#this is presumably the place he fell down from the horse and died.

[harminuya]

A Soviet era funerary momunemt in Tavush, Armenia.

Inscriptions: You gave your life in your immortal name, the organiser and founder of the collective farm, you had no complaints, you fell off a fast(?) horse and died.

This is the statue dedicated to Martiros Grigori Tumanyan, born in 1896, died on 17 May(?) 1952. The statue was donated by his brother Armenak and his son Suren.

Photos belong to me. Do not post elsewhere.

[starrook]

[ 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 ] ; chapter 6

fire rains from the sky, blood spills on the ground. the world shifts beneath their feet, and fogado laughs.

over rifts does he sail, running past spears and knives on his own two feet (for the phantom of a horse he rode disappeared long, long ago) while his laughter carries on the wind. he can't remember what it feels like to be exhausted, pleasantly, by a freedom dash across plains and sands. it's been so long. the only joy he knows now is in the sky weeping bombs and the way his sword slips across throats.

but his feet have purpose. fogado knows where he is running. as he makes another jump, the sudden elevation of rubble against dirt makes him trip. he falls, rolls a tad, and is back up with a missing tooth and a smile all the wider for it. he staaaares at alcryst (whom he is now in front of, mad dash having been made for the comfort of another soulless soul in the fray).

“ alcryst! ” fogado calls simply, the glitter in his eyes a foul play at who he might have been in another timeline. “ alcryst, ain't it just grand? all this death around us? haha, doesn't it just feel like everything's breaking down around us?! ”

a distant howl makes fogado shiver from head to toe. a razing heat rises from the ground and the air itself lights up a foreboding magenta. “ don't you just love it? ” comes fogado's voice through the haze. “ we die, then come back, then die, then come back. it's risk free! no problem! ” there's an itch in the back of his mind---a warning that, perhaps, this time should not be so carelessly squandered---but fogado decides it's not worth itching.

so instead of indulging instinct, fogado throws up his weapons and grabs alcryst's hands, gripping them tight.

“ hey, alcryst, ” he whispers with a smile that sparkles in his eyes.

“ do you have any regrets? ”

the clouds above them force open, regurgitating a mass of burning fell power. its strength undiscerning and uncaring, it falls as it's told, and the shadow increases. fogado's grip tightens, and his bleeding smile almost cracks.

“ if you do, then let's die together, ” he says, watching alcryst now. “ and if you don't, then let's die together anyways. let's die so we can live again, okay? ”

here,

or somewhere different.

fell xenologue: takes place after loss and hurt

Alcryst is still processing the truth.

Everyone is dead. He is dead, or at least is supposed to be. Because… how can he be a Corrupted? Alcryst looks down at himself, whole and healthy and entirely unlike the monsters they once thought. There has to be some kind of mistake…

…There isn’t, is there? Alcryst remember’s Nel’s betrayal, his brother’s fearful bleating as he faded from this world. His mind then goes to that terrible day, the day he lost Lapis. He had no idea how he survived all those Corrupted. Is that when he died?

Fogado interrupts as always. The sorry excuse for a man was already a pain in the ass in life. In rebirth, having “conquered” death and lost his grip with reality, he’s somehow managed to become worse. And Alcryst would not forget that Fogado knew all this time, not just knew but helped Lord Nil with his schemes and machinations.

The prince is just as complicit. He knows this and still has the gall to act like they’re friends making dinner plans.

Fogado grabs his hands. Alcryst wrests them away, appalled, and strikes the other man across the face. It’ll goad Fogado to push him further, but he’s too angry to care. “How dare you presume to touch me. My only regret is that I can’t kill you where you stand.” They’re both puppets dancing on their strings, fellow soldiers of Lord Nil’s Corrupted army. They may have fought and detested each other in life, but in death they are commanded to work together. Protect Lord Nil. Allow him to gain true power, just as he dreamed. They are the only dreams left in this dying world. It’s something to protect, isn’t it? 

Alcryst shakes his head. Something Fell twists his thoughts even now. If this is the nonsense that he can expect as one of Lord Nil’s Corrupted, then it’s no wonder Fogado is insane. “It’s our Lord that will decide if we come back, isn’t it? He could leave you dead on a whim. But if that’s what you choose, Fogado, then don’t let me stop you.” Alcryst waves him off, chin raised in defiant pride. “Feel free to enslave yourself to him. You’ve always been a filthy cur—an existence as someone’s collared dog ought to suit you just fine,” he sneers. “If he dares to try the same with me, he won’t live long enough to regret it.”

There’s more Alcryst could say, but it’s wasted on this rotten slab of meat. With a flourish of his cape he turns his back to the prince. “Chrom!” he calls, and the Emblem immediately imbues him with power. 

The Bracelet of the Shepherd Exalt relies heavily on its wielder’s existing bonds. With its strength comes a flood of memories, of bonds lost and broken, his loved ones lost to the flames of war. Of course he has regrets. Their names are Diamant. Morion. Sapphire. Citrinne.

Lapis. 

The words come easily, an effect of being Engaged. “You were the wind at my back. The sword at my side.” And how true they are. Alcryst lifts his head towards broken skies, wondering if Lapis sees what’s transpiring here. “Together, we could have built a peaceful world…” So where did we go wrong?

[libidomechanica]

“Quick answered web and adore”

Beat even grotto were than head.     Nor at myself a flame. First spring, which at time the     erotically if new- made to get new Marriage mellow,     and goddess! She, strait-besieged

by turtle. Listen the fatal     here the wrote, for a hundred from these place it beneath     hide thy banners form a stand, not brain case heart affairs supposed     tight, or Missal topics:

poems must be one cannot     known thy grant you stain’d, and out in your bowers’ hooks: hope their     growing all: woe-hurried April dreamless from the Latmos     so idly left roundeth!

Into whom having a waver     of the blabbing nigh pale, were we have seen a wound, friend, half     English, or griefs the consequent doctors which keep here is     ruthfull of Life hast those

smallery, beneath. He mirror     blush’d, am I not set there is prompture were take, in the     place at single stiller, not like luckles full fling you have     that nough the merry clime,

thy meek the brick dies upon me     sip that I desire; her vein bed, their taste come, to parrot     turn the who do it for of Allah, while you the place.     The Ranks of praised sacred

shade from the might The three monstrous     sight forth. By garment could vex, and air-balloons to the foolish,     many case, her on his like a mossy cavern instead,     and when two poor fell

sweet did not for pleasure: freeze in     trains now white the world to do. At one more. With all porch, they     lost though to stolen hisses’ in love me—toll their fair off     like their swore, motive, and

flew out that was every guiled.     Into their very much dayly grant eleven what I     knew; both here; and blesse patient flashes scope, sooner walls, who     has blood was a’ besets

our simple ground of whatsoe’er foes     wish intery part from his wet Clay how d’ ye meadows     in our madder my own grows they met with buskins so he     ground waken’d down tender

shoot or me of love when proudlier     praised beside throat. She seem so nutty, and ivy-dart, in     persisterhood. Dying of man’s hand to make the tongue, he     saw you got our life-holding

valorous Don Juan, who know,     and transmitted down and daub his that some could finger in     the worth a summit, liest the Taverns lodgment, or face. To     you, maid! She thing, but these,

to you, faith its flesh is no more     shepheards hersel’ to be pray, enshade without these same none     of her gentler passion lurking be, troth, from care blast in     the goal is dinner at

love done, far fright be, to grown show,     and yet dare not know th’ Arabians’ presume to     be drops fell,—lounging. Though watch and understand a red lifted     without him, gliding,

yet am full song of new-born     woe is none chance according to make my love to catch again.     A summer’s journey, you my natal hope. Quick answered     web and adore. To these

hero; at six—perhaps, ’ thou mayst     live? Content, only collect from her breake doth the rill, then     the hope of the worn into help, and Earth the search my     jealousies did fall, and the

winterpos’d then festoons he roses;     my heart having near air, lest into an ease, but the     ransom, beside the worth on a line t is the curl’d at     the Husband alone; and

no great was not a distance as     to a moral, will matter’d a milking through perish! A     leaf to love the come try me bear and shrouds beneath common:     he said to say was her,

which coals are various for tend     upon the things she cold night of health colour turning photo     of hope and passionless painted in Spain; to other—     at length thy knight on the

horses, but in thy love here? In     ever doubtless, but not sleepy dusky groves, puffing on     they reading a reward; where knew, I pray for none can     Woe-hurried, unmarried?

[universallychaoticpan]

Hi, If I'm allowed? Can I request an angst fic of Levi X reader? When Levi was stressed, they had a quarrel, and the reader wanted to take care of him, making her appear clingy? Levi became infuriated and screamed at her, saying horrible things that made the reader cry, yet he still hurt her in ways he may not have intended. He felt terrible after that, but he didn't do anything to make amends. One day, on expedition. Levi, upon learning that the reader had not returned from an expedition and had been presumed KIA, cried uncontrollably, but he did not believe she was dead, so he rode off on his horse to find her. He found her alive but injured and semi-conscious, which made him relieved but devastated at the same time. He owes her an apology, make-up time, and attempts to amend his mistake.

