette in the shade, so he went.

She started to put her hand on his arm but a guard barked "No touching" and they stepped back from each other.

"Mira," she said. "I'm going to give you a hint for your own good. Knock it off with the asking for stuff."

It was pretty sweet of her to try and save him from himself, but he said, "No, no way. That's all, like, basic stuff. It's my right as a U.S. citizen to - "

She snorted. "You're not a U.S. citizen anymore. You're an inmate of the Iron Heights meta wing."

"Well, we should still have rights. Like, to more exercise than walking around this yard, or to get stuff from the library, or - "

Thoroughly exasperated now, she said, "Are you stupid or do you just like pain?"

He blinked at her. "What do you mean?"

A bell rang, and all the guards started gathering up their charges.

"Hey, hey," Cisco said in a low voice as their guards started toward them. "What do you mean, Fabiana?"

She let out a grunt of exasperation. "Just behave yourself. And shut up."

Yeah, just like his aunties.

He ignored Fabiana's warning, and kept asking for anything and everything he could think of, top of the list being his visiting hours.

"She's here, I know she came," he said."She promised she'd come every day. I want to see her, okay? I just want to see her."

He couldn't see the occupants of the other cells, but he could hear them, letting out groans as he wheedled and pestered. Even occasionally a bellow of "Shut the fuck up!"

It was hard to blame them. He was annoying himself, even. But he kept it up, stubbornly, using the time he lay staring at the ceiling to think up new and ever-more-obnoxious ways of pestering the prison hierarchy.

The third evening of his stay in meta wing, Wolfe came after dinner..

Cisco sat up on his cot. This was unusual. Wolfe had a schedule and he stuck to it. Instead of speaking to the guards or looking in on any of the other metas, Wolfe walked directly to his cell and stood there, just outside the bars. His arms were crossed and his face unreadable.

"Hey, Warden," Cisco chirped. "Any news on my asks there? How about visiting day? Tomorrow's visiting day. My friend'll be here. I wanna see her. Am I going to see her?"

"You're going to stop asking for things, inmate," Wolfe said.

"Uh, no, I'm not because these aren't that big of a deal, honestly. Seeing my friend and getting something to read and getting a little fresh air, why is that such a big deal? I think it's very reasonable, don't you?"

The warden nodded once, his face as blank and hard as ever.

Then the pain hit.

It was like all the muscles in his body had suddenly decided to play tug-of-war with all the other muscles. He felt like pork in the process of being pulled, like he was being put through a blender and then run through again.

Then it was over, and he collapsed, gasping, against the wall.

The warden watched him with shark eyes. Flat and cold. "There won't be any more requests, Inmate."

"Wha - what was - what did - "

The hellish pain hit him again, like his skin being peeled away and his bones being hammered into dust from the inside.

Someone was screaming, very far away.

Then it was gone again, and the wall was there, hard and cold, but cold was good because he felt like he'd been lit on fire and holy Moses, what kind of hell-spawned meta power was that?

"I said, there won't be any more requests, inmate," Wolfe said again. "Will there?"

"Nnnnnooo," Cisco mumbled through trembling lips. His throat felt raw. He wondered why.

"I didn't hear you."

At the words, he tensed up, anticipating what came next. If anything that made it worse. He writhed helplessly on his cot, fingers digging into the blankets as his body tried to tear itself apart at the molecular level.

As it subsided, he figured out who'd been screaming.

It had been him.

"Will there be any more requests, inmate?"

"No!" he shrieked, a high thin noise. "No, no, no, no, no - "

"That's what I thought," Wolfe said, and left.

Cisco wheezed against the agonized twitching of his muscles, feeling cold sweat run down his face and spine and collect in the bend of his joints. Whimpers escaped his abused throat and he was helpless to stop them.

Every little pain and nagging stiffness he'd had before had been ratcheted up to eleven. The occasional soreness in his shoulder from breaching, the knee that he'd twisted last year and still sometimes got stiff, even his bruised tailbone from Brixton tossing him across the prison yard, were all magnified to horrific proportions.

His tattoo beat like a drum against his heart.

When he tried to lay down, his stomach revolted, and it was dumb luck that he managed to vomit up the bland prison fare over the side of his cot onto the floor. When there was nothing left but thin, acid bile, he collapsed, face buried in his pillow.

From a few cells over, Fabiana called out, "You alive in there, fool?"

He made some kind of high-pitched keening noise in response.

"I tried to tell you," she said. "He's been holding off on you - "

"And us," another voice grumbled.

" - because you're a short-termer and he didn't want you getting out and blabbing." She snorted. "But you just had to be that annoying, didn't you?"

With a herculean effort, he pushed himself up far enough to pull his face from the pillow. It was smudged with sweat and tears and snot and drool and bile and even a little blood. It took him two tries to flip it over, and then he collapsed again. He groaned as random muscles twitched in the memory of pain.

"Yeah," the second voice said. "He's probably learned his lesson."

With his face buried in the cool, coarse material of his pillowcase, Cisco mouthed, Gotcha, you rat bastard, just before he passed out.

One week ago

Silence fell in the cortex as Joe finished telling them about the meta who'd come to him, secretly, and told a story of torture and punishment in the meta wing of Iron Heights.

"What kind of horrible power is that?" Caitlin breathed.

"What kind of sick fuck uses it?" Cisco added.

"You guys, this is on us," Barry said.

"We didn't know this was going on," Caitlin objected.

"That doesn't matter. We arrested them, we put them in there, and now Wolfe is hurting them. Because he can."

"Why didn't he do anything when you were in there?" Iris asked.

"Didn't want to damage the merchandise, probably," Barry said. "But now he's not selling them to Amunet Black, so he can do whatever he wants."

"What do we do?" Cisco said. "Can we bust in there? Prison break?"

"We put them in there for a reason,"  Iris said. "They don't deserve what Wolfe is doing to them, but they can’t just be let go, either. Some of them are dangerous."

"We need to remove Wolfe," Joe said. "Legally. He needs to be convicted in a court of law and imprisoned."

"That'll be hard to prove," Caitlin said. "There's no injury site, their description is very nebulous, and we've never encountered him as a meta."

"He's smart," Joe said. “Only using it on people that most of society doesn’t care about, who aren’t going to tell and who might not be believed if they do.”

Iris frowned over the report. "What exactly is he doing to them?"

"It's hard to say from the testimony offered," Caitlin said. "They didn't report an entry or exit burn, so it's not electrical in nature. He could be stimulating the pain centers of their brain. It could even be a kind of bio-kinesis, where he can temporarily control their muscles."

Cisco shuddered. "Gross."

Barry's eyes narrowed. "Hard to prove what he's doing, hard to prove it's even him unless we can actually record the dark matter activity."

Cisco reached over for his tablet. "Well, I've got something that might help. You know that dark-matter scanner of yours, Caitlin? I've been tinkering with it so we can wear a small version out into the field and detect the kind of surges that accompany meta powers.."

Her eyes lit. "Pair that with a biometric scanner so you can cross-reference the pain reaction with the dark-matter surge, and that's proof he's causing it. Yes, that could work!"

"No," Barry said. "It won't."

Cisco scowled. "Hey, my tech always works."

"I know, but we can't get it to any of the metas on the inside. Everything that comes to any of the prisoners from the outside is thoroughly searched. Even if it did get past that, nothing would be safe from theft or guard searches unless it was implanted under the skin. And even if we could somehow manage that, who would agree to intentionally provoking Wolfe into using his powers on them, unless we gave them some kind of immunity or amnesty?"

"What are you saying?" Joe said, frowning.

"We need to send somebody in."

Now

Cisco spent most of the day after Wolfe's visit trying to find a comfortable position for his sore carcass. He was stiff all over, like someone had poured cement into his clothes. Sometimes he could doze, but mostly he stared at the wall or the ceiling.

He'd gotten the proof of Wolfe's torture. Now he just needed to make sure it got back to Star Labs, and then they could get him out before they arrested Wolfe.

Please get me out of here, he thought.

He tugged painfully at the buttons on his jumpsuit, and slid his fingers under the orange cloth. Pressing on his chest through his cheap prison undershirt, he could feel the three little hard spots under his skin. Biometric scanner, dark matter sensor, wireless transmitter. He chanted them like a prayer.

They'd painted that tattoo on him to explain any redness or swelling from insertion. It was henna, though, and it would start to fade soon. If anybody noticed, they'd know something was up.

After he got the proof, before he got out safely - this was the most dangerous part of the sting.

He heard his meal trays clang onto the floor and left them where they lay. His stomach hurt too much to get it to accept food. But when yard time came, he dragged himself to a sitting position, and then to his feet, and then forced himself to take slow, stumbling steps toward his cell door. With his guard at his back, he made his way to the yard. All the other meta inmates and their guards followed at his pace, complaining that they were losing out on yard time.

The sun blazed down, beating on his shoulders and the top of his head. He let it bake him as he took a slow, shambling lap around the yard, coaxing his body to move and wincing as it fought back. He'd become the opposite of Barry, he thought sardonically. Slowest Man Alive.

He made it halfway around, and then just leaned against the north wall. Caitlin had sworn to him she would be there every day, parked just on the other side of that specific wall. With the dampener cuffs on, there was no way to tell if she was there right now, but he pictured her there, waiting for the signal from the device in his chest.

Please let the transmitter work.

Please let the range perform like it did in tests.

Please just get me out of here.

Too soon, the bell rang and they led him back inside. When he got back to his cell, he dropped into his cot and was asleep almost before the lock on his cell door engaged.

He dreamed that Wolfe came back and hurt him until his heart shorted out like a bad connection.

He dreamed that Wolfe somehow knew about the sensors and had them cut out while he watched with that non-expression and Cisco screamed.

He dreamed that Wolfe didn't know about the sensors, but that they shorted out anyway from whatever Wolfe did to him.

He dreamed that he'd somehow been forgotten, and he spent the rest of his life in the meta wing of Iron Heights prison, alone and hurting and desperate for an escape that never came.

When he woke, sweating and shivering and hoarse from shouting, someone from one of the other cells said, "Bad dream?"

"Uh-huh," he mumbled. He couldn't tell who it was.

"Yeah, I got those too, after the first time." There was a creak as if his faceless, anonymous comfort had rolled over in his cot. "You get used to them."

When he woke again, it was morning. He didn't know that by the sunlight or the clock, neither of which were present in the meta wing. He knew because when he opened his eyes, the tray that had just clanged onto the floor had a blob of scrambled eggs and a triangle of toast on it.

He considered it. Although the soreness had eased up some, he felt wobbly and weak even though he was still lying down. Probably because he hadn't eaten a thing yesterday. He had to get some calories in him, even shitty prison calories.

He managed to choke down about half of the cardboard-tasting eggs before they came back for the tray, and that helped him get to the shower when that time came. The hot(ish) water helped more. He tugged his fingers through his wet hair, wincing. Crappy lowest-bidder shampoo - he didn't want to think about what it looked like.

Remembering his dream, he peered down at the tattoo high on his chest, cleaning it carefully and gently. The sun with its squiggly rays was only about three inches across and done in simple reddish-black lines. The swelling and redness had mostly gone down over the past few days. It hurt, but everything hurt.

He shifted a little so his arm blocked his motions from the rest of the shower room. He ran his fingers around the edge of the sun and felt three tiny, hard bumps under the skin, evenly spaced around the perimeter.

Biometric scanner. Dark matter sensor. Wireless transmitter.

Yep. Still there.

After showers came the long, dull stretch until lunch. He lay dozing on his cot, trying to escape his aches and pains. They weren't as bad as yesterday, but he also wasn't about to go out and run a marathon.

A shoe scuffed outside his cell. He rolled over to see who it was, then flinched backward. The warden stood on the other side of the bars.

His stomach churned. He hadn't seen Wolfe since two nights before, and the memory of pain jittered through his body.

"Inmate," Wolfe said. "On your feet."

So you can hit me with that power again? Watch me fall on the floor instead of writhing on this bed? It all ran through his mind, but his tongue wouldn't let it out.

"I said get up."

Cisco swung his legs over the edge of the cot and hauled himself to a standing position. He winced as he straightened up, and some flicker of expression crossed Wolfe's face for a split second.

Like satisfaction.

Or pleasure.

Distantly, he noted that there was a guard behind Wolfe. What kind of a sign was that? He hadn't noticed any guard the other night. Would Wolfe whammy him again if there was a witness?

Of course, he hadn't had any trouble doing it in front of the other metas.

Wolfe unlocked the cell door, and Cisco took a step back. But the warden didn't come in. Instead, he said, "Come out here, inmate."

It wasn't yard time. Visiting day had been yesterday. But Caitlin had promised to come every day whether it was visiting day or not. Maybe Wolfe had decided that he could see her today.

Maybe Santa Claus existed.

(His brain whispered, Maybe you're going home.)

"Come out here. I won't say it again."

Cisco stepped out of the cell. A pair of dampener cuffs wrapped around his wrists and clicked closed. A hard hand nudged his shoulder - not Wolfe's. The guard. Wolfe, as always, stood and watched.

Cisco crossed the meta wing. Possibilities waterfalled through his brain. Some horrifying, some wonderful. None of them felt entirely real.

The door to meta wing shut behind them, and Wolfe stopped. Turned.

Cisco had to tip his chin up to look Wolfe in the eye. There was a camera up in the corner. There were always cameras in the hallways, in the gen-pop halls, in the yard and the weight room and the dining hall and the commissary.

The only place without cameras in Iron Heights, besides the showers, was the meta wing.

The eye of the camera felt like the only thing between him and . . . something. He didn't know what.

"You're being released," Wolfe said.

It took the words a moment to sink in. He said, "I - what?"

"The charges have been dropped. There's no reason to hold you here anymore."

He blinked a few times. "Oh."

The warden stared at him with those flat shark eyes. Cisco stared back for a split second, and then looked down, hunching his shoulders.

When he looked up again, that flicker of satisfaction, or pleasure, was just leaving Wolfe's face.

He glanced at the guard over Cisco's shoulder. "Take him to discharge." He turned away, down another corridor, and the guard gave Cisco a nudge in the small of the back.  

He stumbled forward, caught himself, and started walking, the guard right on his heels. The corridor seemed to stretch out forever

Occasionally the guard said, "Right" or "Left" or made him stop while he badged through a door. The walking went on forever, and Cisco wondered how deep in the bowels of Iron Heights the meta wing actually was. How thick the walls were. How impossible it would be to get any kind of signal through it.

His stomach trembled.

Was he seriously leaving? Or was this something else Wolfe was doing to him? Or maybe the paperwork was through, the charges really were dropped, but all his cowering hadn't fooled Wolfe into thinking he didn't need to worry about Cisco. Maybe he was supposed to suffer a mysterious accident on his way through these endless corridors. Maybe they were going in circles.

He counted cameras, checked live lights, calculated blind spots, and held his breath until he was through each and every one of them.

They stopped in front of one last badge reader next to one last door. Unlike the others, this one actually had a window, a skinny pane of glass with wires cross-crossed through it. Through the glass, he could see the room where he'd gotten signed in to Iron Heights - what, a week ago? Was that it?

Amazing how long seven days could feel.

He thought, Maybe I really am leaving.

Behind him, the guard said in a low voice, "You're going to tell them something."

"Tell who? What?" Open the door already. Open it and let me out.

The guard's breath stirred the hair at Cisco's temple. "Warden never touched you," he said.

He stared at the window, focusing on the wires embedded in the glass. "What?"

"The warden," the guard repeated. "Never touched you, did he? Never laid a finger on you."

". . . no?"

"So that's what you're going to say," the guard said. "The warden never touched you."

"Say to who?"