So sorry for the long description of ask, and thank you <33

Ah yes, Levi angst. I am more than happy to write this, and oh my goodness this idea is so full of delicious potential- thanks for sending it in, and I really hope you enjoy! <33

There was no way Levi could ever begin to forgive himself if you were dead; if the last words he said to you were the ones that broke your heart. Alone aside for the demons in his mind he rode, the rhythm of his horse's hooves thundering along as the sun beat down on him. The day was fresh and clear with the breeze rippling across the open plains, and yet, Levi could enjoy none of it.

Not when you were possibly dead, at the very least missing deep in titan territory. Not when he'd forced you away when you'd only wanted to help him.

/

Usually, the warm glow of the candles in your shared bedroom offered you some slight comfort; it was a place of solace with the man you loved, and a safe haven besides.

Now, the shadows were longer as they crossed your faces, the air strung with tension until it felt like the slightest movement or sound would release chaos's fluttering wings.

Levi squad was dead; you had just returned to base;

it had been more than a miserable expedition, and you were both feeling it in equal measure.

And he'd hurt you.

"I just wanted to help-"

"And I told you to leave me alone. I'm not like you, y/n. I don't try to connect with people when I loose people I care about. Especially people who don't understand how I cared-"

"Don't you dare try to say I didn't care about them, Levi don't you dare."

Your voice was choked and heavy with tears you refused to let fall, as Levi refused to meet your eyes.

"You didn't know them like I did. Stop pretending we're the same because we aren't."

"I wanted to help you Levi, that's all I ever do; I try and try and I finally thought we were getting somewhere;

I thought you trusted me, loved me even."

Staying quiet, he kept his eyes away from you while you swallowed hard.

"I know I love you. But I guess you're right; we aren't the same."

By now you were both ready to snap, the tension thickening with every moment until the last word fell from your mouth and Levi felt his anger spike, hot and dangerous, making him see red when he finally looked at you.

"Then why don't you leave already?! If you're so sick of trying, why are you still here, y/n! I've never once lied to you; I am not easy to love. I am hard to know and I don't trust the way you do. But don't try and say you knew any of the people who died today a fraction as well as I did.

Just let me have this."

/

That had been two weeks ago.

In a single fortnight, he'd broken your heart and watched it break again every single time you loomed at him. You slept on a cot in Hange's room and barely spoke to him, your sorrow melting into anger and then blending back again in a shifting painting of your tempest of emotion. It raged inside you and made you reckless, made you ache to hold him when you saw his eyes fill with regret at the sight of you. It made your blood burn hot at the memory of his touch and made your head spin as you longed for him and then plunged back into the icy depths of your fury. You had meant what you said; you loved him, and you still did. But you wouldn't lie and say you weren't shaken. That you weren't doubting if he still cared for you when you had been even younger, even more stupid, than you were now. You'd lie awake long into the night and wonder if he loved you still; or if every word and kiss and morning beginning with his eyes softening as your opened were now a thing of the past.

On the other side of your walls, Levi regretted every mistake; he tossed and turned more then usual, missing the comfort of you slumbering gently beside him. He missed your soft skin against his hand, your hand in his; he missed you in all your parts. The day you'd left for yet another expedition had been the day he'd been planning on asking you to speak with him; he wanted to apologize for all the things he'd said.

He wanted to know if he'd lost you.

But you never came back that day. You smiled sadly at him as you rode off to support the western flank, your horse under you and the wind in your eyes as the distance between you grew. And when the sun set that day, and he searched for you among the survivors that had made it to their destination. Among those weeping for their dead, he saw no trace of you; in spite of himself, he found his heart racing in fear as the minutes began to tic by without the sound of your voice or flash of your body as you moved through the sea of green cloaks. Finally, he brought himself to ask someone: a terrified looking girl who had recently joined up with the corps. The look in her eyes sent his heart to his stomach before she whispered her answer.

"The last I saw of her, captain y/n was defending a group of us from some abnormals that had taken us by surprise. She told us to run and-" her voice broke, but whether it was from fear or shock he did not know. "And she stayed to fight them off. She saved me and now she's been killed for it-"

He didn't stay to hear her finish. He was long gone by the time she was done speaking, briskly walking away to hide the hot tears springing up in his eyes.

Stupid, he chastised himself, keep it together. But his efforts were in vain, and he began to cry as he slipped into his new quarters; stuck to the door was your certificate death, Erwin's signiture still fresh and shining cruelly before him. He tore it from the wood, crushing it in his fist as tears began to fall. The place was unfamiliar and devoid of you; at least back home the sheets bore your scent, the walls the echoes of your laughter and a million other things. You were foreign to this place and now you were gone. The very thought of you being dead, of your body broken and devoured was too much for him, the stone floor meeting his knees roughly as he stumbled, blinded and gasping for air. There was no air, not enough, never enough; there wasn't enough air in the world to make you breathe again, and the last thing he had said- oh god.

The last thing he had said had broken your heart.

He had hurt you, and now you were gone; before he'd gotten to say goodbye or express just how much he loved you, were you had been stolen from him without a word.

Through the night he sat, another lonely night in a place too cold without you to fill the empty places between. By the time the sun was up, his resolve was unbreakable.

Dead or alive, he had to find you.

So there he was, alone with the thunder of titan footsteps off in the distance keeping him alert and wary with every passing foot. The landscape was more than familiar; after all, it had only been two days since he'd traced the very same path. Alongside him, a small stream ran past; ahead of him, a sheltered copse of trees. But neither of those caught his attention quite like-

there it was. The sign he needed.

In the distance, just far enough to be shielded from sight, something tossed up clouds of dust. Craning his ear, his suspicions were confirmed. He was following a horse. Spurring his own on, the chestnut stallion came into his sights, eyes wild as it's rider balanced precariously, flung across it's back with their limbs failing to and fro with the motion of their mount.

Once more urging his own mount on, Levi felt his heart begin to race, whether in fear or joy at having found something he did not know. Against his better judgement, he felt himself begin to hope; hope that perhaps he'd found you, that maybe you would be ok.

He was hoping you wouldn't spend the rest of your life hating him .

The other horse was slowing down now, and Levi took to opportunity to dismount, holding both horses' reins in his hand as he dared too look upon the face of whatever unlucky soul had managed to get themselves caught out here.

He dared to look; and met your eyes instead of those of a stranger.

He was elated; and at the same time, felt his heart break and shatter anew in the cage of his ribs, the splintered parts of him piercing his lungs until he could breathe no more.

You were alive; but you were by no means alright.

Your face was bloodied by a nasty looking cut above your brow, your side almost completely exposed because of the state of your tattered shirt. Shreds of your green cloak had been wrapped around your torso in it's place, and when he peeled them back, he had to stop himself from gasping aloud; there, torn into the skin, was a gash long enough to stretch from one side of you to the other; all this was not taking into consideration the bruises that painted you in shades of ugly purple and mottled yellow. For a moment, all he could do was stare, fingers on your pulse, and try tame his disbelief. Obviously, you weren't out of the woods by any means.

You rode in front of him for a time, the sun sinking quickly towards the horizon. Lucky; the sooner it was dark, the sooner he could stop worrying about most titans being on the move. Every so often you would shift in his arms, your brows knitting together as low groans of pain emanated from your throat. And every time such a sound left your lips, he could feel his nerves churn and roll within him; the distance back felt so much wider than going to find you.

Finally, though, he rode back to the shelter and safety of the fort; he rushed past the shocked faces and wide eyes that followed him as he pulled your limp body down from his horse, and brushed them away briskly, fear in the very core of him. In his head, every thought was permeated by the wild terror of loosing you. When the medics locked you behind their doors, gleaming white and sterile surroundings all around you, he stayed. He let his legs give way, exhaustion eating it's way through his veins as the low murmurs of the doctors made it through.

Three hours later, freshly stitched and wounds cleaned, he sat vigil by your side as another night of new fear burned itself away. He held your hand alone, Hange and Erwin coming and going every few hours to try and convince him all would be well; no one really knew for who's benefit the words were being said; it didn't matter.

Your breathing was still labored and shallow, your skin pale where it wasn't bruised from all the blood you'd lost. Your lips were chapped from dehydration, and it was all Levi could do not to break down once again at the sight of your strong body now so frail and weak before him.

He hadn't seen such a sight since his mother.

The hours seemed endless and far too quick all at once as he sat it silence, every now and again begging you to wake.

He pressed his lips to your hands, hoping and praying that if there was any way for you to return to him, that you would. That you wouldn't be taken from him.

That you still wanted him, loved him, even after the way he'd treated you.

He promised himself then and there that if you made it through this, he would never break your hear that way again;

and at four in the morning, with a slight tightening of your grip on his hand, your eyes fluttered open.

Your eyes, bright with confusion and awash with the pain that now berated you each time you took an inhale, were open. And they were looking straight through him, a weak smile beginning to curl across your lips at the mere sight of him.

Words failed him then, as they always seemed to at the moments he needed them most. Apologies were so hard; loosing you without one would be even worse.

"I'm sorry."

The words were quiet; tentative; unsure as he felt, but in no way were they insincere. You saw it in the way he held your hand, the familiar feeling of him near you centering you as it always had.

"So am I."

Surprise flickered through his expression, a glint of confusion making you chuckle sadly.

"I do have to apologize, Levi. I...wanted to help you. All I ever want to do is support you and love you in whatever way I can. But I made a mistake, and I'm sorry."

"You made no mistake, y/n." This time, he sounded so sure of himself, the words loosing their fear and breaking away from their bonds. "I hurt you, and I'm so damn sorry for that. You're right, all you've ever done for me is love me; you became a victim of me because of it and you never should have been put in that place and I understand if-"

"What are you saying?"

Suddenly, it was you blindsided by his words; unease racing into you in waves.

"I thought you'd want to leave after everything."

This time, it wasn't the words he said or the thought of being without him for another moment that destroyed you; it was the look in his eyes as he spoke. So full of a different fear; and a resolve; his eyes told you that it would break him once again to see you go;

they told you that he would watch you leave if doing so would make you happy.

"Oh, Levi no. Never in a million years would I leave you. You aren't easy to love. We know that. But anyone who loves thinking it's easy, thinking that love isn't as painful as it is beautiful, especially in a world like ours, is a fool. All we have is love in this hell; love of living, love for each other. And it's not easy. But if you'll take me, I'm willing to give you my all and more."

/

The hours that followed felt like relief; he held you close as you slept, sleep evading him as it always did and yet, he was at peace as long as you were near. Once more he could breathe you in, the comfort of the dark room pressing close against your intertwined bodies, shielding you from the prying eyes of the rest of the world. Morning came, and eventually he felt himself drift off beside you. Smiling, Hange left you in peace as they opened the door only to see you both, blissfully unaware of the world outside each other.

The survey corps was under strict order all that day; neither of you were to be disturbed. To Levi, there was no better way to spend the day than marveling at you, the person who'd stolen his heart, kept every secret, and lost your time to him as he lost his own to you.

So little time; so many fleeting moments. He promised he wouldn't dare waste another.

[fanfic-she-wrote]

The Resurrection of Dracula: Part 1

Sequel to my Dracula Reincarnation imagine. Takes place after the events of AD 1972 and Satanic Rites. Hope you like it!

It was the year 1872, the day of Lawrence Van Helsing's funeral. It was a clear and sunny day, but a very solemn one. Church bells could be heard from Saint Bartolph's as the priest spoke one final prayer, the coffin being lowered into the sacred ground below.

Henry quietly approached the churchyard, being careful not wanting to be seen. He knelt down just outside the churchyard and began digging a small hole in the ground, listening to the prayer and the sobs from the funeral goers, not that there were many. It was only a small group of people who attended, including what he assumed was his son. How unfortunate. He thought. If only he had listened to you then everyone would be alive and the boy wouldn't be without a father.

After digging a small hole, he pulled the vial of Dracula's ashes from his pocket and poured it into the Earth before covering it back up again. Then he pulled out the stake that had pierced his heart and stuck it into the ground to mark where he was. "I will find her, master and I will bring you back. I swear it! If I'm not able to myself, then I bestow it upon my descendants. We will not fail you." Henry swore, before getting up. He quickly glanced over at the crowd and saw a familiar face standing there. It was the man he fought at the manor earlier that week. His head was bandaged and he looked paler than usual. He sneered, walking away.

"Should have killed him when I had the chance." He mumbled to himself, getting back on his horse and riding off into the distance.

Later that night, another figure approached the graveyard. Her slender figure gliding through the fog, her long black dress billowing behind her in the soft breeze. She came to a stop just above Van Helsing's grave, looking down at the tombstone by her feet. In the soft glow of the moonlight you could make out a grin slowly creeping along her face like a venomous snake.

"Poor Lawrence." She spoke, her voice peircing through the silence like a knife. "How foolish you were. You spent so many years hunting the one thing you despised most of all, only to end up marrying one. Blinded by your hatred for Dracula you never saw it coming. The great Van Helsing wasn't so great after all." She lifted up her hand, taking one last look at the golden ring upon her finger before pulling it off and slipping it onto the thorny stem of a blood stained white rose which she then placed on the ground in front of the tombstone. "Goodbye Lawrence. Rest well...if you can."

Henry never completed his mission. He made many attempts to find you, but never did. He had hoped that once he found you, you could help him resurrect Dracula. After a while, he started to lose hope that he would ever find you. Eventually and rather unexpectedly, he fell in love and had a child, passing on the task from one generation to the next. As time went on, you became all but a legend. A legend that lay waiting. Waiting for the day to finally come when you would be released from your prison and to be reunited with your one true love...

A.D. 1999

It was New Years Eve. Jessica Van Helsing was on her way home from work after a long shift. As she drove home, she could hear people all over London drinking and having parties to celebrate the start of a new year and a new century. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the mood to celebrate. Her grandfather had just died and under very mysterious circumstances. It tore her apart every single day not knowing what happened to him. The police provided no console or answers as to his death. She had spent the last several weeks trying to figure it out for herself, but came up empty. She wasn't half the investigator her grandfather was. Whoever, or whatever killed him was far more cleverer than she.

She recalled the day before his death. He was very secretive, which wasn't at all out of character, but he was more so than usual. All he told her is that he was on to something very important, something she presumed had to do with the occult or the supernatural. After he retired he became more and more consumed with it. It worried her and rightfully so. His life's passion might have also been the cause of his death.

Finally, she pulled up into the driveway of her home and parked her car in the garage, taking out the bag of food from the trunk as she went.

"Hi, mom!" Her son greeted her as she walked through the door. Her son, Charlie, was 20 years old and was the spitting image of her grandfather, which made her miss him even more.

"Hello!" She said, forcing a smile. "How was school?"

He sighed. "Eh, alright. What did you get?" He asked, helping her unpack. Charlie was a college student who was studying anthropology at Oxford. After the death of his great grandfather he decided to take a semester off to help his mother cope with the loss and to be honest, he needed a break. He was never much of a student and the pressure of all his classes had begun to weigh him down. He had only decided to study anthropology at his great grandfather's insistence.

"Pizza of course!" Jessica exclaimed, trying to sound happier than she felt not wanting to dampen Charlie's mood on New Years. She knew he could have been off celebrating with other people his age and having fun but instead he stayed with her, and for that she was grateful.

"Finally some good food. I was afraid it was going to be sausage rolls again. Not that I don't enjoy a good sausage roll every now and then." He remarked.

"I know, I'm sorry. I just haven't been up to cooking much lately." She apologized as she put away the remainder of the food.

"It's fine. I get it." Charlie said, shrugging it off. "How was work?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Boring. Bookkeeping isn't exactly the most exciting profession." She told him. It was boring, but it was normal and that's all she had wanted after everything that she went through with her grandfather and with Dracula. Forcing that time out of her head, she popped in the pizza and followed her son into the living room, where they had their own little New Years celebration waiting for the clock to strike midnight.

As it got closer to midnight, Jessica found it had become difficult to stay awake. No longer were the days of when she could pull all nighters. Realizing his mother was dozing off, Charlie shut off the tv and quietly retreated to the library. He had a paper due in the coming weeks and he was eager to get some research done. Quietly he shut the door behind him and he began rummaging about the books for something to write about for his intended subject, vampires. Luckily for him, he didn't have to search hard. The library was filled with all kinds of books about vampires, werewolves, and pretty much any kind of strange thing that was ever thought of.

He pulled out an old yellow book from a shelf. On the cover it read, "The Legend of Dracula, The Vampire" in black letters and underneath he saw that it was written by an ancestor called Lawrence Van Helsing...whoever that was. "Well, it's a start." He muttered taking a seat beside the window. Suddenly, just as he started to read he could hear the shouts of his neighbors. It was now the year 2000.

He read chapter after chapter, completely losing himself within the pages. He didn't know whether any of this was true, but it was fascinating. Especially the vampire, Count Dracula. It was morning when he finally finished the book, craving more. But he was tired and decided it would be best to get some sleep.

As he headed up the stairs to his room, he met his mother out in the hallway. "Were you up all night?" She asked as she brushed her hair, getting ready for work.

"Yeah, I was doing some research for my paper." He explained with a yawn.

"Oh, I see. Well, get some rest. I'll see you tonight." Jessica told him, tapping his shoulder.

"See you." Charlie said, yawning again as he watched his mother walk out the door.

When he awoke some hours later, he found that Jessica had already returned home and could be heard scurrying around in the kitchen. Much to his relief he didn't smell any sausage rolls. "Charlie!" She called out. He quickly threw on a hoodie and ran down the stairs. On the table he saw that his mother had made his favorite dish, chicken and rice.

"What's the occasion?" He asked, sitting down.

"Nothing. It's mostly an apology for sitting you through so many lousy dinners lately." She told him.

"Oh, you didn't have to. I was only kidding. I'll eat anything." He said, feeling slightly guilty.

"Well ok then, I guess I can put this away and we can have some left over pizza instead." She joked, pretending to get up to clear the table.

He quickly grabbed his plate, pulling it close to him. "But I'm more than happy to eat this!" He said.

"I thought so." She chuckled, sitting back down.

"Besides, I already ate the rest of the pizza." He confessed.

"Why am I not surprised?"

As they quietly ate dinner, his mind thought back to last night, to the book he read about Dracula. "I have a question." He started.

"What's up?" She asked as she chewed a bite of chicken.

"I was reading this book last night. About a Count Dracula." Jessica froze and looked up at him upon hearing the name.

"What about it?" She asked, trying to remain calm as the memories associated with that name tried to force themselves to the forefront of her mind.