"Say it. The warden never touched you. Did he?"

". . . no," Cisco said.

"No, what, inmate?"

"No, the warden never touched me."

"Good," the guard said. "You're going to say that whenever anybody asks. Or that ginger who visited you is going get a visit from us."

He went stiff. "No. Please."

"Skinny thing, isn't she? Breakable, those skinny chicks."

"Don't hurt her. I'll say anything you tell me to say. To anybody you tell me to say it to. Just don't hurt her."

"You don't have to lie, inmate. Nobody's asking you to lie. Just tell the truth. The warden never touched you."

Cisco shook his head hard. "No, he never did. Never laid a finger on me."

"That's right," the guard said, and opened the door.

Cisco walked through.

It seemed like being released from prison should be a triumphal thing. Trumpets, choruses of angels, et cetera. Instead, it turned out to be more paperwork, under the apathetic eye of one of the regular prison guards. The one who had threatened him had left - back to terrorize more metas, presumably.

He had to turn in his orange jumpsuit and everything issued to him by the prison. After a search of his naked body to ensure that he wasn't smuggling anything out - he stared at the wall and thought about sunlight and Big Belly Burger and his own bed -  he did get his own clothes back, the ones he'd been arrested in.

They smelled institutional, like they'd been run through the prison laundry along with a hundred other guys' clothes and cheap, harsh laundry detergent. He put them on anyway and decided that when he got home, they were going in the trash can.

He filled out forms that attested he'd gotten his clothes back, his wallet, his phone. The latter was dead, of course. It had been sitting in a box for a week, running the battery down.

He signed everything they told him to sign, his hand shaking a little.

The release officer shook his hand and said, "Someone's waiting for you. Lucky. Not everyone gets that." He badged Cisco through the last door.

Caitlin was in the waiting room, clutching her purse to her stomach. When she saw him, her face lit up, and then he was in her arms.

He shut his eyes and soaked in the feel of her. The familiar smell of her shampoo and the iron-band tightness of her hug, like always when she'd been distressed for a long time, and how soft she was against him.

Getting released was slowly starting to feel real.

But she was also here, in the prison. He couldn't stop thinking about the guard who'd mused about her breakability, just a few walls away.

"Get out," he muttered against her ear. "Out, out, out."

"Yes," she whispered, and pulled away. He grabbed her hand, unwilling to not be touching her.

"Is that everything?" she asked the release officer.

"Yes, ma'am, you're free to go."

"Good." She pushed open the last door and the sunlight hit Cisco like a hammer. He flinched away from it, and from the vastness outside the door. No walls. Outside felt way too big.

She squeezed his hand - he hadn't realized he'd tightened his grip - and said brightly, "I'm parked right over there. Close. Let's go. Everybody's waiting. They want to see you."

They crossed the parking lot. Still no walls, so big. Cisco felt like a bug on a tabletop, waiting for someone to smash him. Them.

"Faster," he said, trying to lengthen his stride, but he was still just a little too sore to go any faster than he was. She made soothing noises.

They got in the car - he had to let go of her hand - and the enclosure of the vehicle around him felt safe, even as she pulled out and drove through the gates.

She hit a button for speakerphone and when the call was answered, said. "We're out. We're driving away."

The reply sounded brisk and official. "Copy that, ma'am."

She ended the call. He reached out and took her hand again. She held it and drove one-handed, her face tense.

The road to the prison was long and empty, but a few minutes later, two cars roared by them, going the other way.

Caitlin turned a corner into a convenience store and parked next to a plain white panel van. They hopped out and immediately the back door of the van popped open to reveal one of CCPD's mobile command units inside, and Iris and Joe.

Joe helped him up into the van and Iris hugged him hard. "How are you?" she asked.

"Eh," Cisco said, hugging her back. "I'm out, so."

Joe looped his arm around Cisco's shoulders and pulled him in for his own hug. "It's almost over, son." He reached behind him for a pair of headphones. "You want to listen in on the big moment?"

Cisco had thought he would, picturing this in his cell all those dull hours. Warden Wolfe, you're under arrest for torture and abuse. You're going to jail forever, you sick fuck.

But he shook his head. Suddenly the idea of hearing Wolfe's voice again made him want to heave.

Joe nodded and put the headphones on his own head, turning to some screens.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Caitlin said.

He scootched over next to her, and as if she knew what he needed, she slipped her arm around his waist. He leaned into her body, ignoring the way Iris's brow quirked up.

He hadn't realized it until her first hug, but the week undercover in the prison had left him touch-starved. Having hands on him - kind hands, that didn't want him to move or stop or turn, that didn't shove or nudge like they were trying to get a farm animal to change direction - felt like a big bottle of cold water after crossing the desert.

"I was worried you didn't get the last data drop," he said, reaching out to touch her moon necklace. "I spent my entire yard time yesterday just hanging out on the north wall."

"Oh, I got it," she said grimly. "And it sealed the warrant on Wolfe."

"But regulations state that releases have to happen in the morning," Iris added, "and we couldn't push that without tipping him off. Otherwise we would have had you out last night."

"That's okay," he said. "I wasn't in great shape yesterday and besides, he left me alone."

She gave him a quick, concerned look, and he shook his head. "Just the aftereffects. Soreness."

Caitlin grabbed her purse, dug in it for a moment, and handed him two ibuprofen. "Enough for now?"

"Yeah," he said, swallowing them and drinking deeply from the bottle of water she gave him next.

She pulled a tablet over and tapped a few buttons, lips pursed. She reached up and took off the moon necklace, touching two stones. The tablet beeped and the screen filled with data from the biometric scanner, transmitted to the necklace and then uplinked to Star Labs servers.

He looked down at his own scanned body on the screen. "See?" he said to Caitlin. "All there."

"Full checkup later," she told him. "No arguments."

"Wasn't gonna," he said.

Joe let out a triumphant grunt, and they turned toward him. "They got him, Dad?" Iris asked.

"In custody," he reported. "Being transported to Central."  

The last knot of tension in Cisco's chest snapped, and he sagged where he stood, letting Caitlin's arm hold him up for a moment.

This was no guarantee of anything. He might escape; he might get off. They might be hearing a lot more of Gregory Wolfe. But for right now, he wasn't hurting or killing any more metas under his care at Iron Heights, and that was enough for Cisco.

A moment later, a knock sounded on the back panel, and Iris leaned over to open it. Barry climbed inside, flushed with victory. "Got 'im," he said. "It's over. We did it."

“Cisco did it,” Caitlin said.

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah. You did it, man.” He stretched out his long arms and pulled Cisco in for a hug.

Cisco hugged him back, but pushed away after a moment. "Hey, Bare?"

"Mmmm?" Barry was peeling his cowl up off his face. His hair stuck out all crazy.

Cisco steeled himself. "Don't ask me to do something like that ever again."

Barry's face scrunched up a little. "Hey, man, I'm sorry, I know it must have been rough. But it had to be you. Wolfe and the guards knew me and Iris, and Caitlin doesn't have any powers anymore, so she wouldn't have gotten put in the meta wing."

"I know," he said. "I know all that. I'm glad Wolfe is going down and I'm glad I did that. But I'm still saying, don't ever ask me to do that again."

Barry's mouth opened and closed a few times, and finally he nodded. "Okay," he said in a subdued voice. "Never again."

"Good." Cisco brushed his hair behind his ears, suddenly self-conscious. But that had been running through his mind in all those hours staring at the ceiling, too. "So, uh, what now?" He looked at Joe. "You need my statement or whatever?"

"Not right away," Joe said, looking at him keenly. "Lot of stuff for the cops to do first."

"Good," Caitlin said. "That means there's time for a full checkup back at Star Labs."

Barry offered to run them back, but Cisco wanted to test out his breaches, after a week of exposure to power dampeners. They felt a little sputtery at first, but Caitlin put her hand on his back and the breach spewed open, the same as it always had. They jumped through to the comfort and familiarity of Star Labs.

She checked everything she could think of, and he let her, smiling a little as she fussed. When she checked his back, she frowned. "There's some bruising."

"Yep," he said. "Not from the warden. From when I had to get caught using my powers so I'd get transferred into the meta wing."

She eyed him. "You don't bruise in response to your powers."

"I do in response to another prisoner trying to kick my ass."

"Cisco! You were in a prison fight?"

"It's fine!" he assured her. "Funny story, actually. First night at dinner, I run into this guy I went to high school with, Andy Brixton. We were in a bunch of AP classes and the GSA together. Anyway, he agreed to scuffle up with me in the yard so I had an excuse to use my powers out in the open."

"Cisco - "

"I know you had fun being extremely unsubtle and trying to tip the guard off during your visit, but the warden wasn't noticing me. It's okay. Andy didn't hurt me, not really. He's always been a good guy." He thought of what he'd vibed when he'd managed to touch Andy's shoulder. "One who made some bad choices in life, maybe. But a good guy."

She shook her head. "Prison fight," she muttered.

"It worked," Cisco said. "I saw what I needed to see in gen-pop and then got transferred into the meta wing and got right on Wolfe's shit list. Three birds, one stone."

"How was he in the general population?"

"All the guys I talked to said he was a stickler for rules but otherwise ignored them. I guess he just wanted to hurt metas."

"That says something about him, doesn't it?" she said.

"Nothing good."

She had to numb his skin with cream before she took out the sensors, but when she had, that was the work of a few moments with scalpel and forceps.

"Biometric scanner," she said, dropping the tiny device into a sterile dish with a clang. "Dark matter sensor - " clang "- and wireless transmitter." She smiled at him. "All out."

"Yay," he said. "Officially not a cyborg anymore."

She cleaned the small wounds, put a stitch in each of them, and taped sterile gauze over his chest. She stripped off her gloves, but instead of telling him he was clear, she pulled a chair over. “How are you really?" she asked.

"I'll be better after some Big Belly Burger," he said. "The food was seriously shitty. And such small portions!"

"You lost seven pounds in there," she said absently. "So yes, Big Belly Burger it is. But I mean you. No jokes, please. How are you doing?"

He met her eyes and found he had to look away. He picked at a fray in his cords and said slowly, "I keep waiting to wake up again."

"Again?"

"I had bad dreams last night. Being out - it feels like a good dream that's about to turn bad."

He reached out for his hand and she let him take it. He held it, feeling the softness and warmth of her skin, her thumb rubbing soothingly over his knuckles.

"It's not a dream," she said. "You're out, and you're staying out. And in case nobody else says it, going in was the bravest thing I've ever seen you do."

"I went to prison," he said. "People do it every day."

"You went to a place where someone was going to hurt you. Where you had to make someone hurt you. And then you had to wait on us, until we could retrieve you. And you had to do all of that without your powers. I can't imagine the number of times you daydreamed about breaching out."

"Like, thousands."

"But you went. And you let him hurt you. And you stayed." She squeezed his hand. "I've always known you were one of the bravest men I knew. This just confirms that."

He swallowed. "Thanks."

She smiled and squeezed his hand again before letting it go. "If you want to go home right now, there's a protective detail waiting for the word to go to your apartment."

His stomach sank. "Shit."

"What?"

"You'll need one too. A protective detail. One of Wolfe's pet meta-wing guards - he threatened you. Right before they released me."

She drew in her breath and let it out.

"Nothing concrete," he said quickly. "All very plausible-deniability. But he was talking about how if I blabbed, they'd have to pay you a visit and stuff. Their boss getting arrested had probably got them mad enough for . . . stuff."

She nodded. "Okay."

"Okay? Caitlin, I know it doesn't sound like much, but these were bad dudes, they - "

"I know," she said. "I'll ask Joe for protective detail. Or maybe I can stay over at your place tonight and share yours."

He squinted at her. "You're taking this well." Almost too well. "Caitlin, this is -"

"Scary," she said, and her voice shook. "Serious. I know. I get it. But I always knew it was a possibility I'd be targeted, being your contact on the outside. None of us thought Warden Wolfe would be happy about getting arrested. So, yes, I've been prepared for the idea pretty much since we came up with this sting." Her mouth worked. "Alongside being scared for you."

"But you agreed to be my contact anyway."

"Of course I did. We needed the data to take to the judge and get a warrant."

"Barry could have run by the prison every day," Cisco argued. "You didn't have to be my visitor."

"I wanted to. Even though we only got to see each other once. I wanted you to know I was coming, every day. I didn't want you to be all alone in there."

He studied her a moment, then smiled. "I wasn't."

This time, she took his hand. He held it and they leaned together.

It was good to be home.

FINIS

[elisabettacormac]

Gertrude Stein: Roastbeef

Gertrude Stein

Roastbeef

Roastbeef In the inside there is sleeping, in the outside there is reddening, in the morning there is meaning, in the evening there is feeling. In the evening there is feeling. In feeling anything is resting, in feeling anything is mounting, in feeling there is resignation, in feeling there is recognition, in feeling there is recurrence and entirely mistaken there is pinching. All the standards have steamers and all the curtains have bed linen and all the yellow has discrimination and all the circle has circling. This makes sand.

Very well. Certainly the length is thinner and the rest, the round rest has a longer summer. To shine, why not shine, to shine, to station, to enlarge, to hurry the measure all this means nothing if there is singing, if there is singing then there is the resumption.

The change the dirt, not to change dirt means that there is no beefsteak and not to have that is no obstruction, it is so easy to exchange meaning, it is so easy to see the difference. The difference is that a plain resource is not entangled with thickness and it does not mean that thickness shows such cutting, it does mean that a meadow is useful and a cow absurd. It does not mean that there are tears, it does not mean that exudation is cumbersome, it means no more than a memory, a choice and a reëstablishment, it means more than any escape from a surrounding extra. All the time that there is use there is use and any time there is a surface there is a surface, and every time there is an exception there is an exception and every time there is a division there is a dividing. Any time there is a surface there is a surface and every time there is a suggestion there is a suggestion and every time there is silence there is silence and every time that is languid there is that there then and not oftener, not always, not particular, tender and changing and external and central and surrounded and singular and simple and the same and the surface and the circle and the shine and the succor and the white and the same and the better and the red and the same and the centre and the yellow and the tender and the better, and altogether.

Considering the circumstances there is no occasion for a reduction, considering that there is no pealing there is no occasion for an obligation, considering that there is no outrage there is no necessity for any reparation, considering that there is no particle sodden there is no occasion for deliberation. Considering everything and which way the turn is tending, considering everything why is there no restraint, considering everything what makes the place settle and the plate distinguish some specialties. The whole thing is not understood and this is not strange considering that there is no education, this is not strange because having that certainly does show the difference in cutting, it shows that when there is turning there is no distress.

In kind, in a control, in a period, in the alteration of pigeons, in kind cuts and thick and thin spaces, in kind ham and different colors, the length of leaning a strong thing outside not to make a sound but to suggest a crust, the principal taste is when there is a whole chance to be reasonable, this does not mean that there is overtaking, this means nothing precious, this means clearly that the chance to exercise is a social success. So then the sound is not obtrusive. Suppose it is obtrusive suppose it is. What is certainly the desertion is not a reduced description, a description is not a birthday.

Lovely snipe and tender turn, excellent vapor and slender butter, all the splinter and the trunk, all the poisonous darkning drunk, all the joy in weak success, all the joyful tenderness, all the section and the tea, all the stouter symmetry.

Around the size that is small, inside the stern that is the middle, besides the remains that are praying, inside the between that is turning, all the region is measuring and melting is exaggerating.

Rectangular ribbon does not mean that there is no eruption it means that if there is no place to hold there is no place to spread. Kindness is not earnest, it is not assiduous it is not revered.

Room to comb chickens and feathers and ripe purple, room to curve single plates and large sets and second silver, room to send everything away, room to save heat and distemper, room to search a light that is simpler, all room has no shadow.