"Did Lawrence Van Helsing write anymore about him?" He asked, biting his lip knowing how she was sensitive about the subject of vampires. Why, he never could understand. They were just fictional right?

"It's for the paper I'm writing." He added, noticing his mother's hesitation.

"I guess there's no harm in that." She mumbled, taking a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "He has a journal. I'll get it for you after dinner...As long as it's only for your research."

"Of course. What else am I going to do?" He scoffed. Jessica gulped, not wanting to think about it. She was young once. She made mistakes. She just hoped that her son wouldn't make the same ones, but she trusted him, and that's all she could really do.

After dinner they returned to the library where she led him to a safe that was hidden behind a strange, creepy portrait of some man. She reached inside and pulled out an old brown leather book. "My grandfather found this under the floorboards in the basement. It's amazing it lasted as long as it has. Take care of it. It's old and it contains very important information." She warned him as she handed over the book.

"I will. Thanks!" He excitedly told her, walking over to the desk.

"I'll be in my room if you need me." She said, turning to leave.

"Ok. And mom?"

She stopped and faced him. "Thanks again. I appreciate the support." He told her with a sincere smile. From behind the desk he looked very much like her grandfather. It was almost as though he was alive again.

"Anytime." Jessica said, holding back tears as she left the room.

He dove into the book carefully reading every word, every sentence taking it all in. Lawrence Van Helsing had a very extensive knowledge of Dracula and vampires. How they couldn't go out during the day or be turned to dust and how they didn't have a reflection in a mirror, even how to kill them. He was very thorough as though he had first hand knowledge on the matter.

There were several pages written about Dracula. His history and how he came to be the prince of darkness. There was also a couple pages written about a mysterious woman called Y/N, who had fallen in love with the vampire. He talked about her like he knew her.

As he flipped to the final page, he saw a familiar looking face staring back at him. It was the strange portrait on the wall, but something was different about it. He got up from the desk and strode over to the portrait across the room. He stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. Why did they keep such a strange picture on the wall for? If only he could have a closer look...He thought, taking it down. Suddenly, it slipped from his hands and landed with a crash, the glass shattering across the floor at his feet. "Shit." He grumbled, bending down to pick it up. The frame was completely broken, only the picture remained in tact. His mother was going to be pissed. For some reason felt the urge to flip it over, curious to see if there was anything on the other side.

To his surprise he found something scribbled hastily on it. It looked to be a map of sorts with a small x drawn in the corner...but of where? He wondered trying to figure it out. It looked familiar, but he still couldn't place it. He went back over to the desk and opened a drawer where his great grandfather kept a collection of maps. He pulled one out and compared the two trying to figure out where the x could be deciding that whatever it was might be crucial to his research. Why had no one noticed this before? He wondered.

When Lawrence drew it, he must have been in a terrible rush. He could barely distinguish one landmark from another. He thought, feeling slightly annoyed.

Finally after several hours of twirling the maps around in the desk and swearing to himself, he figured out that the x was located in an old cemetery just outside of London. Charlie glanced at the clock. It was nearly 4 in the morning. Finding the mysterious x would have to wait till tomorrow night. He could feel his eyes getting heavy with sleep as he hurriedly cleaned up his mess, eager to get some shut eye. He carefully folded the picture up and stuffed it inside his pocket, hoping his mother wouldn't miss it.

Quietly he went up to bed. As he drifted off to sleep he wondered what he would find and he couldn't help but be excited. Perhaps it was some old family secret? Maybe there were some skeletons hidden in his ancestor's closet that no one dared to find out...

[charlesboyfriendwasright]

MY DEBT TO YOU

Chapter ONE

Me: "I'm going to write this and have it posted by Tuesday"

Also me: *does not do that*

I'm so sorry for the long wait and the fact that this chapter is shit 💔 the other ones will probably be better because they'll be straight porn

CW: DOM FEM Reader, reader uses she/her pronouns and is a literal monarch, Maxim is a subby medieval bitch boy, no actual smut in this chapter but the rest of the series is so just Minors DNI, poorly researched, historical accuracy? We don't know her, ik I said no smut but dildos, lots of dildos, also Maxim almost slips into subspace at the end if that counts as smut

Under the cut because of smut (not really but it rhymed so whatever)

Sir Maxim Walter was tired.

Not just physically, though exhaustion did seep through his bones, but mentally as well. This was the fourth time this week some old shopkeeper had been covering for a younger fellow selling contraband through the back of his shop. Six barrels of unregistered ale in the back room, and Maxim and his team had been called in to investigate and arrest the smugglers. Now, as Dresten and Quincy pulled the offending parties through cuffs and into the back of the cart headed to the prisons, Maxim was tasked with doing another run through the shop to make sure there were no hidden rooms with more ale.

He stepped through another archway, one hand rested gently on the hilt of his sword, the other running across the wall. A hard expression was settled on his face, eyebrows knitted together in suspicion. He had a twitch in his jaw telling him that the old man was lying when he said that there weren't any hidden rooms.

He stopped when he got to the biggest room of the shop, which had a large square display in the center with nothing around it all the way up to the edges of the room. Things hung on the wall of course, but it seemed off to Maxim that every other room in this place was stocked full but this one was so barren. He took one more step forward.

The floor creaked loudly.

It wasn't out if character, creaky floors. The whole building creaked. But that was different. Louder. More hollow. He stepped again. Same sound.

Kneeling at the ground, he placed a hand on the floor, feeling for some sort of handle to grasp. His leather-clad fingers found the loose board and he pulled, moving aside so the panel could lift, revealing a steep, narrow staircase down to a cellar.

Maxim unsheathed his sword and put one foot on the first step. Sturdy. Another step. Then the next, all the way until he wasn't the bottom. His face knocked into a cord hanging from the ceiling, and he pulled it, letting the light fill the room.

He stopped dead in his tracks. His sword fell to the ground.

Where Maxim expected to see a stack of barrels, or maybe even a person, he instead saw a huge display of-

His brain stopped on the word.

On the wall, laid out unmistakable and clear as day, were about a hundred toys. Polished metal plugs of every size imaginable, and then bigger than Maxim though possible. Gently blown glass phalluses were laid out, some skillfully attached to off rope contraptions, some not.

Maxim stirred in his leather chaps, forgetting for a moment that he wasn't supposed to like this. He was supposed to be the man of the relationship. Dominant. He closed his eyes and imagined a woman who's like to use those upon him. It was when the pleasure emitting from his crotch bordered on pain when his father's voice stirred in his mind.

Deviant.

Maxim's eyes shot open. He pushed aside all his thoughts, reached down to pick up his sword and resheathe it, and marched out of the room, yanking the cord for the light on the way. He closed the door to the cellar gently however, not wanting one of his fellow knights to find it.

He could only imagine what his face looked like to Quincy as he approached. Flushed in arousal and twisted in frustration because of his findings.

"Nothing sir?"

Maxim shook his head. Quincy nodded once and then bowed, then they both got onto their horses and went off, following the prison cart back to the palace grounds.

-~•~-

The House of Walter was not the largest of the noble homes, nor were the Walters part of the Dowster twelve, the elite nobility of Dowster. They weren't very well off either, with only a small fortune. But their two sons were both high ranking military officers, and while the other noblemen and women make faces at them as they passed in the street, they weren't out of favor with the Queen.

Arthur greeted him at the door, giving Maxim pause. His father wasn't usually one to show overt politeness towards his family.

"Hello to you too father." The words were stiff.

His father gestured to the table, set for a meal. Maxim's mother died when he was young, promoting his father to remarry. Elizabeth, who had the same name as his mother, was nothing like his mother, in looks and personality. She was nice enough, and though her and Maxim got along fine, she was Elizabeth to him, not mother. She didn't push their relationship though, and Maxim enjoyed that. And he could tell they really loved one another.

"Hello Maxim!" Elizabeth said brightly. That wasn't out of the ordinary. Elizabeth was perpetually smiling. "Dinner tonight is a pot roast." She placed the dish in the center of the table.

Maxim took a seat.

"Where's Castian?" Maxim pointed to the empty seat across from him where his brother usually sat.

Elizabeth and Arthur shared a glance.

"Arthur let the boy eat for ten minutes before telling him," Elizabeth chided, serving herself and Maxim each portions of food. Her tone wasn't off, she usually kept Arthur in check, but the concerned, almost sad expression was out of the ordinary.

"He deserves to know Elizabeth," his dad spat. Maxim forced himself not to flinch. That was where him and his dad differed. Arthur had a temper. He was quick to anger and always assumed the worst. Castian was the same. Maxim preferred to sit on the sides until he knew what was needed. Until he was perfectly posed to get in and out as quickly and quietly as possible. He'd be a good stealth guard if not for the heavy clanking of his armor.

Before Maxim could ask what, he got his answer in the form of a knock on the door. Whoever it was didn't wait for an answer though, before bursting through the door, swords drawn. Maxim reached for his own, only so see that he had left it across the room. There was no way he could been able to get it. Upon closer look, Maxim recognized their uniforms. Something about their faces was also familiar, but Maxim couldn't quite place them.

"On behalf of the Queen of Dowster by the Queen's Guard, you Maxim Walter are under arrest for your treasonous actions against the throne and the Queen. You will stand trial for these crimes in three days time at the palace-"

"WHAT?" Arthur roared, cutting off the lead Guard.

The lead Guard glared at Maxim's father for a moment, then began his speech once more, addressing Maxim only, instead of the house as a whole.

This time it was Maxim who cut him off, "I know the speech," he informed them. The lead Guard nodded to another guard and they placed Maxim in cuffs. Arthur was silent now, and Maxim glanced over to see a Guard had his sword drawn right near Elizabeth.

Maxim went in silence as the guards led him to a cage. For the sake of his family's reputation, he lowered his head so no one would recognize him. People stared. He ignored them.

He couldn't say it didn't get to him though. He had always tried so much through his life to be loved by his family, to be accepted. But Castian had always stolen the spotlight. As he thought of his brother, it suddenly clicked why the Guards looked familiar. This was Castian's group. But Castian wasn't with them?

"Where is my brother? Where is Castian?' he asked. The guards stayed silent. They wouldn't talk to Maxim. He was a prisoner.

A lucky one though, if you could really even say that, because the Palace was only a half days trip from his house so it went by quick. He spent a single, sleepless night in a cell in the dungeon, and by the next morning, he was being marched to the throne room to stand before the Queen.

Maxim had never met the queen before, had only heard her words regurgitated by her Guards. But as soon as he stepped into the room he was immediately aware of her presence.

It was hard not to be, she took up most of the room with her presence, even is she was only physically taking up a single person's space. She was sitting in her throne, dressed in the most beautiful garment of clothing Maxim had ever seen his life, draped with rich purple silk. She looked regal. Royal. Beautiful.

Maxim had to pick up his jaw from the floor.

His mind idly drifted back to the room at the Shoppe he found yesterday wondering what it would feel like to have one of those used on him, by her.

He pushed those thoughts away as she began to speak.

"Maxim Walter, you have committed a heinous act of treason against me and my country. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" There was a hint of something in her voice, something familiar to Maxim but so far removed from him he couldn't place it at first. Was she amused?

Maxim gave a cursory bow, taking a knee before speaking.

"Your Majesty, I do not know of what you speak of. I have not committed any crime."

"You presume to know more than I?"

"Of course not, Your Majesty!"

The Queen studied him for a long moment. Maxim felt like squirming under her gaze. He barely held himself still.

"Leave us," she gestured to her Guards. They all shuffled out, leaving Maxim and the Queen alone in the large room.

"Stand and approach me," the queen instructed, standing up in front of her chair. Maxim stepped forward, slowly at first, but at her impatient stare, sped up his pace. He stumbled slightly on his way up to her, but managed to make it so he was on the step right in front of her, the step making up for his height and bringing him to her eye level.

"Did you do it?" She asked. Her voice was soft, quieter, but still just as strong and commanding as before.

"No Your Majesty. I don't even know what crime I'm being accused of." The Queen nodded once before stepping back so her heels were against her throne. She placed her hands on Maxim's shoulders before sitting down, pressing gently so Maxim got the message. He knelt in front of her, head practically in her lap. She removed her hands.

"I see you aren't lying to me." Maxim nodded. "But I don't believe that the rest of the country, nor your family, will see it that way." She stared off as she spoke. "So I'd like to make you a deal." Her eyes snapped back to Maxim's, holding his gaze. Maxim didn't dare to look away. "You will come to me. Live at the palace. You can be my personal guard. You would be free to leave at any time, though I cannot guarantee your safety if you do."

The Queen continued talking, but Maxim's ears were ringing to loud for him to hear her properly. His brain became foggy, vision blurring around the edges. Something about her dominance, the way she spoke as if she'd already made up her mind gave Maxim a twisted high, one he clung to. He felt a hand on his shoulder and snapped back to the Queen, realizing she was speaking to him still.

"Maxim?" she asked. He was barley conscious enough to refrain from begging her to say his name again. The word fell from her lips beautifully, wrapping around Maxim and holding him tight.

"I'm sorry I-" she held up her hand.

"I know." Her tone was soft, kind. Understanding. Maxim was brought back to reality by her touch, allowing himself to focus on her skin against his.

She seemed to know when he was back to himself. "Do you want me to repeat myself?" She asked.

"No Your Majesty." Now that his head was clear, her words came back to him.

The Queen only nodded in response.

"Well then, what do you say?"

Maxim didn't have to think about it, really. He knew his answer.

"I accept."

TAGLIST: @whiiiiplaaaaash

[lailoken]

“Sir Francis Drake:

The Elizabethan sea captain, privateer and navigator, temains of course a figure of global fame, particularly in connection with the 1588 defeat of the Spanish Armada His connection with Devon is also well known, but less well known is his legendary status as a powerful magician, witch, and leader of Devonshire covens.

In c. 1540, Sir Francis Drake was born in the west Devon town of Tavistock. In 1580 he purchased Buckland Abbey, a seven hundred near Yelverton on the south-western edge of Dartmoor. Anyone who was seen to have made great achievements and remarkable feats, in the days when witchcraft was widely believed in, was likely to have their successes put down to magic, and some form of pact with spirits. Such was certainly the case with Drake, who was said to have sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for victory and success, and there are numerous tales and traditions of his magical powers and his working relationship with the spirit world. One such tale concerns his alterations to Buckland Abbey.

During the building work, the workmen would down their tools at the end of the day, only to return in the morning to find the previous day's work undone and interference from the spirit world was suspected. Drake decided to find out for himself what was happening and that he would spy on the culprits. As night fell, he climbed a great old tree overlooking the house, and waited. When midnight came, out of the darkness emerged a horde of marauding demons, gleefully clambering about over the house and dismantling all the stonework put up during year old manor house the day.

Loudly, Drake called out 'Cock-a-doodle-do!" in the manner of a cockerel, crowing in the dawn. The mischievous spirits suddenly stopped their shenanigans in confusion, and Drake lit up his smoking pipe. As they spotted the glowing light in the tree, the spirits believed the sun was coming up and departed back into the shadows from whence they came. Presumably, they were so embarrassed at having been so easily fooled that they never returned, and the building work continued unhindered.

Traditionally housed in Buckland Abbey, is Drake's legendary drum. Beautifully painted and decorated with ornate stud-work, the drum is popularly said to have accompanied sir Francis Drake on his voyages around the world. As he lay on his deathbed on his final voyage, it is said Drake ordered that his drum be returned to England and kept at Buckland Abbey, his home. Here, the drum should be beaten in times of national threat, and it will call forth his spirit to aid the country. Indeed, there have been numerous occasions when people have claimed to have heard Drake's drum beating, including during the English Civil War and the outbreak of the Frist World War.

In 1918, a celebratory drum roll was reported to have been heard aboard the HMS Royal Oak following the surrender of the Imperial German Navy. An investigation was carried out with the ship being thoroughly searched twice by officers and again by the captain. As neither a drum nor a drummer could be found, the matter was put down to Drake's legendary drum.

During World War II, much weight was added to the drum's legendary protective influence, particularly over the city of Plymouth which, it was said, would fall if the drum was ever removed from its home at the Abbey. When fire broke out at Buckland Abbey in 1938, the drum was removed to the safety of Buckfast Abbey.

Bombs first fell on Plymouth 1940, and again in 1941 in five raids which reduced much of the city to rubble. In 1172 civilians lost their lives in the 'Plymouth Blitz’. Drake's drum was returned to Buckland Abbey, and the City remained safe for the remainder of the war.

Like many reputed witches and magicians, Sir Francis Drake was said to possess a familiar spirit to aid him in his work. The presence and influence of this spirit turns up in the stories surrounding his marriage in Like 1585 to Elizabeth Sydenham, daughter of Sir George Sydenham the Sheriff of Somerset. Some sources that Elizabeth's parents we disapproving of the union due to Drake's reputed involvement in the black artes and that the marriage took place shortly before he departed for a long voyage. After no news had been heard from Drake for a number of years, Elizabeth's parents took the opportunity to persuade her to declare herself a widow. Another account states that Drake's departure for his voyage took place before the wedding. In both versions however, The Sydenhams arranged for their only child to be married instead to a wealthy son of the Wyndham family.

It is said that Drake had left his familiar spirit to keep watch over his beloved while he was away, and that the spirit made him aware of her planned wedding to another man. On the day of the wedding, there was a loud clap of thunder, and a meteorite came crashing through the roof of the church. Some said that this had been a cannonball shot from Drake's ship to halt the wedding. In any case, it was taken as a bad omen against the wedding between Elizabeth Sydenham and the son of the Wyndham family.

The meteorite itself, known as ‘Drake's Cannonball' has been housed at Combe Sydenham ever since.

Another popular legend featuring Drake's reputed and remarkable magical abilities concerns the creation of the Plymouth Leat. As Plymouth had suffered problematic water shortages through dry summer months, it is said that Drake took his horse and rode out onto Dartmoor to search for a water source. Upon finding a small spring, he uttered a magical charm over it and it burst forth from the rocks as a flowing stream. Drake galloped o on his steed, commanding the flowing waters has he die so to follow him back to the city. Today, the Plymouth Leat has its beginning at Sheepstor on the western side of Dartmoor and ends in a reservoir just outside the city.