There is no use there is no use at all in smell, in taste, in teeth, in toast, in anything, there is no use at all and the respect is mutual.

Why should that which is uneven, that which is resumed, that which is tolerable why should all this resemble a smell, a thing is there, it whistles, it is not narrower, why is there no obligation to stay away and yet courage, courage is everywhere and the best remains to stay.

If there could be that which is contained in that which is felt there would be a chair where there are chairs and there would be no more denial about a clatter. A clatter is not a smell. All this is good.

The Saturday evening which is Sunday is every week day. What choice is there when there is a difference. A regulation is not active. Thirstiness is not equal division.

Anyway, to be older and ageder is not a surfeit nor a suction, it is not dated and careful, it is not dirty. Any little thing is clean, rubbing is black. Why should ancient lambs be goats and young colts and never beef, why should they, they should because there is so much difference in age.

A sound, a whole sound is not separation, a whole sound is in an order.

Suppose there is a pigeon, suppose there is.

Looseness, why is there a shadow in a kitchen, there is a shadow in a kitchen because every little thing is bigger.

The time when there are four choices and there are four choices in a difference, the time when there are four choices there is a kind and there is a kind. There is a kind. There is a kind. Supposing there is a bone, there is a bone. Supposing there are bones. There are bones. When there are bones there is no supposing there are bones. There are bones and there is that consuming. The kindly way to feel separating is to have a space between. This shows a likeness.

Hope in gates, hope in spoons, hope in doors, hope in tables, no hope in daintiness and determination. Hope in dates.

Tin is not a can and a stove is hardly. Tin is not necessary and neither is a stretcher. Tin is never narrow and thick.

Color is in coal. Coal is outlasting roasting and a spoonful, a whole spoon that is full is not spilling. Coal any coal is copper.

Claiming nothing, not claiming anything, not a claim in everything, collecting claiming, all this makes a harmony, it even makes a succession.

Sincerely gracious one morning, sincerely graciously trembling, sincere in gracious eloping, all this makes a furnace and a blanket. All this shows quantity.

Like an eye, not so much more, not any searching, no compliments.

Please be the beef, please beef, pleasure is not wailing. Please beef, please be carved clear, please be a case of consideration.

Search a neglect. A sale, any greatness is a stall and there is no memory, there is no clear collection.

A satin sight, what is a trick, no trick is mountainous and the color, all the rush is in the blood.

Bargaining for a little, bargain for a touch, a liberty, an estrangement, a characteristic turkey.

Please spice, please no name, place a whole weight, sink into a standard rising, raise a circle, choose a right around, make the resonance accounted and gather green any collar.

To bury a slender chicken, to raise an old feather, to surround a garland and to bake a pole splinter, to suggest a repose and to settle simply, to surrender one another, to succeed saving simpler, to satisfy a singularity and not to be blinder, to sugar nothing darker and to read redder, to have the color better, to sort out dinner, to remain together, to surprise no sinner, to curve nothing sweeter, to continue thinner, to increase in resting recreation to design string not dimmer.

Cloudiness what is cloudiness, is it a lining, is it a roll, is it melting.

The sooner there is jerking, the sooner freshness is tender, the sooner the round it is not round the sooner it is withdrawn in cutting, the sooner the measure means service, the sooner there is chinking, the sooner there is sadder than salad, the sooner there is none do her, the sooner there is no choice, the sooner there is a gloom freer, the same sooner and more sooner, this is no error in hurry and in pressure and in opposition to consideration.

A recital, what is a recital, it is an organ and use does not strengthen valor, it soothes medicine.

A transfer, a large transfer, a little transfer, some transfer, clouds and tracks do transfer, a transfer is not neglected.

Pride, when is there perfect pretence, there is no more than yesterday and ordinary.

A sentence of a vagueness that is violence is authority and a mission and stumbling and also certainly also a prison. Calmness, calm is beside the plate and in way in. There is no turn in terror. There is no volume in sound.

There is coagulation in cold and there is none in prudence. Something is preserved and the evening is long and the colder spring has sudden shadows in a sun. All the stain is tender and lilacs really lilacs are disturbed. Why is the perfect reëstablishment practiced and prized, why is it composed. The result the pure result is juice and size and baking and exhibition and nonchalance and sacrifice and volume and a section in division and the surrounding recognition and horticulture and no murmur. This is a result. There is no superposition and circumstance, there is hardness and a reason and the rest and remainder. There is no delight and no mathematics

[swordandquill]

Bushel and a Peck

Summary: It's not Hunk's first job interview, but it might just be his favorite. 

Notes: Third part of the Five Lions Cafe series. If you like AO3 better, you can find it here.

Hunk eyed the crooked gate nervously. It was propped open with a muddy rock, and the faded picket fence was choked with weeds. It wasn’t that promising of a first impression, but the ad had said the café wasn’t open yet.

It was kind of exciting. A brand new café meant there would be room for growth and creativity, to try new things and learn as the business grew.

That was what Hunk was hoping, anyway. He had been trying since his graduation to find a position that actually had room for growth and advancement, one that wasn’t just a dead end line cook job.

New restaurants were risky, though. They were looking for someone who knew how to run the floor and the kitchen, basically a head chef position, and if the restaurant failed, it would be that much harder for the failed head chef to get another chance.

Look for the opportunities, his dad had told him, make sure you see those first, then start worrying about the risk.

Hunk took a deep breath and walked through the gate.

The building was welcoming, if in need of some touching up. The wood siding was warm in the afternoon sun, and the side patio gave the silhouette of the building a charming asymmetry. It certainly had the potential to be a cozy café that someone would want to spend an afternoon in.

Given the right refreshments, of course.

His mother had told him as he was walking out the door to remember that this was just as much an opportunity for them as it was for him.

He wasn’t at all surprised by the faded closed sign on the door. He shifted his shoulder bag nervously, then gave it a pat, reassured by the shape of the containers inside. All three of his sisters had said he had picked the perfect things.

Hunk knocked firmly on the door.

He waited until he couldn’t hold back his fidgeting any longer and knocked again. He was sure he had the right time. He had written it down and doubled checked that he had it right before hanging up. He must have checked his planner a dozen times since yesterday. He was sure this was when the guy said he was supposed to be here.

He was about to knock a third time when he was interrupted by a loud meow. He turned to find a grey cat watching him from the gravel walkway that lead around the building.

“I don’t suppose you’re the welcoming committee,” Hunk ventured.

The cat eyed him curiously, then strolled over to him, wrapping around his legs.

“Well, you’re friendly, aren’t you,” Hunk reached down to scratch her ears.

The cat purred loudly and pushed up into his hand. She obviously belonged to someone. She was wearing a blue collar with sparkling rhinestone stars on it. Maybe she belonged to the owner. A cat would be a good café mascot. Even people who didn’t like cats thought they were cute.

There was banging from around the side of the building, and the cat’s tail twitched at the sound, but she didn’t seem particularly upset by it.

Maybe the owner was around the side and hadn’t heard him knock. Hunk ventured down the gravel path, cat on his heels. Someone had obviously been doing some work. The path had been weeded and raked even recently. It lead past the wide patio, and Hunk stopped to take a look at it.

It was a warm, inviting space, with the lattice siding casting patterned shadows across the wood, and a few tables scattered across it with mismatched chairs. Not the most efficient arrangement, but definitely one that would entice people to stay for a while.

The grey cat jumped up onto the patio, ducking her head low to rub against the head of a black cat who was lounging in a patch of sunlight. The black cat had a purple collar embroidered with silver galaxies. Someone liked space.

The grey cat flopped down beside the black one, stretching lazily, then grooming her paws. There were large glass sliding doors that lead to the inside from the patio. Maybe that was how Hunk was supposed to get in.

Just as he put his foot on the bottom step, he heard the banging again. It was coming from behind the building. Hunk squinted at the glass doors, trying to see if anyone was inside, but he couldn’t see much through the reflection.

He would just go have a quick look around the corner and see if there was anyone there, and if there wasn’t, he would go back and try the patio door.

He followed the gravel path behind the building and found something more exciting than a person, although there was a person there too.

“You guys are growing your own herbs?” Hunk exclaimed.

The man started and looked up at him, but he wasn’t nearly as startled as the calico cat who bolted from the patch of sun she had been laying in, disappearing into the tall grass.”

“Um…” the man looked in the direction the cat had gone, then up at Hunk, pushing a loose strand of dark hair out of his face with the back of his arm, “yes?”

“That’s awesome!” Hunk crouched down to get a better look at what was growing, “you can do some really amazing things with herbs in pastries.”

“I guess,” the man looked uncertain.

“And if you were going to branch into doing a lunch service, you could put arugula or basil in here. They’re great on paninis,” Hunk plucked a spring of rosemary, rolling it between his hands then smelling it.

“There’s basil,” the man motioned vaguely over his shoulder, “not a lot. I think rabbits or something were eating it. They stopped once Chai started hanging out here though. It seems to be filling back in.”

“Chai?” Hunk went to inspect the basil, “oh! Lemon basil!”

“The cat,” the man clarified, still watching Hunk a bit warily, “there’s thai basil too in the other bed.”

“How many cats are there here?” Hunk asked with his nose buried in the lemon basil.

“Just the three so far,” the man dropped his weeder in the bucket beside him, “you are really excited about the plants.”

“Well, yeah,” Hunk straightened, “having fresh ingredients to work with is always great. It makes the food way better, and using herbs in sweet dishes like pastries is just starting to get trendy. It could be a great draw if you do it right.”

The man stared at him for a moment longer, then his shoulders suddenly relaxed, as if he had finally placed him, “you’re here for the interview.”

“Oh yeah,” Hunk rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “I’m Hunk.”

He held his hand out, and the man stood, using his teeth to pull off a muddy garden glove so he could shake his hand. Hunk tried not to cringe, but really? With his teeth? That couldn’t taste good.

“I’m Keith,” he shook Hunk’s hand, “did Shiro not hear the door again?”

“I guess not,” Hunk wrinkled his nose, “I thought I knocked pretty hard.”

“He and Allura are probably upstairs,” Keith pulled his other glove off, again with his teeth, and tossed them both in his bucket, “come on, I’ll take you inside.”

“So are you guys planning on using the herbs on your menus?” Hunk asked as he followed Keith back to the patio.

“Maybe,” Keith shrugged, “I’m not sure Shiro’s figured that out yet. Right now I’m just trying to get this and the other garden cleaned up so they look nice.”

“You totally should,” Hunk grinned, “I’ve got a great recipe for rosemary walnut shortbread.”

“Rosemary in cookies?” Keith wrinkled his nose and paused to reach down to scratch the ears of the black cat, who was still sunning on the patio.

“Totally,” Hunk nodded enthusiastically, “it’s not just for chicken.”

“But it’s really good with chicken,” the grey cat pushed herself under Keith’s hand, demanding to be petted as well.

“You’re making me hungry,” Hunk sighed, “roasted with a lemon rosemary butter, some onions stuffed inside. I totally should have eaten before I came.”

“Well, it is lunch time,” Keith looked hungry at the thought of it, “cafés could serve roast chicken, couldn’t they?”

“Sure,” Hunk nodded, “if you’re going to do hot sandwiches with a lunch service, you could totally do fresh roast chicken for them. Actually, you could make a killer cold sandwich that way, too.”

Keith pushed open the patio door and poked his head in, but didn’t enter with his muddy boots.

“Shiro!” he yelled.

“What?” a man hurried through the door in the back of the open room looking worried.

He was a big guy, broad shouldered, taller than Hunk, with his dark hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. Not what Hunk had expected from someone wanting to open a café. There was a white streak in his hair that made him think of oreos, or tuxedo chocolate bark, rosemary might be good in that too…

He really should have eaten before his interview, but he had been too nervous.

“You didn’t answer the door, again,” Keith informed Shiro.

“Sorry about that,” Shiro gave an apologetic smile, “we were upstairs.”

Hunk took a breath to tell him it was alright, but Keith interrupted.

“Can we roast a chicken?” he asked.

“Um…” Shiro gave him a puzzled look, “I guess we can try.”

“No, you can’t,” a tall women with long, white curls came out of the same door Shiro had, “you’re still banned from using the oven. Keith can try, though.”

“It was just that one time,” Shiro protested.

“No it wasn’t,” Keith and the woman said together.

“Why do you want to roast a chicken all of the sudden anyway?” Shiro managed to only sound a little sullen.

“He made it sound really good,” Keith jerked a thumb in Hunk’s direction.

“You must be Hunk,” Shiro stretched out his hand, “I’m Shiro, and this is Allura.”

Hunk took his hand without hesitation, but he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask so bad. Hunk had been in the robotics club in high school and started off his college career in engineering, and Shiro’s robotic arm was hands down the coolest thing Hunk had ever seen. Gawking wasn’t really the first impression Hunk wanted to make though.

“It’s great to meet you,” Hunk smiled, “I really like the grounds, and it’s super exciting you guys are growing some of your own produce.”

“It’s a possibility,” Shiro nodded, “we’re not sure what to do with it, but we’d like to use it. There’s actually a small orchard on the grounds, too. We’re not sure yet what kind of trees, but probably something we can eat.”

“Really?” Hunk practically bounced on his toes at the thought of fresh fruit, “could I see it?”

Shiro opened his mouth, clearly about to agree, but Allura stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Maybe we should sit and talk for a bit first,” she gestured towards one of the tables on the patio, “Shiro, weren’t you about to brew a fresh pot of coffee?”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Shiro grinned sheepishly, “be back in a few minutes.”

“I’m going back to work,” Keith announced, jumping down the steps.

“Come back if you want coffee,” Allura called after him.

Keith waved his hand dismissively, and Hunk spotted the calico cat creeping out of the grass along the path. She fell in step at Keith’s heels and followed him around the corner of the building.

“Sorry about that,” Hunk joined Allura at the table, “it’s just really exciting that you have the potential to grow some of your own produce on site.”

“That’s alright,” Allura smiled at him warmly, “generating enthusiasm seems to be one of the strengths of this property.”

Hunk could see that, could see all the potential under the dust and overgrowth. There was something special here just waiting to be uncovered. It just needed some shining up.

“We just have to put the right resources in place to take advantage or that enthusiasm,” Allura sighed.

“Right,” Hunk suddenly remembered that he was there for an interview and pulled his resume out of his bag, “this is an amazing opportunity you have here.  People are really starting to seek out small, privately owned cafes instead of the larger chains for the quality and atmosphere.”

He slid the resume to Allura, although if she was helping Shiro, she had probably already seen it. He knew it wasn’t a very impressive resume, but he knew he could do a good job if someone would just give him a chance.

“This is such a great space for it too,” Hunk continued “you can create a place where people will want to bring their friends and stay. Plus, you have plenty of room to eventually expand into hosting parties and events.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Allura reached down to pick up the grey cat when she pawed at her leg, settling her in her lap, “we’ve tossed around some long term ideas, but we’ve mostly been focused on what we need to get the café open.”

“You probably could manage small parties right away,” Hunk mused.

“Who’s having a party?” Shiro asked, coming back with a french press and mugs on a tray.

“Hunk was suggesting we host small parties and events as an additional revenue source,” Allura summarized, batting the grey cat’s paws off the table when she tried to snatch one of the paper napkins off the tray.

“That’s a great idea,” Shiro took a seat and the black cat immediately trotted over to rub against his legs.

“Thanks,” Hunk’s cheeks heated up, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

Shiro opened his mouth to reply, but the timer on his watch went off, and he grinned instead.

“Coffee’s ready,” Shiro pushed down the plunger on the French press, then started pouring cups for everyone, “do you like cream or sugar?”

“Depends on the coffee,” Hunk accepted the cup and brought it to his nose to sniff, then took a sip, “this is really great. It doesn’t need anything.”

Shiro beamed at him, looking immensely pleased with himself, even as he added cream to his own cup.

Hunk took another sip, letting it sit in his mouth a moment before swallowing, “African?”

“Kenyan,” Shiro nodded, looking ridiculously pleased that Hunk had recognized it, “from this amazing co-op in the north.”

“Do you know how they’re processing it?” Hunk leaned forward eagerly.

“They’re wet processing right now, double soak, which is how everyone in the region does it, but they’ve been experimenting with this thing called honey processing, and it’s fantastic,” Shiro scooped the black cat into his lap, “I don’t have any of the sample left, but I told them if they decided to start doing batches that way, I would buy them.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that,” Hunk took another sip of his coffee, “it’s supposed to have a great sweetness and balanced acidity.”

“It was pretty impressive,” Shiro scratched the cat’s cheeks, “Keith drank most of it, and only put about half the sugar he usually does in it. He…”

“Maybe we should continue with the interview,” Allura prompted gently, clearly amused by both of them.

“Oh, right,” Hunk felt another twinge of nervousness, “actually, your ad said you wanted someone who can bake, so I brought some samples.”

“What a lovely treat,” Allura gave him an encouraging smile.

Hunk smiled back tentatively as he pulled out the containers. The grey cat reached out to paw curiously at them, and Allura cuddled her against her chest with an eye roll.

“I think…” Hunk took another sip of his coffee, then opened up one of the containers, “this one will be good with the Kenyan. I tried to bring a variety so we could pair them with different coffees. This is a raspberry mascarpone puff pastry.”

“That looks amazing,” Shiro handed out napkins to use as plates, “thank you for bringing it.”

Hunk watched their reaction carefully as they took their first bite. Allura closed her eyes in obvious bliss, and Shiro chewed the first bite slowly, then hurriedly took a second.

“Hunk, this is amazing,” Allura sighed contently before taking another bite.

“Try it with the coffee,” Hunk urged.

They both took an obedient sip from their cups. Allura’s face melted back into a blissful expression and Shiro’s eyes went wide.

“Wow,” he breathed, then pushed back from the table, setting the black cat on the floor, “Keith has to try this.”

Shiro practically jumped the patio steps in his excitement, yelling Keith’s name. The black cat sauntered to a patch of sunlight and flopped down, then began grooming her paws.

“You said you brought some other things,” Allura eyed the other containers on the table.

“Yeah,” Hunk opened the lids, “they won’t pair quite as well as the raspberry puff pastry, but they’ll still be good.”

“I’m sure they will be,” Allura leaned towards the containers, then sat back, wrapping her arms around the grey cat with the same focus a young child used when sitting on their hands to stop themselves from touching, “I supposed we should wait for Shiro and Keith to get back first.”

“Oh yeah, the chicken recipe for Keith,” Hunk pulled his resume back to his side of the table and flipped it over, fishing a pen out of his pocket and starting to write.

“I saw on your resume that you have some restaurant experience in addition to your degree,” Allura went back to nibbling on her puff pastry, obviously trying to make it last.

“I’ve worked as a line chef at two really great restaurants,” Hunk paused in trying to decide if Keith was the sort of person who could manage a compound butter, “I’ve also had training through my school in how to manage a kitchen.”

“That puts you well ahead of us,” Allura smiled, “we’re learning as we go really.”

“Shiro really just… bought a restaurant?” Hunk decided Keith probably wasn’t a compound butter kind of guy and kept writing.

“It’s strange for him to be so impulsive,” Allura set the grey cat down when she tried again to paw at her pastries, “but he’s been so happy since he bought it.”

Hunk watched the grey cat saunter over to the black one, flopping down beside her in the sunlight and submitting contently to having her ears groomed. Out in the yard the overgrown grass rustled pleasantly in the afternoon breeze and everything smelt warm and hazy.

“Yeah,” Hunk nodded, “I could see that.”

“…kind of in the middle of something,” Keith complained as he rounded the corner with Shiro, “plus, I’m filthy.”

“Just wash your hands off at the facet,” Shiro waved away his objections, “it’s totally worth it, and it’s about time you took a break anyway.”

Chai raced up the steps ahead of them, jumping up to sit on the railing and primly licking her paws. Shiro paused to scratch her ears while Keith used a facet attached to the building to rinse his hands clean.

“Hunk brought two more kinds of pastries,” Allura told them eagerly.

“You came prepared,” Shiro grinned as he took his seat.

“Yeah,” Keith took the seat next to Shiro, “no one else they’ve interviewed has fed us.”

“I just wanted to make sure I’d have something that would pair well with whatever type of coffee you were serving,” Hunk felt his cheeks heat up, but he couldn’t help but be pleased with himself, “is anyone allergic to anything?”

They gave him a negative response, Keith’s somewhat more muffled by the puff pastry he was already devouring eagerly.

“So these are vanilla cardamom scones,” Hunk pulled the lids off, “and this is dark chocolate hazelnut biscotti.”

As they ate the pastries and poured more coffee and chatted about coffee pairing and menus and plants to fill the garden with, the afternoon began to feel less and less like an interview and more like a coffee date with friends. After they finished the coffee and pastries, Shiro pulled him inside to show him the restaurant and kitchen, and they scribbled ideas for layouts and color schemes on scraps of paper. They talked about kitchen equipment, and what they needed to start out, and how to make sure there would be room for growth.

Hunk didn’t think he had ever wanted anything as badly as he wanted to work there.

Keith had kicked off his muddy boots and followed them inside in his stocking feet. While they had been talking about potential designs for the café, he had been happy to chime in with different color combinations and materials, but as soon as they started talking about brands of walk-in fridge and the merits of convection ovens over standard ovens, he got bored.

“Shiro,” he finally interrupted an in depth conversation about whether it made sense to install a professional griddle right away or wait to see how the menu developed, “we were going to show Hunk the orchard, right?”

Allura gave a soft huff of laughter at the interruption. She hadn’t seemed very interested in the kitchen ware either, but she had been willing to let it go on as long as Shiro was interested.

“Right,” Shiro pushed back from the counter he and Hunk had been leaning over as they jotted down notes, “do you want to see it?”

“I’d love to,” Hunk grinned widely, excited about the prospect of fresh fruit, or maybe even nuts, to work with.

Keith lead them outside, pausing to shove his feet back in his boots. Hunk was surprised by how late it had gotten. The sun had turned golden and late afternoon shadows were stretching across the yard. His parents were probably wondering where he was and why he hadn’t called them yet to tell them how the interview had gone.

The path to the orchard was overgrown, although it was obvious someone had pushed their way through it more than once recently. There was blackberry bramble growing along the edges, and while they all managed to get snagged on it at least once, all Hunk could think of was cobblers, ice creams, and tarts made with fresh berries.

The path ended at a stand of trees, all in neat rows. Between them, the grass had grown tall, and there were saplings starting to sprout, but there were about a dozen fully grown trees, just starting to show the first sign of fruiting.

“I haven’t done much work here yet,” Keith admitted, walking up to one of the trees and squinting up at them, “the front yard is more important right now, but I really should figure out what kind of trees they are.”

Chai darted out of the grass, pursued by the grey cat. They raced up the tree Keith was standing under, leaping from limp to limp. Chai managed to get the high ground, and the grey cat sat herself primly on a branch and began grooming her paws, as if that was what she had intended all along. Keith rolled his eyes at them.

“Do they just follow you everywhere?” Hunk laughed.

“Pretty much,” Shiro reached down to pick up the black cat, who was winding between his legs, “I think this is really their place, and they’re just letting us stay.”

“You sound like my aunt,” Hunk teased, as he stepped up next to Keith, “she had four cats of her own, and she’s always fostering new ones. She say the house it the cats’ and she just live there.”

Allura laughed, “Shiro certainly seems to be working towards that at this point.”

“I think,” Hunk squinted up at the tiny green fruits, “those might be apricots. My uncle has a tree in his backyard, and they look like it.”

“I love apricots,” Allura smiled wistfully, “even if you can’t use them in the café, it will be nice to have them to snack on.”

“You should definitely use them,” Hunk turned back towards her, “just imagine homemade apricot jam on scones, almond apricot bars, apricot basil glazes for chicken or turkey. You could do so much with them. The blackberries, too. I know they’re a pain, but…”

Something hit his leg, and Hunk yelped and jumped away. Shiro dropped the black cat, taking a quick step towards him, and Keith leaned to the side to see around him, trying to see what had scared him.

There was a huge orange tabby sitting in the tall grass at Hunk’s feet. The cat stared up at him with gold green eyes, completely unbothered by his yell, then got up and rubbed against his leg.

“Is this one yours, too?” Hunk put a hand to his chest, trying to get his heart to stop pounding.

“No,” Shiro crouched down to get a better look at the cat.

“Well, not yet,” Keith said dryly.

Allura snickered.

“He seems really friendly,” Shiro pointedly ignored them.

The tabby continued to weave between Hunk’s legs, and when he made no move to reach down and pet him, he stretched up on his hind legs, patting at Hunk’s leg with soft paws. He was so big he could almost reach Hunk’s waist.

“He’s a bit scruffy looking to have an owner,” Allura eyed the grey cat warily as she jumped down from the tree.

“He’s a handsome boy, though,” Shiro cooed happily at the tabby.

Hunk reached down a bit tentatively to scratch the cat’s ears, and he pushed up into his hand with a purr. His long fur was matted in a few places and a bit muddy, but Shiro was right; he was a handsome looking cat. He also looked like he could take down a small bear if he really wanted to, but Hunk didn’t want to think about that while the tabby was contently rubbing against his hand.

The grey cat sauntered up to the tabby, and Hunk tensed, expecting them to hiss at each other, but instead, the tabby dropped down and the two greeted each other with a tail sniff, then rubbed their heads against each other.

“I suppose we’ll have to go shopping for another collar, now,” Allura teased.

“And make another trip to the vets,” Keith grinned at Shiro, “although, he might not fit in the carrier we used for the other cats.”

“At this rate, you’re going to have a cat sanctuary to go with your café,” Hunk went back to scratching the tabby’s ears when he came back to him.

“It can be both,” Shiro stood up, looking quite pleased despite the teasing, “we have room for that.”

The tabby followed them back to the porch, and lounged happily in the last of the sunlight with the grey and black cats, although Chai continued to insist on perching on the railing instead of coming down to join them.

It was all Hunk could do not to ask if he had the job as he got ready to leave. He almost asked if he could come back tomorrow even if he didn’t, because he wanted to keep working on the kitchen design with Shiro, and talk more about herbs and fruit with Keith, and bring more pastries for all of them to share.

He managed to leave them with a professional handshake and a roast chicken recipe scribbled on the back of his resume.

Hunk really hoped he got the job, but even if he didn’t, this was the best interview he had ever had.

Keith waited until Hunk was through the gate before turning to Shiro, “so, you’re going to hire him, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Shiro said without hesitation.

“You’re not even going to check his references?” Allura gave him an amused look.

“We ate his references,” Shiro waved a hand dismissively.

“That is true,” Allura agreed, “I’ll call anyway, just to do due diligence.”

“Thank you,” Shiro smiled contently, reaching down to give the tabby a scratch when he rubbed against his legs.

Hunk knew he should be reading up on the restaurant his next interview was at. It seemed like a pretty good place, but he really just wanted Shiro to call him. He knew that was unrealistic. It had barely been a day, and Shiro probably had other interviews lined up, plus they would need to check all his references and possibly do a background check.

He understood that a lot went into hiring a head chef, even for a little start up café, so he knew he wasn’t going to get a call back today.

That didn’t stop him from being hopeful when his cell phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize.

“This is Hunk,” he answered.

Hunk spotted his father leaning out of the kitchen, watching him curiously. Hunk had gushed about the place all through dinner the night before, and even though he had told his parents Shiro probably wouldn’t call him for a couple days, they both thought that the interview had gone well enough that he might get called back sooner.

“Hi Shiro,” Hunk’s voice rose in excitement.

His father gave him two thumbs up, grinning widely, and his mother’s head popped through the living room door.

“Yeah,” Hunk tapped his foot, “yeah, I know, but…”

His mother slipped into the chair across from him on the kitchen table, leaning forward eagerly.

“Of course,” Hunk grinned widely, “I can come by tomorrow. That’s no problem.”

His father took the seat next to him, waiting patiently for him to finish talking to Shiro. As soon as he hung up, both his parents leaned towards him.

“Well?” his mother asked.

“I got the job!” Hunk cheered.

“I told you they liked you,” his father practically pulled him out of his chair with his hug.

“He says I can come by tomorrow to sign the paperwork,” Hunk beamed.

“Don’t be afraid to ask to bring your contract home before you sign it,” his mother said practically, “I’ll help you look over it if you want.”

“Yes, mama,” Hunk nodded.

“And call your granny,” she said with a smile, “she’ll be so excited.”

“I will,” Hunk said, “and I have to call Lance!”

His father went back to cooking dinner, and his mother went to call his sisters and tell them the good news.

For a few minutes, Hunk just stared at his phone, letting the idea that he was head chef sink in. He got to go back to the café tomorrow, and start laying out his kitchen, and work on a menu, and talk with Keith and Shiro about what to plant in the garden. He got to go back.

Hunk picked up his phone and hit the speed dial.

“Lance! I got the job!”    

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Endure

A mother/son piece that begins the day Sihtric’s mother is captured, and ends the day Sihtric swears his oath to Uhtred. Follows the book’s timeline, where Sihtric is about fourteen when he swears to Uhtred, and where he wasn’t born in Dunholm because Kjartan had only held it for a few years at that point. Her name, the manner of her death and the reason for it, and the place where she grew up are all from the books. Everything else about her, I created. She grabbed hold of me and just wouldn’t let go.

TW: slavery, rape, kidnapping, abuse, major character death. This is not a happy story.

AO3 here

Elflaed is fourteen years old and ripe for marriage when the Danes come and pluck her instead, throwing her—soot-stained and screaming—belly down across the back of a horse. A dirty rag in her mouth muffles her cries, and the horse’s withers against her belly with every jolting step is a constant, bruising ache. She does not know if her parents survived the slaughter and she cries enough silent tears that she thinks she will not piss for days.

They take her to a stronghold in the wild wooded hills, and although she’s never seen a Danish hall she knows what horrors await her there. She’s presented to a man with long fair hair and a tangle of bushy blond beard. He speaks, and his language is close enough to hers that she understands most of it. Kjartan has done well and she is to be his reward. The fair-haired man shoves her toward a man with long dark hair and a cruel, leering mouth. His fingers are bands of iron around her thin, bound wrists, and he drags her toward a waiting horse. He hoists her onto the broad back and climbs up behind her.

His house in the nexdt valley, smaller than the hall but larger than her father’s house. A blond boy with a broad, flat face like a toad greets the man. He possesses the same twist of cruelty to his thin lips. The man pushes her toward a skinny back at the hearth, stooped, turning bannocks so the edges don’t blacken. The familiar smell makes Elflaed’s mouth water around her gag. The woman turns a deeply-lined face to her, clucking in sympathy, and cuts the cords digging into her wrists with a small knife from her belt. Elflaed cries when she pulls the filthy cloth from her mouth, but even the steaming bannock and fresh ale can’t chase the sourness from her mouth.