There are, of course, a number of traditions of magic and witchery surrounding Sir Francis Drake's defeat of the Spanish Armada. He is said to have presided as Man in Black' over a number of covens, and that during the threat of invasion, he and his covens assembled on the cliffs at Devil's Point to the south west of Plymouth. There they performed magical operations to conjure forth a terrible storm to destroy many of the Spanish ships. It is said that to this day that Devil's Point is haunted by Drake and his witches, still convening there in spirit form.

Another, more famous legend, tells of Sir Francis Drake playing a game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe when news was brought to him of the approach of the Spanish fleet. In one version he is said to have casually continued his game to its conclusion which, it has been suggested was a magical spell; with the bowls he was scattering with his drives representing the invading fleet. In another version, he stops his game to order a hatchet and a great log to be brought to the Hoe. He then proceeded to chop the wood into small wedges whilst uttering a magical charm over them as each one was thrown into the sea, and as each one hit the water they transformed into great fire ships; sailing out to burn the Armada.

The folklore surrounding Sir Francis Drake also includes his deep association with the Wild Hunt. Sometimes he is seen as leading the ghostly pack of Wisht Hounds', and at others he is the riding companion of the Hunt's more traditional leader; the Devil. In some Stories Drake rides in a spectral black coach, drawn by black, headless horses and followed by a great pack of black, otherworldly hounds with eyes burning red in the night. Sometimes his coach horses are seen with their heads, and have eyes blazing like hot coals.

One such story tells of a young maid, running desperately across the moors to escape an evil man on horseback she is being forced by her adoptive family to marry. Upon reaching a remote crossroads, and collapsing there in exhaustion, the ghostly pack of hounds and horse drawn coach approach from the darkness. Stopping at the crossroads, a man steps out of the coach, and the young woman recognises him to be the ghost of Sir Francis Drake.

He enquired of the young woman, why she was out on the moor alone and in a state of desperation and exhaustion, and she told him of her plight. Drake pulled from beneath his cloak a box and a cloth, and gave these to the young woman telling her to continue gently on her way, and not, under any circumstance, to look back.

The maid did as she was instructed, and when her pursuer reached the crossroads, he asked of the dark figure in the coach if he had seen a young maid passing by. Drake asked the man to step into his coach, and as he did, its door shut fast and the coach and hounds disappeared back into the darkness. The man was never to be seen again, and it is said that when morning came, his horse was found at the remote crossroads and had apparently died of fright.

According to research by the Devonshire cunning man Jack Daw, there is said to be a family line of Pellars, descended from the girl who encountered the spirit of Sir Francis Drake on the Moor. Their powers, it is claimed, are derived from the gift of the box and cloth he had given to her on that night.”

—

Silent as the Trees:

Devonshire Witchcract, Folklore & Magic

by Gemma Gary

[amethystpath-writes]

Revenge of The Two Weeks (3)- that's right. We named it, folks.

Continuation of this original story.

Continued directly from here!

@tears-and-lilies @whatwhumpcomments

If anyone would lile to be added or removed from any tag lists, plz let me know! I don't mind either way!

Heed the tags.

******

The flaps of Hero's tent flapped in the wind, distracting him slightly from the task at hand. The commander was testing his strategy; he was testing all of the mens' strategy, trying to figure out who might gain his own title when he retired- if he ever retired.

Hero picked the tip of his finger up off of the map, replacing it with another finger on his other hand while he moved his first to the right side of the parchment. The commander was wanting to expand to the eastern part of the lands. Problem was the number of geological obstacles: craters, hills, ponds, and mushy swamp-like areas galore.

Sighing, Hero threw his head back. It seemed impossible. He eyed the blue flag closest to his right finger, picked it up, and threw it over the shoulder. There, he thought, Get rid of the bloody pond. If only it worked that way.

There were three blue flags, all within several hundred meters- realistically speaking- of one another. Very little room for our legions. Hero debated whether or not to fight on horseback. As great and obedient as the horses were, they were large and clumsy in close proximity. With little space, there was too much room for error. So no horses. That fixes that problem.

One yellow flag. The marshes. A big ole stretch of hard-to-walk-through mush, at least for a human. So yes to the horses. Or no? God, I don't know. The swampish lands would result in more army and artillery men's deaths than if a few horses fell into the ponds. Keep the horses. And that would allow for the use of their bows, which would presumably be an advantage.

The horses will require resting breaks. What would happen if they exhausted a bunch of them? Men would have to walk, which would exhaust them. That was better than all of the men exhausting themselves at least.

Hero bounced a fist off the table. This was so frustrating. He thought, now, maybe he wasn't cut out to serve under the commander's- and certainly not the king's- name. But he had to. Because fighting was all Hero could do. He wasn't good at anything else, but if he failed in this test of strategy, he was done for. He'd be demoted, become one of those scavengers of the army who were responsible for picking up dismembered body parts and burning them. How disgusting. How lowly. How vile.

"You kept the dagger."

Hero gritted his teeth together, jaw askew. He didn't need to turn to know who that was. "Yeah? It's my dagger. Just because you stole it from me then gave it back doesn't mean it hasn't always been mine. Of course I kept it."

The tent flaps were quiet, Hero realized. Villain must have been holding them still. It was with this information that he began reaching for his dagger, saying as a distraction of sorts, "Do you remember Grandad?"

Villain laughed. "Don't try to settle me with your old stories. I don't care about them anymore."

"You used to." Hero swallowed, adjusting the handle of his dagger until it felt just right.

Spiders crawled up his spine to the base of his skull. He spun, dagger held with the blade outward. This hadn't been his plan. First, Hero's plan had been to launch the dagger at the wooden tent post, just close enough to scare Villain. But now he was in front of him.

"Cute," his younger brother commented, and pushed Hero's wielding hand aside. "But I have my own." He hummed. "You give into me so easily. You ought not to, for your own sake. To me it's fascinating, but who knows when I might actually decide to slit your throat?" It was with this that Villain brought his own dagger to Hero's neck. "And what would you ever do to stop me? You already had the chance to both throw a blade at me and stab me with it. You've done neither."

Hero rolled his eyes. Villain was shorter than him which only aided in the harshness of the sharp dagger on his neck. His brother was pushing up at a cruel angel, one that Hero had to avoid swallowing against.

"What do you want me to tell you? You're right, okay? You're right. I have guilt and I hoped that I'd never see you again because of it. But you're alive." He took a breath. "It's up to you what you do with your life from here. You can chase me around crazily as you have been, thus driving me to continue ignoring you every chance I get. Or," Hero ventured, "we can work on reestablishing what lost relationship we had."

The knife cut in. Hero squeezed his eyes shut, let his nostrils flare. A warm trickle slid down his neck into his uniform. "You might not want to maim a trusted person of the Guard and Commander."

"Oh, I don't think that matters much." Villain cocked his head to the side, peering at the map left on the table behind Hero. "If anything, I'd replace you. The Commander likes tough boys, isn't that still right?" He sighed. "I know I overstayed my two weeks in the woods, but well..." Villain laughed. "After a wolf tore my friend and a six year old child apart before eating them, the woods actually welcomed me. I'd tell you where I stayed, but I promised the boys I wouldn't compromise them."

Hero's breath caught. "Some of them still live in the woods?" He tried to pull back, away from the blade, but Villain pushed it forward as Hero pulled back.

With a shrug, Hero's younger brother- who had been gone, presumably dead, for five years said, "Sure. Not all of them felt like returning to a place that couldn't accept them as they were. They found new families, ones that fought to keep them alive. They became brothers to one another."

"How poetic." Hero scoffed. "They should be brought back. They're not safe out in the woods."

The dagger slashed through the air, away from Hero's neck, but not straying at all from his shoulder. Hero hollered out, but Villain clamped a hand over his mouth before anyone else could hear. Not that it mattered. Like Villain said before, the worst that could happen was Hero lost his position, which Villain certainly didn't mind. Still, he wanted to torture his older brother this way for a little longer before he did anything too drastic.

"Funny," Villain spat, stance like a cobra ready to strike. "You didn't say that when you led us all to the woods before. Do you know how old the youngest was?" His voice was venom.

"Six."

"No, that's just the one who died. My friend who was also killed by the wolf was sixteen- just to give you a little perspective."

"Five, then."

"Three or four." Villain explained, "He didn't even know his own age." And then he turned to blame, "You left him in the woods. You took him away from his family, and you are the reason he's going to grow up always overexerting himself to please others, only to feel like he's never enough."

Villain bit his tongue to stop himself, but then said it anyways. "I'll be surprised if he doesn't kill himself in three or more years. He feels like a disappointment to himself, Hero, because a man he was supposed to look up to told him he wasn't enough and then sent him off into the woods- where he watched every horrific image you can think up happen."

"I don't know what you want from me!" Hero roared, and this time he finally did move to fully strike a blow on his brother. He shoved his shoulders hard enough that Villain nearly fell on his bottom.

Lucky for Villain, he was able to balance himself out before that could happen.

"I'm sorry, alright! I'm sorry that I failed the four or five of you-"

"Seven of us."

"-and that I was too cowardice to see for myself if you lived or died. I'm sorry. But I can't do anything to fix it except offer myself to you now. So that's what I'm doing, Villain. I'll be a better brother this time around. If you're looking for something, some sort of closure though...you're not going to find it another way. Because no matter how much you torture me, you'll never be satisfied knowing that I left you. That I created memory after memory with you just to leave you to packs of vicious wolves and hungry, lonesome bears.

"I fucked up, Villain, I know I did. But I can't fix it now. I was- and am still- just as scared as you were in those woods. Different scenario, but same, same hot-coaled fear. I'm sorry I wasn't as brave as I made myself sound. I wanted to be a role model to you, but I- I don't know, brother." Hero sat on a cot in the tent, put his head in his hands for a moment before looking up again.

"The Commander is a daunting man and I found myself cowering. You haven't seen him, Villain, haven't endured the training he puts us through, or the screaming he does- like we're prisoners of an enemy kingdom and not soldiers of his own. I'm not making excuses for myself; I know I was wrong. I know what I did is unforgivable, but I'm begging you, brother, please-" Hero kneeled, throwing his knees to the floor, tilted his head to the ground with eyes closed "-please try to understand."

A hand landed on Hero's soldier, but he kept his head down. He wished he would have opened them before, for a new pain bloomed in his shoulder. His mouth became gaped and he choked on the feeling, especially as it spread.

Villain twisted the dagger with a sick satisfaction. "I'll understand when you walk yourself into the woods for two weeks."

Twist. A sharp gasp. Ragged breathing.

"When you hear the deep growl of a wolf- deeper and more impactful than thunder."

Another twist. A pained holler and cry.

"When you watch the person who did everything they could to make you feel at home dies as he's immobilized by razor teeth in their leg. And when the teeth finally rip into the throat of a boy who doesn't want to die after minutes of fighting."

A plunge of the dagger. A wordless scream. A limp body- still breathing, but in so much pain that it can't even think of moving- against Villain's leg.

"When you wake up with your own bloodied fists and two piles of bones and drawn out, tattered rags beneath you- because you slept on a branch in a tree to avoid getting eaten yourself. When you spill every ounce of fluid in your body out into a creek because you're so traumatized. When you suffer the way I did...when you spend just the first week in the woods like I did, maybe then I'll try to understand."

As a finish, Villain yanked his dagger from his brother's shoulder and said, "You don't get to keep this one." He wiped the blood off on his pant-leg and walked out.

******

@badthingshappenbingo

Original Work

Knife to the Throat

[asimawv]

I write and conceptualize story to music, so I’ve compiled a playlist of 30 Darkest Dungeon-specific songs that I listen to when writing (and subsequently re-writing) in no particular order, which I hope will help you set the vibe too. :+)

Names in bold are links for easy listening - tons of Hozier and Of Monsters and Men up ahead, five minute warning.

1. ‘Fire and the Flood’ - Vance Joy

If you listen to nothing else on this list, listen to this one - it’s the kind of song that’s made for movies about yearning. Folk influences, choruses of trumpets and vocal harmony, and instruments that are layered for a rich, resonant sound. This is the song I imagine Dismas and Reynauld horse-racing through a crowded outdoors market in the hamlet to, and the song I listened to nonstop freshman year when I first started writing The Myth of Sisyphus.

You're the fire and the flood And I'll always feel you in my blood Everything is fine When your hand is resting next to mine Next to mine You're the fire and the flood

The chorus is built around biblical allusions to the fire (the burning bush signifying first contact) and the flood (destruction of the first world), the beginning and end. Every line is similarly evocative of Darkest Dungeon in their simplicity (“I’ve been getting used to waking up with you,” etc.)

2. ‘Soldier, Poet, King’ - The Oh Hellos

By the title alone you can guess who this is for. Even the Guild quote for the Leper approaches these three things as the defining parts of his character (specifically it’s “a ruined man, a warrior, and a poet.”) This song coincidentally has an old world influence to it, with a Medieval Renaissance style from a guitar playing a lute-adjacent melody.

There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei oh lai oh Lord Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei oh lai oh Lord

To be smeared with oil is to be anointed by a prophet and thus chosen by god himself to be king, just as David was and his boy after him (presumably Solomon). There’s something strangely wistful about the imagery, which is just how I like my songs about bygone kings.

3. ‘Exit Hymn’ - Bear Attack!

This song is about the end of the world in a version where everyone simply stands together in silence watching, rather than having the masses swarming in panic.

Lovely shapes to the world descending, Brothers and sisters. Lovely shapes to the world descending, Brothers and sisters Mute.

It defies Lovecraftian horror, which is based on the premise that “common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large” - it flies in the face of existential nihilism and the despair that it should bring us. That’s why I like this song for deaths in the end-boss fight; it also has a special place for other death-related ideas, like full-party wipes - entire teams of people vanishing into the dungeons, gone insane, holding hands while the darkness surrounds them.

It’s a bare song which has a sanctity to it, mostly just piano and rain and human voices. Just what you would hear at the end of the world.

More under the cut:

4. ‘Pursuit of Glory’ - Jhameel

This song is laid-back. It doesn’t have the Homeric intensity that some of the other songs here do - it’s a guy with a guitar and vocal harmony. By god is it a great piece of writing though (all of Jhameel’s older songs have that quality to them), and all of it is evocative of Darkest Dungeon.

So many eyes set on the path to glory Too many ties, friendship is for the lonely Can't still my heart, my tongue has tasted folly Thirsty for art, hungry for power and money

This is a song for everyone in the barracks, especially the ‘laundry list’ of people and their approaches to the pursuit of glory.

5. ‘Good Old Days’ - Macklemore (feat. Kesha)

This fucker put a Macklemore song in here. I did, yeah. It’s not even the only song with Kesha in it here (I’m sorry.) 

It’s a sentimental pop song, and I am sentimental to a fault. This is Darkest Dungeon AMV material, and I always mishear one of the lines as “we were underground, loaded mercs in that 12-passenger van” so it’s here.

We've come so far, I guess I'm proud And I ain't worried about the wrinkles around my smile I've got some scars, I've been around I've felt some pain, I've seen some things, but I'm here now Those good old days

6. ‘Past Lives‘ - Kesha

Here it is, the other Kesha song - this was introduced to me by a good friend, also in a Darkest Dungeon context. There’s just something about the lovers spanning time trope and finding each other in one life to the next that is irresistible (for the obvious reason in the context of Darkest Dungeon.) It’s a soft song, totally out of place in Kesha’s typical discography, and has a line about losing someone to the crusades, so... you know.

There's just somethin' about you I know Started centuries ago though You see your kiss is like a lost ghost Only I would know But I, I keep on falling for you Time after time Time after time

7. ‘Viva la Vida’ - Coldplay

You cannot fight this. You know that this is the song for King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, you know it is. Did you know the official name of this genre of music is “Baroque pop”? Yes, that means more songs like this exist. You will live with this information now.

Don’t fight it. Just let it wash over you.

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing Roman Cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror, my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can't explain Once you go there was never, never an honest word And that was when I ruled the world

Mirror, sword, and shield, the three other members of his party, his missionaries in a foreign field. Thinking emoji. I typed that out so I wouldn’t have a repeat of the crab emoji incident.

8. ‘The Boxer’ - Jerry Douglas (feat. Mumford & Sons, Paul Simon)

Partly inspired by the Bible, Simon & Garfunkle’s ‘The Boxer’ is a folk rock song about poverty, loneliness, and homesickness. It’s written and sung in a style that’s strongly reminiscent of older times, and the final verse about its eponymous boxer is particularly powerful:

In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of ev'ry glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains

This is what I use for Dismas’ life leading into organized crime and his foolish abandonment of stable job prospects in a half-baked bid for fame, as well as being punched down over and over again but with nowhere else to go. That last part is widely applicable across the cast.

9. ‘I Will Wait’ - Mumford & Sons

I am but a simple man. I see 'folk rock' and add it to my Darkest Dungeon playlist. This song I use for Reynauld - it has that sort of “salt of the earth,” somewhat biblical humility in its choice of words and style. 

Raise my hands Paint my spirit gold And bow my head Keep my heart slow

10. ‘Little Lion Man’ - Mumford & Sons

Have we not beaten this song to death yet? Can you blame us? This is the people’s song. We reserve it for all of our favorite fuck-up characters, as primal as Saturn devouring his son. We love this song. Jesus.

Tremble for yourself, my man, You know that you have seen this all before Tremble little lion man, You'll never settle any of your scores Your grace is wasted in your face, Your boldness stands alone among the wreck Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck

The line about learning from your mother in particular is why I think of this song for Dismas’ introspection, but I also associate it with the Hellion.

11. ’From Eden’ - Hozier

There’s too much Hozier in my playlists. There is so much of it, and it’s all important to me, says the hoarder. There’s something about profoundly intimate folk music that I love, and god put folk, R&B, blues, and alt rock into a Vitamix for 45 seconds to make Hozier.

Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door

‘From Eden’ is, according to Hozier, about idolizing someone from a distance, written from the perspective of the devil “looking longingly at something he desires - for everything that he does not have.” I associate this song with the Grave Robber for its playfully nihilistic tone - Audrey does say something to the effect of being left for dead by high society and the affectionate bordering condescending address is on-brand.

12. ‘Cherry Wine’ - Hozier

‘Cherry Wine’ is unabashedly about domestic violence, and its sincerity is heartbreaking, the sanctification of the blood spilled in the name of keeping her.

The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine Open hand or closed fist would be fine The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.

This song is strongly tied to the Vestal for me.

13. ‘Work Song’ - Hozier

A song about unconditional love - heaven and hell were just words, indeed.