That night is the first that hard hands tangle in her hair and drag her, cringing, to a bed covered in musty, stinking furs. She doesn’t know how to quiet her squeals until a fist like a stone fills her mouth with blood, and he only laughs when she spits out two teeth. She’s finally quiet as he grunts atop her like a fat, rutting boar. She rubs her face into the furs before he can notice the tears glistening like silver on her cheeks. He shoves her from the bed and his seed leaves slug-trails on her blood-smeared thighs as she stumbles to a ragged blanket in the corner. She lies down near the other woman, whose name is Rhona, and this is the first time she dreams of Kjartan’s death.

Elflaed vomits when she realizes Kjartan’s seed has taken root in her. She stumbles to the shadows of the trees and vomits again, finds the bitter black berries that can end this all, and tucks them into the kerchief that covers her dark hair. When Rhona and Sven are sleeping and Kjartan has chased her from the stifling furs, she rolls the berries around her palm before popping them into her mouth. A quiet voice cries out in her bones, echoing within her like the creaking of old joints: endure. She spits the berries into the embers of the banked fire and watches them sizzle as their firm skins burst. They spill their poison harmlessly into the ash, and Elflaed sleeps.

The mercy of her growing belly is that Kjartan stops forcing her to his bed, but his son stares at her with open hostility in his wide-set eyes and she knows he’s thinking of beating her until the child leaves her body in a spill of blood. His name is Sven and she shies from his malevolent gaze, and this pleases him enough that he does not trouble her.

Elflaed cries the first time the child moves in her because he is as familiar as her own self and in that kick she hears the voice that ordered her to endure. The child kicks again like the hand of God in her, and for the first time since the Danes took her, she prays. She carries the child like a plea and a promise both: endure. And somehow, for him, she does.

Kjartan’s snarling face is inches from hers and his spittle splatters against her skin as he growls at her to shut her useless mouth. Elflaed bites back another scream as Rhona half-carries, half-drags her to the shed behind the house where the ewes birth their lambs in early spring. It is midwinter and the shed is freezing but Rhona steals a few small logs from the woodpile and makes a fire on the dirt floor. Elflaed crouches in the straw and listens to the pattering of her blood, smells the iron tang of it, and tries only to endure the rhythmic tightening of her belly and back. Rhona leaves, only to return a few minutes later with a large kettle full of sloshing water, a bundle of clean rags, and a few thick blankets. It is hours later, hours of crouching in the straw smelling her own blood, hours of Rhona’s prayers and hours of enduring before she pushes the child from her body.

There is no malice in his mouth as he suckles her, only a sweet hungering for life. His eyes are bleary and tired as he squints up at her, and her own laugh surprises her. He does not cry, only burrows against her skin beneath the thick blankets Rhona has bundled them in, and drops off to sleep on her chest. Elflaed explores his damp dark hair and small, pale limbs. She marvels at the sweetness of his cry when he awakes. Elflaed is fifteen years old and yet feels as though this is the first moment she’s come alive.

She calls him Sihtric.

When Elflaed enters the house the next morning, Kjartan only holds out his cup for her to fill. Her hands are shaking and some of the ale sloshes onto his sleeve. His hand is flying and she curls around the baby huddled on her chest. Kjartan’s palm strikes her forehead hard enough to send her reeling. Sihtric cries and Kjartan towers over her, dark eyes narrow and unreadable as they scour the boy’s red face and wailing mouth. He grunts in some vague approval or at least acceptance before muttering at her to shut the boy up. She sighs in relief, still shaking, and offers her son the breast. He quiets. By afternoon the shaking has worsened, her teeth chattering even as Rhona drapes another quilt about her bony shoulders. She brings Elflaed tea sweet with honey and broth thick with floating herbs but still she shakes. Although Sihtric cries, Rhona won’t let her hold him. She gives him a cloth soaked in milk and water to quiet him. Elflaed shakes and Sihtric cries and Rhona prays and finally Kjartan looks over to their corner. “Tomorrow morning we throw her to the beasts. Keep the fever from spreading.” He glances toward the door as if he’s considering doing it now, but he fears the creatures that walk the night.

Rhona washes her with hot water, then waits for it to cool and washes her again. She traces a cross on Elflaed’s burning forehead, then the hammer of Thor on the loose skin of her belly, and she prays to any god who will listen. The shaking has stilled by sunrise, and by midmorning Kjartan sends her to gather firewood in the swirling snow. He makes her take Sihtric, and she sees the savage triumph in Sven’s eyes. But Elflaed’s son does not sicken. He endures, like his mother, and he grows.

They are in the woods one fall day, Elflaed gathering acorns and chestnuts to dry for winter and Sihtric swinging a stick like it’s a sword. Elflaed knows he’s a slave and he’ll never wield one but she cannot tell him that, cannot extinguish the light in his clear eyes because he’s a good boy. Elflaed is nineteen now and her son is only four but he’s kind and has a smile that warms her like the sun on her face.

Elflaed pulls Sihtric against her chest and melts into the shadows when the horsemen thunder up to the house. The leader’s long fair hair streams behind him and he’s bellowing like a bull for Kjartan. There’s a tall fair-haired boy on the horse before him and she thinks he must be the man’s son, and she strokes Sihtric’s fine black hair and doesn’t allow him to watch as Kjartan appears. They’re too far away to hear but even from their hiding spot Elflaed knows the horseman is furious. Kjartan turns and opens the door and Sven emerges from the gloom. She doesn’t flinch when the huge swordsman slams the hilt of his sword into Sven’s face. She only remembers the horrible weight of his mean eyes on Sihtric, the way her son never wavers beneath Sven’s harsh slaps, and she smiles as he falls to the grass. She waits until the horsemen leave and Kjartan retreats into the house, carrying Sven like he’s a child smaller than Sihtric. She kisses her son’s temple, sets him on his feet, and follows as he scampers toward the house.

Sven is moaning and Kjartan is cursing at his side. Rhona hurries to Elflaed and whispers that they must pack quickly; Jarl Ragnar has dismissed Kjartan from his service and they’re to be gone by nightfall. Sihtric ties his clothes into a bundle, shoves his sword-that’s-really-a-stick into his belt, and scrambles to help his mother and Rhona pack as much as they can carry.

They leave as the sun sets, Kjartan and Sven on horseback, Elflaed, Shitric, and Rhona trailing behind, burdened like mules. Sihtric stumbles under his load and Elflaed adds it to her own. He protests but she never returns it to him, even when she feels her back must break beneath it. Sven is ever whimpering on his horse’s back but Sihtric does not cry even when his bare feet blister and blood marks his small footsteps along the dusty track. Elflaed washes his feet every night. He tries not to wince.

Elflaed could almost cry from relief when Eoferwic looms into view, a dark, low smudge against the horizon. Sihtric is thin and pale and his once-tender feet still weep blood as they finally enter the city’s walls. By morning he’s vomiting. Elflaed doesn’t want to leave him but Kjartan has sold her to another Dane for the night. His grip is like iron as he drags her, but he doesn’t dare hit her. “Men might pay less for a bruised whore,” he sneers.

The man grunts and snorts atop her that night, bad as Kjartan, but he presses some silver into her palm as she leaves and tells her it’s for her master. Elflaed ducks into an apothecary on the way to the small house Kjartan purchased with the last of his silver. A half-piece of the money she earned buys a sachet of powdered herbs that she dissolves in water and helps her son drink. When Kjartan counts the silver she gives him, he flies from the house in a rage. He beats her brutally when he returns because he’s discovered her theft. He’s all growling mouth full of yellowed teeth and a flurry of fists, and although she bears the bruises for weeks she doesn’t feel the sting of them when Sihtric smiles at her. He’s thin and pale but his feet don’t bleed and the vomiting passes. He regains his strength and good cheer, although he weeps in her arms when Sven snaps his stick-sword in half and spits that he is a slave and will never be a warrior.  But the next day he smiles again, and Elflaed and her son endure, and he grows.

Kjartan works the garrison at Eoferwic and Rhona minds the small ramshackle house that barely keeps the spitting rains out. Elflaed is twenty years old and Sven walks her around the city, selling her body to any man who wants it. The fever she took after Sihtric’s birth keeps her from conceiving another child, and Sihtric is five and he runs errands for the Danes of the garrison. Every day there’s new bruises on his fair skin but he only grits his teeth when his mother asks how he came by them. She sees before long. Kjartan’s fists are heavy as stones, even to the son he whelped on her. Elflaed is screeching, begging him to stop, Sihtric is just a child and before she can blink those hard fists are turning to her instead. Kjartan roars that she’s the one who’s taught Sihtric his defiance. Sihtric howls like a storm, his small fists beating uselessly against Kjartan’s thick legs. One blow with the flat of his sword against Sihtric’s temple and Elflaed is screaming as her son crumples. She scrabbles to him in a blind panic through the dirty rushes that cover the floor and finds him dazed, and after a few moments he’s retching and she’s so relieved she’s crying.

In the still night, Elflaed sits with Sihtric, rocking him in her lap like she did when he was a babe at the breast, and rouses him when he slips into sleep. She listens to Kjartan’s snores and imagines the way his breath will shudder to a stop when she kills him.

When Kjartan worms his way into the Saxon puppet-king’s favor, Sven goes to work with his father in the king’s household guard and stops peddling Elflaed throughout the city. She cares for the weapons and mail, rubbing them with sand Sihtric fetches from the river’s bank, and lets her son heft the swords when no one else can see. He’s growing tall although he’s still thin, but finally there’s enough to eat and slowly the sharpness of his cheekbones softens as the hollows beneath them fill. He’s not as big as most boys of his age but he’s fast now, dodges Kjartan’s heavy blows swift as a bird on the wing. Kjartan prospers, and Eflaed and her son endure, and there is finally enough to eat, and Sihtric grows.

Elflaed is twenty-five and her son tells her there’s no lady in Eoferwic half as lovely as her, and Sihtric is ten and tall when Kjartan’s silver tongue wins him the fortress of Dunholm. He has enough wealth now to pay men to follow him there, and he’s in such good spirits he buys Sihtric a pair of sturdy leather boots for the journey. Rather than Elflaed and Rhona carrying Kjartan’s possessions on their backs, they lead packhorses. Sihtric is fond of the big, gentle creatures, and each night he rubs them with fistfuls of straw until their sleek hides gleam. Dunholm is a dark, formidable place but Elflaed’s heart soars in her chest as they approach it because she knows this place. To her left she can see the small houses and the smoke of cooking fires, the silver ribbon of river familiar as the back of her own hand even after ten years. The path is narrow, they lead the horses in single file up the steep slope and thus pass through the gates. While everyone is milling about in confusion in the courtyard, she hisses into Sihtric’s ear, jerking her head toward the nearby village. “Hocchale,” she tells him, “where I was born.”

Kjartan orders a feast to be given that night, and Elflaed, Rhona, and three new servants rush to prepare it. Kjartan falls deep into his cups and finally calls Sihtric to him. Elflaed’s belly clenches in some terrible fear and there’s arms around her like iron bands as the blows land and Sihtric does not cry out but his mother screams curses like a fury. She promises Kjartan death and curses him to his half-rotten corpse-goddess and men laugh and jeer at her as Kjartan only hits her son harder. He grunts at the boy to whimper, to give in, and promises that will stop the beating. Elflaed suddenly understands he despises the raw courage in her son when Sven has shown nothing but a spine made of jelly. Kjartan tires of the beating long before the bloodied boy breaks.

Sihtric is wincing although her hands are gentle as doves and a man clears his throat behind her. He says his name is Tekil and tomorrow he’s going to offer to buy Sihtric. He promises never to beat him and he offers Elflaed a piece of silver to lie with her. She promises to lie with him whenever he asks if he keeps his word. Kjartan demands an outrageous sum for his bastard whelp and Tekil pays him every silver piece without protesting. Elflaed feels something foreign when Tekil seeks her company that night, and after he’s done with her she recognizes it: gratitude.

Sihtric’s savage purple bruises are fading to sickly yellow and nearly every day he’s beyond the walls of Dunholm, driving cattle. One night she whispers to him how to get to Hocchale and where her parents lived. She still doesn’t know if they survived the raid. It’s nearly a full cycle of the moon later when Sihtric slips her a piece of bread encrusted with dried fruits and she cries. He holds her tight and whispers quickly into her ear that her parents still live where they did, that her mother wept when Sihtric walked in looking so like the daughter she’d thought dead. He fears being caught and so he doesn’t go back often, but every time he does, he brings her the same bread. Her mother remembers even now how much she loved it as a child.

It’s so early the sun hasn’t cleared the mist from the river when Elflaed steps outside to gather wood for the cooking fires. Voices carry through the stillness and she halts beside the woodpile, melting into the shadows so she doesn’t disturb what’s happening. Sometimes Kjartan’s men take the slave girls back here; she’ll wait until he’s done and go help the girl. She recognizes the voice of one of the younger girls and her heart breaks at the wobble of tears in her voice. She remembers being so young and scared. The answering voice is gentle, soothing, and familiar as her own self.

She peers around the woodpile. The girl’s back is leaning against the woodpile, and though she can’t see her face, Elflaed knows she’s crying from the shaking of her shoulders. Sihtric squats before her, holding a small bowl of water and a rag that comes back red after he strokes it gently down the girl’s thighs. Elflaed steps from her hiding spot and Sihtric shoots her a smile that she’s sure is for the girl’s benefit, but she sees the distress in her son’s eyes. She crouches beside her son and inspects the girl. Sihtric has cleaned away most of the blood, but her simple wool dress is torn and her hair is falling from its plait. Her dirty face is tear-streaked but the tears have stopped pooling in her blue eyes. Sihtric empties the bowl of pink water and Elflaed hurriedly braids the girl’s hair and wipes the tears from her face. Sihtric heads toward the cattle byre to start his day, glancing back over his shoulder with a warm smile as the girl calls out a timid thanks.

The girl’s name is Hilde and she tells Eflaed how Sihtric found her where one of Kjartan’s men had left her once he was through with her, how he told her not to be afraid and that he would not harm her. That evening, Hilde approaches Elflaed with a small loaf of still-steaming bread and asks her to give it to Sihtric. Usually the bread the slaves get is days old and hardened. Sihtric’s face lights up in a grin when Elflaed tells him it’s from Hilde, and he splits it in two and holds half out to his mother. It’s the best bread she’s eaten in years.

Tekil seeks Elflaed’s company often and afterward he does not rush her from his bed. He doesn’t care that she’s the mother of a bastard or that Sven whored her in Eoferwic; he’s tender with her. Sihtric is growing taller and Tekil is gentle with them both. Elflaed is twenty-six and has endured for a dozen years; Sihtric is eleven and has endured his entire life and grown strong despite his hard lot. He’s a good boy, kind and calm and gentle, brave as any warrior, but sometimes Elflaed still sees the ghosts of purple bruises on his skin or the raw, determined courage of enduring behind his still-bright eyes. She decides her son has endured enough.

Gathering herbs outside the wall one day, the cattle Sihtric is tending a mere stone’s throw away, Elflaed finds the black berries. Her son sees her picking fruit and wanders over to steal some but she slaps his hand away. He blinks at her in shock, she’s never struck him before and his eyes are wounded. “Poison,” she explains, “for Kjartan.” The shock fades from Sihtric’s eyes and Elflaed is smiling as she tucks the berries into the kerchief that covers her dark hair. Elflaed kisses her son’s cheek and love is shining in her eyes like the sun as she promises, “Soon, Sihtric, you’ll endure no more by Kjartan’s hand.” She takes the handful of berries and squeezes their juice in Kjartan’s ale that evening.

Kjartan emerges from his bedchamber the next morning pale and shaking, and Sven finds Elflaed in the kitchen with some other slaves. He’s already dragging a silent, glaring Sihtric by his ear. Her son’s eyes are sharp as daggers on Sven as he grabs his mother by the hair and drags the pair of slaves to his father. Kjartan is screaming, “this useless bitch has poisoned him after all I’ve done for her, after I’ve given her a fine son and sheltered her and fed her ungrateful mouth. She dies!” He bellows. “This useless whore and her son die now!” Elflaed starts to deny it but Sven silences her with a harsh jerk on her hair. Kjartan remembers she screamed death at him when he beat her son and he is a cruel, fearful man. He takes Elflaed and Sihtric from Sven and drags them from his hall. The building nearby is where he keeps his hounds, the savage and half-starved pack that guards his hoard, and that’s where he’s taking them.

Savage Kjartan is, cruel and fearful, but he is not creative. Everyone knows the fate that is to come. His dogs are half-wild and obey no one but his huntsmen and Sven’s mad whore, and Kjartan fears her for that. It was the only time his dogs failed him, when the mad bitch sang to them and they lay down and howled Thyra’s grief to the roof of their dirty hall. Since then he keeps them half-starved so they’ll tear into any intruder’s flesh before they have a chance to find their voice.

Tekil breaks from the crowd. He reminds Kjartan that Sihtric belongs to him now and insists that the boy is innocent of any plot to kill his own father. Elflaed doesn’t add her own pleas. She knows she can help Sihtric the most by biting her tongue. She clutches Sihtric’s hand and he clenches back, so hard she can feel the bones in her hand grinding together. It’s the only time she’s ever seen abject terror in his eyes, and she tries to tell him without words that he’s the only reason she’s endured for so long. She doesn’t take her eyes from her son. She can hear the snarling and barking of the vicious hounds within the nearby hall but for Elflaed, in this moment before Kjartan opens the door, there is only Sihtric.

Elflaed’s screams echo across Dunholm and the hounds growl and bay their death-song and Sihtric screams and screams. Rhona and Hilde are holding him upright, and Kjartan sneers at them to take him from his sight before he shoves him in the hall with his whore mother. Tekil pries Sihtric from the women’s arms and carries him away from the hall, away from the snarling and the weakening shrieks. Elflaed is twenty-six and she has endured for a dozen years until she could endure no more. Sihtric is eleven and for the first time he feels broken and Tekil cared for Sihtric’s ever-enduring mother and so they drink until they vomit and then they drink some more. Sihtric is eleven and has endured his whole life and his mother is dead, but he will grow, and he will endure. And somehow, for her, he does.

Sihtric does not know it but he is fourteen when Kjartan learns an old enemy is nearby. He sends Tekil and six other warriors to capture the man called Uhtred Ragnarsson, and of course Tekil takes Sihtric. They ride for two days and Sihtric is ashamed in this company of warriors because he alone carries no weapons and wears no arm-rings. He scrubs Tekil’s sword with sand when they stop to make camp and he remembers when his mother did the same, when she let him hold swords when no one else was around. He can think of her now without pain, his mother who loved him like the constancy of the sun rising and who taught him to endure.

They reach the army of King Guthred. Even Sihtric, who’s no warrior, knows this pathetic rabble of men and priests, headed by a corpse in a wooden coffin, should not be called an army. He does not understand the Christian religion although his mother spoke often of Christ. Sihtric accepts him as just another of the many gods who exist, and his mother first despaired and later said she did not think Christ would mind. Sihtric doesn’t much care what Christ minds or doesn’t mind, anyway.

Sihtric sees Uhtred, the man they are to capture, and thinks their mission is doomed to failure. He’s fair-haired and tall, arms thick with rings and mail gleaming in the sun; a lord of death in shining war-glory. Sihtric thinks this is what a lord should be, not Kjartan cringing behind his walls and sending other men to face his enemies, but a man who leads warriors. He doesn’t know his mother saw Uhtred once from the woods on a fall day long ago, but he knows he doesn’t want Uhtred to reach Kjartan. He is sick of hearing people screaming under the jaws of half-starved hounds.

The day after they arrive, Uhtred and the king go to the stream, unaccompanied by anyone else. Tekil orders them to attack now and it’s six against two but the king is no warrior. Sihtric is disappointed by how easily Uhtred is defeated, but he sees the defiance in his eyes and hopes there’s some trick forthcoming. Tekil calls for the manacles and Sihtric is fumbling them out of the sack he carries when there’s a scream of pure animal rage. The household guard is attacking, and although they’re inexperienced and half-trained, Tekil’s small band is surprised and outnumbered and three of them die before Uhtred bellows that he wants them alive. Sihtric is still holding the shackles when Uhtred storms over and rips them from his slack hands. He delivers a ringing blow to Sihtric’s head but Elflaed’s son doesn’t flinch. He has endured far worse than this. Uhtred looks at him, angry and expectant, and hits him again. Sihtric feels the skin split at his temple but he only looks up at Uhtred with defiant eyes. His blood drips to the ground as Uhtred turns away.

They’re bound and guarded and Uhtred takes Tekil into a tent that night and talks to him. The night falls cold and passes slow, and Sihtric has never been outside in the dark and he fears the sceadugengan from his mother’s old tales. They don’t come to steal him away in the darkness and he finds a strange, uneasy peace in the silence of dancing shadows.

When morning comes, men in gray robes and heavy wooden crosses are clamoring for Sihtric, Tekil, and the others to die. Sihtric has seen many priests at Dunholm, for Kjartan welcomes them only to send them to the same fate as Elflaed. He’s confused because his mother always told him priests are men of mercy and the Christ-god but these men want him to hang. That doesn’t seem like mercy to him but Sihtric is the son of Kjartan the Cruel and so maybe he misunderstands what mercy is. The king proclaims that they will die their way, by the sword, and offers to fight them. Uhtred steps up with a shake of his head and says he will fight all four of them. Swords and shields are brought and a square is marked by hazel branches stripped of leaves.

Tekil steps into the square and he’s a good fighter, but Uhtred kills him quickly anyway. He’s like a god, his blows so swift they’re mere flashes of silver in the sunlight. The other two die even faster than Tekil and Uhtred is barely sweating. Sihtric can see the bloody trails in the grass where the other bodies were dragged away, and the sword and shield are handed to him.

He is fourteen although he doesn’t know it, and he has endured for fourteen years but he doesn’t want to die. He hasn’t touched a sword since he was a a child in Eoferwic but his old childhood dream will come true and he’ll die with one in his hand. Although he is fourteen and strong the shield is a clumsy, unfamiliar burden and he doesn’t know how to hold the sword properly. He’s surprised he’s crying, because what reason does he have to want to live? He should fear enduring more than dying and yet enduring is all he knows. He’s even more surprised that his legs refuse to hold him once he enters the branches. The priests are screaming that he must die but Uhtred is only watching him with a sword-Dane’s eyes and Sihtric hates to disappoint him.

Sihtric accepts his death, the end to his lifetime of enduring, and that allows him to control his breathing. He stills his tears and although his legs are still shaking his will is iron and he commands them to hold him. They do. He hefts the ungainly shield, sniffs one last time, and meets Uhtred’s eyes with all the dignity he can muster. Uhtred gestures at the sword in his hand and Sihtric obediently raises it above the shield like he’s seen warriors do. He wonders if the Valkyrie’s hands will be soft or callused. A breath, then two, and Uhtred asks his mother’s name. Sihtric is so surprised his response is a quiet stammer, and Uhtred repeats the question. “Eflaed,” he tells Uhtred. Uhtred corrects him but there’s nothing unkind in his voice, and Sihtric rephrases his answer. “She was called Elflaed, lord.” He asks if she was a Saxon and Sihtric says yes and remembers to call him lord.

When Uhtred asks if she tried to poison Kjartan, Sihtric nearly denies it before he remembers she can’t be harmed by the truth of it anymore. He tells Uhtred about the black berries. Uhtred asks if his father loves him, and Sihtric looks at him in disbelief and parrots back the question to make certain he heard it correctly. He tells Uhtred he hardly knows his father, but does not say that he knows his fists and his cruelty too well. Sihtric feels tears start to rise again when Uhtred asks about his mother because he misses her like half his own heart is gone and he can barely stop the wobble in his voice when he tells Uhtred he loved her.

Uhtred takes a step toward him and Sihtric’s sword dips as his arm begins to shake but he raises it quickly. “On your knees,” Uhtred orders gently and Sihtric grips the sword tighter.

“I would die properly,” he protests. He’s ashamed of the fearful squeak his voice has become but he doesn’t waver. Uhtred snarls the command again and Sihtric obeys with the instinct born of a lifetime of slavery. He flinches as Uhtred extends the hilt, expecting he’s going to suddenly become one-eyed like Sven.

“Clasp it, and say the words.” Uhtred waits, hilt extended, and Sihtric can’t drop his sword and shield fast enough. He clasps the hilt and Uhtred’s large, callused hands cover his.

Sihtric looks up at him and his voice is steady, “I will be your man lord, and I will serve you until death.”

“And beyond,” Uhtred adds.

“And beyond, lord,” Sihtric echoes. “I swear it.” Uhtred removes his hands, takes back the sword, and Sihtric rises. He is fourteen and he is free and he knows looking at Uhtred that he will be a warrior just like he always wanted. He does not know that at fourteen his own mother became a slave. He just knows that he is free and that his mother, feasting with Thor and Freyja and Christ, is glad that her son will no longer endure anything by Kjartan’s hand.

[insurancelifedream]

Ten Various Ways To Do Cheap Dental Plans | cheap dental plans

According to research, acupuncture helps to lessen anxiety before, during and after a dental procedure or examination, a study by researchers from the University of Michigan Health System in Ann Arbor found. This natural procedure, coupled with inexpensive dental plans designed specifically to reduce the overall cost of dental treatment, could ease the stress involved in going to the dentist in order to have work done.

Dental work is vital in ensuring teeth and gums are healthy and free from disease. A visit to a dentist is essential for the health of your teeth and mouth. When an immediate need for dentistry arises, many people find themselves unable to afford the routine care they need.

Some people, who cannot afford dental insurance, turn to less expensive dental clinics in order to obtain basic care. Often, this care does not meet needs or is unsatisfactory because of lack of materials. Many people cannot afford to pay for dental care at these centers, or simply do not have the time to wait for the necessary appointment. By visiting a clinic that offers dental care at discounted prices, many people can receive care they otherwise would not be able to afford.

If you currently have a cheap dental plan but do not want to wait for a visit with your dentist, then you may consider visiting a clinic that provides affordable dental services. These clinics offer a variety of services at discount prices, including basic cleaning, routine cleanings, root canals, root canal treatments, orthodontic work, bridges and more. Most clinics also provide emergency care. They usually also offer an array of preventive care as well.

While you are at the clinic, you will meet a professional dental practitioner who will review your information and evaluate your circumstances in order to determine whether or not you are eligible for a cheap dental plan. Once you have been determined eligible, you will be given a short list of available clinics that offer dental care at discounted prices. You will be asked to complete a brief form that determines the type of service you require and how much the treatment will cost. After the information is entered, the clinic will contact you to let you know what services are available, and how much you will be charged.

Your cheap dental plan can help make affordable dental care affordable for you. Many of these clinics allow patients to see a dentist for a set amount of time, so that you are not required to pay for more than the fee that you would if you visited a traditional clinic. If you find yourself in need of a regular visit to the dentist, visiting a clinic offering discounted dental care could provide the comfort and relief that you need to make it easier for you to keep the dentist visits affordable.

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[lindafrancois]

Changing Unhealthy Habits: A Silver Lining of COVID-19

Have you ever heard the old adage “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?” The spring of 2020 and the arrival of social distancing has brought some sour changes to all of us. It’s important to understand that change affects everyone, and it is human nature to find change difficult. Humans are creatures of habit and much of what we do daily—from brushing our teeth to driving to work—happens without deep thought. When a change in routine occurs, it makes our brains work harder to adapt and requires focus. So much so, that changing old habits can be taxing on your mind and the desired change might be abandoned before the habit sticks.

It’s easy to give up, but it’s also possible to use this time of change as a springboard and form new habits. Ready to swap out unhealthy habits for better ones? Let’s get started.

Eating at Home

Restaurant meals can be high in salt, sugar and fat. There are also more temptations to splurge with sugary desserts and high sodium condiments. On average people who cook at home, rather than eating out, consume 205 fewer calories per meal and tend to have healthier overall diets. Finding a healthy, well-balanced meal at a restaurant is still possible. Aim for a special occasion when you support your favorite healthy places. 

Mindful Shopping

This is a great time to break the habit of mindlessly grazing the store aisles for unnecessary, impulsive, expensive items. To maximize your time at the grocery store, embrace meal planning and keep a running grocery list. Now is a good time to go through old cookbooks and create a weekly or monthly meal plan. Consider any special nutrition needs for yourself and your family, then note which ingredients you already have on hand. Stock your pantry and freezer with the five food groups, as well as raw and unprocessed whole foods. An extra benefit is that these items may cost less than buying precooked and ready-to-eat products.

More Time to Exercise

Now is a good time to go through your abandoned exercise equipment and clean out some old workout DVDs. Maybe you will rediscover your love of aerobic kickboxing or Zumba. Maybe you’re finding you have more time to take advantage of the surge of new YouTube exercise videos and free training available from Instagram influencers.

For most healthy adults, the Department of Health and Human Services recommends at least 150 minutes of moderate aerobic activity or 75 minutes of vigorous aerobic activity a week, or a combination of moderate and vigorous activity. Always check with your doctor before beginning an exercise program, especially if you have been sedentary.

Me Time

A potential benefit of staying close to home is escaping from the frantic pace of life for a while. Adapting to a slower pace might mean more time for yourself (a.k.a. me time) and for your family. To help form a new habit, try writing out a daily to do list so you get the most out of your day. Personal goals might include learning new skills on the latest technology so you can connect with loved ones, or decreasing screen time altogether with a chance to enjoy a good book or creative home project.

Maybe you’re experimenting with some new recipes from DaVita.com. Make sure to check out one of my favorites—making “lemonade from lemons.”

Lemonade or Limeade Base

References:

https://sliceofkitchen.com/eating-out-vs-cooking-at-home-statistics/

https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/fitness/expert-answers/exercise/faq-20057916

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/renaissance-woman/201607/how-change-unhealthy-habits 

Visit DaVita.com and explore these diet and nutrition resources:

DaVita Kidney-Friendly recipes

Today’s Kidney Diet cookbooks

Diet and Nutrition articles

Kidney Smart® Virtual Classes

This article is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for medical advice or treatment. Consult your physician and dietitian regarding your specific diagnosis, treatment, diet and health questions.

Changing Unhealthy Habits: A Silver Lining of COVID-19 published first on https://dietariouspage.tumblr.com/

[dunmerofskyrim]

30

Rain fell in the roof-garden. Thin, pervasive, dank as a sigh against skin, it fell from a blind night sky. At the garden’s heart, the reservoir of rainwater shuddered as it filled. A handmade pond of shadowed water, the receiving room lamps ghosted up through the glass funnel of its bed.

Ten strides on each side, the reservoir’s banks made up the rest of the garden. Shores of glazing-lead, then tiles. Trees stunted into miniature and with leafless limbs, silent save for the dripping rain. A vine climbed round the doorway that led back into the house. Out of flower, its woody stems seemed more some mad-tangled trellis than anything live or growing.

On four sides tall walls closed the garden off from plain and field and horizon. Their inside faces and the floor alike were tiled in earthenware diamonds. The same dove-grey glaze as the sujamma flask. Fine local work from the poor local ground. Every sixth tile was an enamelled cameo. The icon of a watchful saint, carved in relief. Some small smug gesture of calligraphy, muttering the names of virtues: service to the house, stewardship of the land, the twin-balanced concepts of thrift and generosity. Things that take phrases to say in Tamrielic; that the Nords would ken words together to talk of, and if the poet was lucky then their kenning might catch on. In Dunmeris they have singular words to say them exact.

Simra felt the walls of the house, the roof-garden around him. A lot of work, he thought, just so the scions of House Minu don’t have to look at their holdings. See where their meals and money stems from. The paddies. The road that winds between the fields, the ditches and heapings of salt, and back to Othrenis. Mud now. A ribbon of mud and swathes of brine.

He knelt on a mat of saltrice straw, legs folded under him and back straight above. Simra’s boots sat in folded collapse nearby and his feet beneath him had only wraps to stave off the stark night’s cold. But better brave that than sit on the heels of his own muddy boots. And anycase it gave his doings a touch of the penitent or the pilgrim. Humble austerity. The coarse mat, the bared feet, the cool night closing all round him. Wouldn’t take off his boots to come under House Minu’s roof and into their hosting hands, but for the rite..?

He already had the silver plate, the racer-plume, the little makeshift pouch of packed salt. They lay on the mat, getting damp, not that it mattered. But a black iron brazier squat before him, empty and cold, pooling with a gradual gather of rain.

Simra’s hands fell into his lap with all the finality of a sigh. His mouth ruled into a hard impatient line. “Tlun-lun?” he said.

Standing nearby, the majordomo wrung his hands in reply.

“I’m not questioning your capability. You found a racer-plume on short notice, didn’t you? But I told you tlun-lun kernels too. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“We are not pilgrims,” Tamsora said. She sat in a hardbacked chair against a wall, sour-faced and attended by a servant with a wax-cloth parasol. “Nor are we a temple. And it seems neither are you…” In her hand she flapped a fan of parchment and scented wood despite the cold.

“Right. Pilgrims, wandering priests, ordinators-errant — they’d carry it all, just in case. Can’t not name the dead, after all, and you never know when duty’ll call. They’d also charge more…” Simra kissed his teeth. “You’ve got a kitchen.” He spoke to the servant rather than grant Tamsora the smugness of further response. “What kitchen in any well-salted house doesn’t keep tlun-lun somewhere? And with it just gone Gauntletsday – what – not three weeks past?”

The silent wring of hands. A blank and pleading face on the majordomo. The light of the garden’s floor-lamp made a mask of his features. A player in some tragedy of manners; the dutiful retainer, bound by loyalty to the intemperate lord.

“Blight, I’ll spell it out,” said Simra. “Gauntletsday. Nighttime feast of the Prince of Strife. Are you telling me the muthseras Minu fasted all day then feasted come night without the proper soup?”

“Well?” Tamsora turned to the majordomo. Her fan whirred like a hornet’s wing, flashing agitation. “See to it.”

“Muthsera.”

And the majordomo bent low, a bow so deep it hunched him, and slunk with silent tread back towards the climbing vines and the garden door. The narrow door opened. He sunk downstairs and into the manse below.

Simra spared him no sympathy. Only wished he wasn’t so likely to storm into the kitchens now and take out his wounded pride on anyone under him. Wreak Simra’s havoc on the first servant he found. People like that can bear any indignity their master heaps on them, so long as there’s someone they can pass it onto.

The wait measured itself out in hunger pangs. The glare in the back of the brain from sujamma on an empty stomach. He could take it and take worse, but he felt it all the same.

Sober, Simra’s focus was singular. The sun’s light cast on a well-shaped glass and condensed to a lance of white heat. Guljana helped; only made it more so. A focus so bright and sheer he’d forget to eat, sleep, feel proud once he realised. But drink put his thoughts beside themselves. They ran well enough, but all in parallel, all at once. Light gone again through a glass, but different-shaped so the light broke open and burst into bars of colour. Nothing he could do to stop it, short of not drinking, so Simra left them to it. He kept track of only a few.

Tamsora’s occasional attention was one of them. An intrusion, an itch sometimes at the back of his neck. Growing up in the Grey Quarter you develop a keen sense of it: eyes on your skin, are they looking or watching? Simra had never quite let it go; a childhood relic held close to his heart, and useful more often than not. But for all the noise of her gaze, Tamsora was a quiet woman now that she had only him to talk to. Her daughter was put to bed. Told no doubt to pay the strange-talking stranger no mind. He’s a nothing; a necessity; a necessary nothing, and nothing more. Let them think it, Simra thought, but leave them cause to doubt. And maybe that was what he felt in Tamsora’s look. A curiosity. And maybe that was why she didn’t speak to him, for fear of getting answers.

The ritual was the other concern. Or rather the routine of it; the resemblance. It was a lie he’d told often enough. As often as the parsimony and impatience of a client had asked for it. And as lies go, this one was wrought almost all out of truths.

From the first time he’d seen Meris go through it, he could chant the words by heart, just as she did. Just the sounds at first without the sense of them, for the dialect was old, and he’d been young, unused to it. Winter’s end, that first time, but the second time was in Spring. Meris holding a scalp by its scruff, appraising as a mercer with a sample of cloth, and speaking for the skull it was stripped from. After that he could’ve done the rite for her if not for his lack of a writ. But that writ mattered far more to the Temple itself than to lay-mer out in the world. After all, Tamsora hadn’t asked for one. Few did.

Simra had since seen Meris do it, and the magistrates of glass-mad towns do it, and on and on enough that he’d lost count but learnt the words to draw from. Might as well stop paying for it and start getting paid, he’d decided. That was four years ago, more or less. Four years of practice. He’d never made the magic work, but the rest was all there. Rite and rote, trappings and chanting, plume and plate and tlun-lun smoke. The spectacle of a spell. And in four years he’d started to reckon that he couldn’t be the only one to hollow it out, make an act of it, for appearances, for tradition. In Morrowind more so than most anywhere else, doing things the way they’re done will always shade over the why of them.

The rain carried on. Wolftoads called to each other across the unseen fields, desperate to crowd and huddle in their colonies before the true cold came down. A farewell song for the falling season; Autumn’s vestige, more wet than cold. It was all there, pedestrian as a poetry exercise. Boil it down, that’s what the rite was too.

The majordomo returned. Knelt, head down so as not to have to look at Simra though they were close together now, head to head. He wiped clean the brazier’s belly and placed two palm-sized kernels in it. Things like pine-cones but smooth and impenetrable, seeds layered up on their hulls like the scales of fish — like the laced splints of lamellar armour of which their name was a diminutive.

“Again you fail to disappoint.” Simra smiled, a glint of teeth in the high-walled gloom. “You have my thanks.”

“How long then?” said Tamsora. Her parasol-bearer shuffled behind her, like her tone was enough to unease them.

“For five? Not long. But longer than for one. Sure you wouldn’t rather wait indoors? Rain doesn’t seem likely to let up.”

“I’d sooner stay here.” But Tamsora’s voice was begrudging. More duty than desire.

“Right.”

Simra opened out the makeshift pouch. Coarse thread and cartilage inside; skin gone waxy and flesh unreal. Their blood had darkened to scabs; stained the rocksalt, turning grey to spilt-wine purple. He glanced up at Tamsora. No sign the trophies shocked her. Her disinterest was honest, insistent, laid heavy on him as sweat in the fabric of clothes.

With an open palm inches above the brazier he muttered a small Calling. Started them smoldering. In moments the kernels began to creak and cry. The scale-like seeds split off from their hulls and gave themselves to the flame. Pop and rattle, the wheezing release of trapped air, like cooking bugs on the shell. The hiss of rain as it fled from the heat, shaped like steam. The flame was too low and too lazy to give off light.

Simra held his left hand above it, a dull and stinging thing, til the flames were strong enough and knew their names well enough to thrive without his feeding them — survive the rain. Then he went for the other trappings. Held the racer-plume damp and delicate between the fingertips of his left hand. Stiff fronds out from a hardy spine, colourless but for the faded yolk-yellow of the tip and coarse as rough cloth, a racer’s plumes are unkin to the feathers on any bird. So what does a racer use its plumes for? To remind the world of what it almost is; remind itself that, for all its plucked poultry reptilery, it can still fly.

The smoke was already in his eyes, teasing their corners, wet and blinking. Its scent was heavy and carnal: red meat cooked over coals. Or was that his hunger that made it so? Anycase, alike enough that his empty belly grew teeth at the hint of it. Began now to gnaw and muzzle against the inwalls of his stomach.

With his right hand he unthreaded an ear from the string and placed it on the plate. Took it up on the open flat of his bandaged left palm and held it above the flames while their smoke filled and clothed him. Eyes closed, Simra spoke:

“You dead that remnant lie half awake and half in the world, curled in wait to be called, be called.”

Simra’s voice filled up with timbre, camber. Stiff at first and then starting to flow and blaze, like tallow turns to light at the lighting of a candle. He’d watched magistrates dole out the words, the forms, all in monotony, gravity all in the flat blackness of their speech. He’d watched pilgrims turn almost the same words into near-hysterics, seizures of faith. Either way it was spectacle as much as ceremony. There were those who’d pay to see when a famed riteworker was in town. Simra had been one of them once, to watch and better know how to do it himself. A wandering priest named Doru, who’d come in the wake of a battle, like the dead themselves had summoned him. He’d drawn a crowd of dozens on dozens to the wasteland outside Selfora. It was his style that Simra stole from: a sonorous steady chanting.

“With a voice like the wind that dust is not made to resist I charge you: do not wake but in dreaming shape your name.”

Simra motioned with the plume. On the kernels what had been a crowd of crawling embers blistered up into an eagerness of flame. In the dark it was iridescent beyond the ordinary pink and orange and red, coloured like a skin of oil on a body of water.

There were forms to be kept. Some words always came round. Some had been written down no doubt. They got recited like the riteworker was still reading from a page held stiff in their mind. But a belt-thin leeway of improvisation was better regarded. Vines growing as vines and beans will around the stave they climb as they grow. Simra extemporised.

“Nedam, like the glow of a lamp’s lit wick is pounced at by pursed lips and sudden breath, plunged sidelong into smoke, into shadow, so Nedam was stolen westward from out of their saddle on the point of a spear.”

Names and terms — in his rite, Simra had to improvise those too. No magic here but the dancing fire. He never could make the dead speak for themselves. Instead he invented, in poetry he’d half-considered on the dirt-track here from Othrenis.

Even when the ritual was done right and true, this was the way: half trial and half funeral, the innocent would have their lives lamented. Of criminals only their death would be chanted.

“Nedam, the plume of law has weighed you name and flesh, found as justice found you: murderer, thief, and fugitive.”

The home strait now. Simra was back reciting his way down a well-worn path. The flames limned down to almost nothing as the ritual drew to a close.

“By Azura be witnessed, by Mephala be bound, by Boethiah be found lacking, and by their power be charged.

May the fire consume you, time destroy you, and the Waiting Door forget it was ever asked to open at your name.”

Simra tilted the silver plate. The grizzly trophy fell from it to sear, dry and hard as deadwood amongst the kernels and embers. There was a flash once more of that oil-coloured fire, then nothing but smoke and cinders. The tlun-lun hid the smell of scorching flesh.

He closed his eyes, a look of deep thought on his face. Solemnity and satisfaction. When they opened again, he spoke in his own voice, not the rite’s:

“Four to go. Sure you’ll stay? It’s only more of the same.”

“I’ll stay,” Tamsora said, firm.

The look on her face had something in it of an audience’s afterglow. The waning rapt attention and the almost-sorrow, as if at a loss. That was the closest he would come to a compliment from her, Simra reckoned, but if it paid extra it would do.

[lincolnservices]

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Tales of the Silver Prince

From KSBD I wanted to show this to someone who hasn’t read the comic but didn’t want to make him sift through like 5 months of pages to find it so here it is, all of it, in one place, under the cut.

And Prince Kassardis was given three vessels of wine, and three wives, and three rings to gird his ring-fingers. But Kassardis’ heart was heavy at his wedding ceremony, and no amount of wine could float it up from the depths it had sank to. For this ceremony held with it deadly promise, for it was custom in that part that the prince, within a week of his wedding, should choose a favorite wife. This was a marker, a battle drum of sorts, between the three wives of the great house of Ium-Am. The battle only ended when one wife stood, scarred and bloody, and the remainder were dead or exiled.

Kassardis was sick of this slaughter, and the hollow wreck of a man he called his father. His three wives were very pretty, but they were cruel as hawks. Even as he stood there besides the marriage pool, he could see the bloodlust glow behind their veiled eyes. It was for that reason he took his naming dagger and traveling cloak and fled his tower one summer night.

Vastoki was Prince Kassardi’s first wife, and the youngest. She wore only one ring and kept her fingernails expertly trimmed. Her dress was a short cut, her vela plain and good for traveling, and she wore eye glasses. Her teeth were filed to points, and she kept sparrow feathers tucked behind her ear. She was a master marksmen with the long rifle, with which she had trained her whole life, so that on her wedding day she could swiftly assassinate her rivals. By the time it had reached her wedding day she had hunted five men in practice and was thirsty for blood.

It was for this reason she was the first to set out in search when the prince was found missing.

Littari was Prince Kassardis’ second wife, and though she was not quite as young and vigorous as his wife Vastoki, nor as patient and wise as his wife Ipreski, her bloodlust was the strongest by far. Where Vastoki was thin and lithe, and favored traveling clothes, Littari wore a full set of eidolon-wrought armor, which she cleaned and polished constantly, and gave her the appearance of a gargantuan demon. She was twelve spans tall, and had enormous teeth. Her bulging muscles meant tailoring for her was a nightmare for her maids, so she spurned their service, and preferred to travel with her cook, sandal bearer, and sword-master only.

Littari was far too strong to use a sword, for any normal weapon would break and shatter with the immense force she put upon it. Instead, she dragged around with her a great and heavy iron cauldron, with which she would beat opponents to death quite savagely. It was to this pot which the prince’s other wives had promised to chain her and force her to serve as a scullery slave, and so she had taken an oath of revenge to pulp, cook, and eat them.

Littari was by far the least popular of the prince’s three wives, and so she only learned of his escape after the young Vastoki had started her pursuit. Nevertheless, by the second day, she was not far behind her quarry, and her steps shook the dust from the eaves of peasant homes as she passed.

Ipreski was Prince Kassardis’ last and oldest wife, though barely by a few years. Despite her relative youth, however, her hair had already become white as snow. Some gossiped about how it was a curse from a vengeful sorcerer, for the offenses of the princess Ipreski’s family were broad, and no less horrible for their breadth.

Ipreski kept her white hair long, and bound up in coils that wrapped around her waist five times. She was exceedingly lazy, and would rather order one of her numerous and weary servants to fetch something than walk a mere five paces. She was pampered and fond of food and wine, and complained loudly if there was no place for her to lounge about.

This laziness of hers was a clever mask, for Ipreski kept all her energy coiled up inside of her like a spring. She was a master swordswoman, in the old tradition of her family, and her muscles were like steel cables. Such was her skill that she could kill a man and sheathe her sword before the first drop of his blood hit the ground. She had no need to pursue her opponents, for they could not touch her, and was instead content to wait until they came to their slaughter. This was the source and secret of her arrogance. She loudly mocked Kassardis’ other wives, especially the large and slow Littari, for she believed there was no chance they could beat her in open combat – and it was true.

It was only fitting, therefore, that the languid Ipreski was the last to set out in pursuit of the young prince in her palanquin, with her full retinue trailing after her.

Prince Kassardis knew his three wives were cunning and vicious in equal measure, and the journey ahead would be hard and grueling. Therefore the very first thing he did was to seek out the Very Wise Frog, which lived on a nearby hill known as King’s Rock. The road to the Frog was well worn by pilgrims, so it was not a hard climb for Kassardis, who wore his fine leather boots, but it was steep.

“Very Wise Frog,” said Kassardis, when he reached the summit, “This brutal life is like a steel cage. My father’s kingdom is built on the stacked bodies of his officers. He sups on blood. His surviving wife picks his gray hairs and pushes toy soldiers around from her sedan.”

“Your father’s kingdom is very large,” said the Very Wise Frog.

“I will escape my own blood,” said the resolute Kassardis, “And flee to the land of Samura, where their cities are built on covenants of peace and no blood is shed unjustly. The journey is long and hard, so please give me some advice, as my family has treated you well.”

“Samura is a myth told to small children to comfort them,” said the Very Wise Frog, “Your wives are much faster than you and will catch up to you, then beat you savagely before returning to the time honored ritual of trying to murder each other.”

The Prince was aghast. “I refuse this life of violence!” he said.

“Violence is inescapable,” said the Very Wise Frog.

“Don’t gloat at me, frog!” said the Prince, “My trial is only just beginning. Surely you have some other advice for me?”

“No,” said the Very Wise Frog.

“Frog!” said Kassardis, growing panicked, “What do you mean by ‘violence is inescapable’?

“It is,” said the Frog.

“You’re a liar!” said Kassardis.

“No, I am not,” said the Frog, “Nor have I ever been. Violence is inescapable. Inseparable from life itself. Permanent. It is fixed in your cosmology. Forever. I could go on, but that’s besides the point.”

At this Kassardis was so enraged that he threw the Frog off the summit of the mountain. It bounced of a cliff and split like a wet melon, dying instantly, and posthumously proving its point to Kassardis.

Kassardis, for his part, wept.

Prince Kassardis was swift, and he was young and his mind was honed. The land about his kingdom was barren but not fierce, and the roads were well kept. Even so, the sun had barely dipped below the horizon before he knew he would soon be caught. For as he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw the cruel glint on Vastoki’s eyeglasses as she traversed the bluffs behind him. And a little further back than that, even for all this distance, he thought he could hear the awful grinding of Littari’s cauldron as she dragged it across the bare earth. And even further back, just cresting the horizon, were the bright and lazy banners of Ipreski as her palanquin was borne along into the desert.

Prince Kassardis struggled mightily to rid himself of his pursuers, for despite what the Very Wise Frog had told him, he still held within his heart the vain hope that the peaceful land of Samura existed and he would someday find himself upon its gleaming shores, free of his wives and throne.

First, he fled the road, and spying a low and reeking gully hurled himself therein. There, the mud and brambles were so thick that he could barely move, and the fetid water was choked with the corpses of animals that had become trapped in the muck. Thick clouds of flies bit at Kassardis as he struggled heroically onward, until at last he heaved himself from the mud, his trail almost completely invisible, and made for higher ground.

Indeed, when the clever and keen Vastoki came upon Kassardis’ trail disappearing into the gully, she was taken aback by his cleverness. But with her specially made eye-glasses, Vastoki’s eyesight was keener than a hawk’s. She picked out the shining pieces of thread from Kassardi’s silver waistcoat clinging to the brambles, and was back on his trail in scarcely an hour, her fellow wives close behind.

Seeing his three wives draw ever closer and that his first plot to foil them had failed miserably, Prince Kassardis doubled his pace. Knowing he would never outrun the cruel Vastoki on open ground, he hurled himself into a sea of dead grass, and used up all his water trying to escape her grasp. A night and a day later, he emerged on the shores of the river Dal, and spent the last of his money hiring a fisherman to take him downriver.

The fisherman’s boat overturned in the town of Kol Varas, and there Kassardis did a very shameful thing. He sold to the first rich man he could find his fine silk headwrap, and his father’s silver dagger, and his waistcoat lined with sparrow feathers, which were marks of his lineage. With his sack of foreign coin he hired six strong men, belligerent knights from the wars of conquest, and hid himself in a wheelbarrow, hoping against hope that his ploy would be enough.

Vastoki arrived in the dusty town not hours later, and she was almost immediately set upon by the mercenaries that Kassardis had hired. From his hiding place, the young prince watched as Vastoki was caught in their ambush and fought desperately against stave and sword.

Vastoki was very fast, but also very slight, and no match against the six knights in close combat. Though beaten, she merely retreated to lick her wounds and set camp outside of town. One of the knights nearly lost his head to her long rifle when he ventured out to confront her, and that was that for a while.

As night fell, the knights returned to Kassardis. “Where wandereth thee, young one?” they said in their foreign dialects.

“To the land of Samura, where I may find peace and an escape from violence,” said the exhausted Kassardis, from his hiding place.

“Violence is inescapable,” guffawed the mercenaries, and robbed Kassardis of everything remaining that he owned, for they had seen he was a fool from the start. They threw him naked and beaten into the street, and spent their winnings on drink.

Kassardis, his swollen eyes full of tears and knowing his time was short, stole a woman’s garb from a washing line and a small hunk of bread and fled into the desert, the final words of the Very Wise Frog echoing in his ears.

The belligerent knights, for their part, died not hours later when they were squashed into a pulp by Littari’s iron cauldron.

Kassardis knew his time was running short as he fled into the wastes around the town of Kol Varas. Instead of his naming knife, he had a stale hunk of bread, and instead of his prince’s garb he had only a stolen woman’s garment, thin and nearly useless against the freezing cold of the desert nights. He knew his three wives were not far behind, and despair was his constant companion. But still, he pushed on, wholly consumed with the conviction that he would find the peaceful land of Samura, or die in the process.

By the third day, when the desperate prince’s wives were closing in rapidly, the scorched and tortured soles of Kassardis’ feet felt stone and not sand beneath them. Kassardis looked up and saw that he had stumbled upon a mighty road, broad and sweeping, that passed through enormous stone arches into the distance. The road was crumbled with age, but Kassardis recognized at once that it was the famous Arched Road of Samura, and a great burst of hope filled his heart.

Kassardis followed the road until it was dark, and lightness filled his step, so that he did not even notice when the sun had gone and the nightmare chill of the desert began to grasp at him. All through the night, he followed the road, and the night itself could not touch him. And when the sun grazed his face, Kassardis was still walking, but he still had not found the kingdom of Samura. It remained like this for a day longer, until Kassardis, sustained by hope alone, and dying of thirst, stumbled across a battered old sword master encamped by the side of the road.

The sword master was aghast at Kassardis’ dreadful condition, and at once tended to him, and gave him water. “Young man,” said the old sword master, “I am Ket Amonket, the gate keeper of the kingdom of Samura. There is nothing for you here. Turn back.”

Kassardis was shocked. “Uncle!” he gasped, ” If you are indeed the gatekeeper of that mighty kingdom, please take me there at once. I am fleeing from my three wives, who wish to drag me back into a world of bloody tyranny!”

“You are here already,” said Ket Amonket, and motioned to the desert, “This is the kingdom of Samura, burned to ashes and ground into dust for decades.”

Mortified, Kassardis could only gape at the empty desert. But here and there, the young prince could see what he had been blind to while hope had still filled him up: the corroded remnants of great and stately buildings and fluted columns poking out of the desert like bleached ribs.

“Samura was founded on the principles of peace,” said Ket Amonket, “So it was sought out by many across all the ten thousand realms. Those that sought to flee from the world of violence.”

“Violence is inescapable,” moaned Kassardis.

“Yes,” said the old man. “Very wise words indeed. Soon this land contained more people than it could sustain. Violence once again began to grow in the hearts of its people, like a foul disease, until it blossomed into destruction. It was a foolish hope.”

“Then there is no hope for me,” said Kassardis.

“There is still yet,” said Ket Amonket, resolute. “Let me do one favor for you, young man, as one who has already lived too long. You must flee to the canyon south of here and hide yourself there as best as you can, until the sun sets. I will tell your wives you vanished into the desert a day past, and throw them off your trail.”

“Thank you Uncle,” said Kassardis, “I will hold on to my hope a little while longer.”

“Hold on to this,” said Ket Amonket, giving Kassardis his sword, “It will protect you a lot better than hope.”

Kassardis took the weapon very reluctantly, and would have thrown it away at the first chance he had, but the words of the Very Wise Frog continued to tear at his mind, so he clung on to it as he fled for the canyon.

“At the very least I’ll give the boy a good head start,” Ket Amonket assured himself as he watched Kassardis’ three wives trek over the dunes a little while later.

The sword master was wrong. Ipreski severed his wind pipe before he could get a single word out, and all that passed his lips was a spray of blood . Kassardis got a head start of about ten minutes.

Kassardis, for his part, could do little but flee to the canyon, carrying the old swordmaster’s weapon and clad in near-rags. Once there, he hid himself among the reeds in a low pool in the bottom of the canyon. It was cool, and shady there, and the coming evening began to wash over the land, and Kassardis felt, for the first time in days, peace enter his heart.

It was with dread then, that he heard the footfalls of his three wives entering the canyon not an hour later, and knew that his time had run out.

Kassardis knew instantaneously that the words of the Very Wise Frog had come true. For the canyon had three entrances, and down each came one of his wives, armed and thirsty for blood. First, small and cunning Vastoki with the glint of her rifle sights, then enormous and brutal Littari, dragging her iron cauldron, and finally the refined Ipreski, languid and resplendent on her palanquin. And one after the other, all three of their cruel and lusty eyes fell upon Kassardis.

Kassardis tried to pray, but found no sound would come out of his lungs. He tried to hide deeper in the reeds, but he found the mud unyielding. He tried to shut his eyes, but his heartbeat drowned out his thoughts. So instead, he clutched on to the old swordmaster’s weapon like a good luck charm, its cruel metal cold against his bare chest. A strange thought entered his mind and gripped his tendons like a vice.

And as this thought gripped Kassardis, it was then that the truth of the Very Wise Frog revealed itself in its full glory. For violence truly was inescapable, and the three wives were inundated with it. They had no other language with which to negotiate their hard won spoils.

“Stand aside,” said soft Ipreski, “As oldest wife the Silver Prince is mine by right.”

“Move an inch further,” said Vastoki, “And I will put a bullet through that milky throat.”

Littari, for her part, said nothing, but rather hefted her cauldron into the air with a tremendous roar, and charged. Kassardis watched as the words of the Very Wise Frog came perfectly true, and a brutal combat unfolded.

Realizing the danger that Vastoki’s rifle presented, Ipreski slid off her palanquin and behind an enormous boulder. But that boulder was shattered a moment later by the tremendous force of Littari’s iron cauldron, sending her flying. Ipreski’s servants and retainers were pulped a moment later against the heavy bottom of the cauldron and spread across the rock, and Littari advanced on the eldest wife, frothing at the mouth.

She would have crushed Ipreski as she had promised, but in a mere second there were three cracks of Vastoki’s rifle, and Littari’s skull blossomed in gore, her cauldron smashing to the rocks below as she slumped forward. Ipreski sprang to her feet, her fine silks tearing, and drew her blade, dashing at Vastoki before she could reload.

Vastoki was impossibly agile, and even though her fingers were slick with grit and sweat, she chambered a round and fired it right at the smooth face of the eldest wife. But Ipreski had anticipated this for years, and had practiced a blade art specifically for this purpose, which she called Ego Ballistics. With impossible speed, she cut through possibility and cleft the bullet in two before it could touch her flesh.

Vastoki was taken aback. Such was her speed, however, that the incoming blow merely severed her nose from her face and cleft her glasses in two, instead of separating her head from her shoulders as was intended. Blinded by gouts of blood and shrieking in pain, she crawled away. But Ipreski, caught in the moment of victory, was blinded in her own way to Littari, who had survived three bullets to the head by the virtue of her enormously thick skull and was now staggering up behind her with cauldron in hand.

The first blow of the cauldron cracked Ipreski’s’ back and sent her sprawling, the second crushed her shins and feet to splinters. The third did not come, for Vastoki, acting on instinct, loosed three more shots, which blew the throat out from Littari and sent her reeling backwards.

This gory sight, and the ruin of his three wives, Kassardis beheld, and his resolve hardened into ice. He emerged from the pool, his blood cold in his veins, and the old swordmaster’s blade clutched tight in his hand.

As Kassardis approached his maimed and mangled wives, they scrabbled for their weapons in whatever way they could, clutching their gory injuries. For Kassardis was a ghastly sight: malnourished, clad only in rags, and with a terrible light in his eyes. They should have known then that the fate Kassardis had chosen for them was far worse than they ever could have expected, but they were fools with little imagination, and so chose to fight anyway.

Kassardis took the pommel of his blade, and with all his strength struck each of the wives across the head, knocking them unconscious. It took four blows from the great enameled hilt of the sword to fell Littari, but eventually the pints of blood she had lost stopped her struggle.

With great fierceness, Kassardis drove off Ipreski’s retainers, and tearing scraps of cloth, bound the gushing wounds of his wives however he could. He knew however dire their injuries seemed, they would likely survive, having been bred for generations for thick blood, tough skin, and other valued traits to place them above his other potential wives.

Exhausted, the silver prince finally dragged himself to the road, where he waited for a merchant’s cart, and went to a hard-scrabble town to find an apothecary. There, he bartered the remainder of the old swordmaster’s belongings for medicine, keeping only the blade and the old man’s boots, which he put on.

Finally, there in the gulch, Kassardis made camp, and over the next few days tended to his wives with incredible care. He sewed up gashes, blotted dried blood, and fed them water as they suffered. And though he tried his best, Littari would surely never speak again, Ipreski surely never walk again, and Vastoki’s nose had long since disappeared into a pond.

On the third day, Vastoki, the youngest and most calculating, could finally speak, and when she did she was astonished.

“You fool!” she croaked, “Do you seek to garner my sympathy? When I am well again, I will subdue you, husband, and take you back to our great kingdom and our rightful throne. This changes nothing!”

“Of course,” said Kassardis, “Violence is inescapable. The Very Wise Frog was right.”

And to Vastoki, something had changed in Kassardis. He was more relaxed, and more tense at the same time, like flexible steel. A great truth had settled into his flesh, and his calm was a terrible thing to behold.

“I came to find the land of Samura, where peace is eternal,” said Kassardis, “But instead, I find that I must carry Samura with me.” And he grasped the hilt of his sword and stood, and Vastoki finally realized how tall he was.

“None of the three of you will ever agree to share me, and none of the three of you can best the other,” said Kassardis, “You are already too poisoned by violence. I will run from you, and you will find me, again and again, and again and again you will destroy yourselves in trying to claim me. And again and again, I will tend to your wounds, and flee, knowing that I will never truly escape.”

“Again and again you will destroy yourselves until you are mere hunks of flesh, crippled wrecks of meat. And there will come a day when you have become so ruined that even I will be able to best you in combat, and you will submit to my peace.”

Vastoki did not believe Kassardis at first, for she was a fool, but she humored him anyway. “And what then?” she scoffed, “Your kingdom, my silver prince, will ever await you. It is worth a hundred thousand cattle, and half a million sheep. They will send more wives. Ten thousand of them!”

“And I will tend to them too,” said Kassardis.

It was then that Vastoki knew the truth of Kassardis’ words, but she could do nothing about it, for violence was inescapable. She knew she could not turn from her fate, for the vain hope that she would still win grasped her beyond all reason.

“You will never rest!” she spat, and her missing nose wept blood, “You will flee for all eternity!”

“Such is the cost of peace,” said Kassardis, “Even if I should care for ten thousand maimed wives.”

Then he tightened his wives’ bandages, and soothed the struggling Vastoki, and left them ample supplies. And though his wives spat and cursed at him, they could do little but let him leave, his countenance calm and resolute as he said one last thing:

“I will see you in Samura.”