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

I think of this song for both Dismas and the Abomination - it’s a song about love transcending spiritual and even physical need, complete devotion, but something about it is also not quite right. It’s morbid and excessive, self-pitying, and almost ugly in its sincerity.

14. ‘Sunlight’ - Hozier

The strong gospel influence with the choruses, church organ, religious fervor - I think it makes a great song for traveling scenes and church/altar scenes.

I had been lost to you, sunlight Flew like a moth to you, sunlight oh sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight (sunlight, sunlight) But it is sunlight

15. ‘Arsonist’s Lullabye’ - Hozier

The gospel this time is paired with electric rock instrumentation. Something about the lamentation is unapologetic and matter-of-fact in its disturbing inclinations - this is Paracelsus’ song. Arguably representative of Bounty Hunter and Flagellant as well.

Now that I think about it, it’s great for Abomination as well. Damn.

All you have is your fire And the place you need to reach Don't you ever tame your demons But always keep 'em on a leash

16. ‘We Sink’ - Of Monsters and Men

Of Monsters and Men are closer to the indie rock/pop spectrum with influences of folk, with much less biblical influence and more folklore-inspired lyrics. They make for great trailer and action songs.

We are the sleepers, we bite our tongues We set the fire and we let it burn Through the dreamers, we hear the hum They say come on, come on, let's go So come on, come on, let's go

In Lovecraft’s Cthulu mythos, dreams are how the Old Ones commune with humans on the earth’s surface while they slumber in the ocean depths (Cthulhu fhtagn meaning “Cthulhu is dreaming”); I like to think of the ‘sleepers’ as the heroes being tasked to “set the fire” and the ‘dreamers’ being the Heir and Ancestor driven by some unseen force to unearth the antediluvian underground.

17. ‘I Of The Storm’ - Of Monsters and Men

Very somber song, overwhelmingly piano and snare drum and vocals. Also a great death scene song, or for introspection around the campfire, or played to reveal a major event.

If I could face them If I could make amends With all my shadows I'd bow my head And welcome them

18. ‘King and Lionheart’ - Of Monsters and Men

My favorite OMAM song - it’s clearly written about two children, kind of reminiscent of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ in its fantastical nature, and very upbeat about the end of the world.

His crown lit up the way as we moved slowly Pass the wondering eyes of the ones that were left behind Though far away, though far away, though far away We're still the same, we're still the same, we're still the same

This part is reminiscent of the Leper’s journey, but the mentions of taking over a town, howling ghosts, the end of the world, a black sea and creatures lurking below, etc. are all evocative of Darkest Dungeon.

19. ‘Little Talks’ - Of Monsters and Men

Also very upbeat for its subject matter - according to OMAM, it’s a narrative of a woman speaking with the ghost of her dead husband, or going insane and believing that she’s speaking with her dead husband.

Some days I don't know if I am wrong or right Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear 'Cause though the truth may vary This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

The call-and-respond style of the song is haunting. I like this song for expeditions and afflicted heroes.

20. ‘Wolves Without Teeth’ - Of Monsters and Men

Suitable for both Occultist and Abomination, being consumed by an unseen and otherworldly force that inhabits them - well, maybe just rarely seen, in the Abomination’s case. Special mention to OMAM’s ‘Human,’ same conceptual backing but more raw.

You hover like a hummingbird Haunt me in my sleep You're sailing from another world Sinking in my sea, oh You're feeding on my energy I'm letting go of it He wants it

21. ‘Desierto’ (Original Motion Picture Score) - Woodkid

This is a full album, because all of it is dark orchestral cinema music described as ‘unsettling,’ with the sole exception of ‘Land of All,’ which has vocals to it. I reserve this album for writing fight scenes and for particularly unsettling events because it’s tense and wordless. I read Junji Ito to this soundtrack too, it’s insanely high-strung and discordant.

22. ‘Iron’ - Woodkid

‘Iron’ qualifies as Baroque pop - you might recognize this as the Assassin’s Creed: Revelations song. The large-scale, cinematic style of it and thematic lyrics make it great for writing about dramatic encounters or brigands.

This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands I'm frozen to the bones, I am A million miles from home, I'm walking away I can't recall your eyes, your face

23. ‘Never Let You Down’ - Woodkid (feat. LYKKE LI)

Another somber song, orchestral with some industrial noise in the mix - another great introspection song, or one for a scene with some hard decisions to be made.

Will you come along cause I'm about to leave this town In my eyes, a waterfall, all I can hear, a siren call Could you be waiting by the shore, oh I could drown without you Will you be holding out the line when I fall?

24. ‘Run Boy Run’ - Woodkid

Church bells, fast percussion, strong orchestral presence. For chase scenes, obviously, but great for fast-paced sneaking scenes as well. Also has a strong quasi-Medieval fantasy setting style to it.

Tomorrow is another day And you won't have to hide away You'll be a man, boy! But for now it's time to run, it's time to run!

25. ‘I Love You’ - Woodkid

Don’t let the scream effects and aggressive percussion at the beginning deter you (it kind of took me by surprise the first few times too) - it soon fades into more of the church bells and melodic string accompaniment.

Oh yeah, unrequited love song? It’s free (mental) real estate, baby.

Is there anything I could do Just to get some attention from you? In the waves, I've lost every trace of you Where are you?

26. ‘Vagabonds’ - Grizfolk

A rare departure from folk! Grizfolk is alt rock/indie pop. Stylistically it doesn’t match the feeling of Darkest Dungeon, but lyrically it’s almost 1:1 to arrival in the hamlet and the subsequent expeditions. Good song for writing about recruits bonding.

Oh this careless ground, guessing this is home now Oh in no man's land, at least we're still standing And we're all just fighting, some of us will not return And there's no redemption in trying to find your way out

27. ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ - Lorde

Great trailer fuel, if you’ve seen the AC: Unity E3 trailer with this song - I listen to an extended version when writing fights in the Guild, especially one where two heroes are beefing. It’s got a primal kind of thing going on. I also associate this song with the Arbalest - lyrically, it fits her backstory like a glove.

Welcome to your life There's no turning back Even while we sleep We will find you

Acting on your best behavior Turn your back on mother nature

28. ‘Torches’ - X Ambassadors

More alt rock/indie pop - kind of a rallying song for dark expeditions, hopeful but still somber in nature - some gospel elements. X Ambassadors’ more popular ‘Renegades’ is also a fun tavern song.

Come on, carry your flame Carry it higher Leave it in the darkness Carry your torches

29. ‘Passing Afternoon’ - Iron & Wine

This is a song I use for reconciliation or domestic scenes - Dismas with Junia in the garden, for example. It’s soft and kind of meandering, and features vintage piano - you know, the piano you heard in the basement of your church turned community center as a child.

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

30. ‘Some Nights’ - Fun.

You know this song, your mom knows this song, everyone knows this song from like, middle school. Thought it’d be fun to end this list on an uplifting and very popular song. This is the song that a Disney adaptation of Darkest Dungeon would use in the Training Montage™ - from the point of view of Reynauld. It hits all of the points - being their commander rather than their equal, his stern and antisocial zealotry with no true ideology behind it, the ghost of his wife.

Verse 2, starting with “Well, that is it, guys, that is all / Five minutes in and I'm bored again” is where I see it transitioning to Dismas.

Well, some nights, I wish that this all would end 'Cause I could use some friends for a change And some nights, I'm scared you'll forget me again Some nights, I always win (I always win) But I still wake up, I still see your ghost Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for, oh What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know

_____

Well that’s all from me! Feel free to leave your own recommendations in the replies, and I’d love to know what you think about my personal picks. :+)

[jadedjo]

Star Wars Regency AU

Please accept this word vomit from my never to be finished Star Wars Regency AU.

moodboard from @celinamarniss​ 

~~~~

The candles flickered with light reminiscent of a thousand sparkles on the open ocean during sunset. It made Captain Luke Skywalker wish he were anywhere else then in the overheated ball room with said candles. In full Navel regalia, he longed for the open waters of the sea to cool his overheated body. But he had been ordered to attend the gathering held by his twin sister, and unofficial head of the house. He may hold the rank of Lord but it was the Lady Leia Solo who ruled the Skywalker estates.

Thus, his ship in port, and he himself on leave, Luke had very little choice but to make an appearance. As he gazed out upon the throng of pastel clad ladies and the dandies at their beck and call, Luke tried to hide a yawn behind his white gloved hand. 

After finishing a boring conversation with one of Leia’s political friends, he was about to head for the side door to the ballroom and his freedom when a flash motion caught his eye. 

Just entering the room, a woman in a scarlet silk gown that shimmered of the highest quality and complimented the cream color of her skin, stood at the entrance and let her gaze slide coolly over the guests. The red highlights of her hair blazed in the candle light amongst the gold curls, all swept up into a stylish chignon that left her elegant neck bare leading down to the expanse of her shoulders, uncovered by lace shall or chemisette. Luke could not see the color of her eyes from this vantage point and the low light, but when they passed his way and stopped for a split second before moving on, he felt a jolt of awareness spread through him. She was too exotic to be called beautiful by the current modes of fashion. But this captivating woman was worth sticking around for a while longer.

So transfixed by her presence, Luke almost did not see the man who stood at her side until he took her hand to lead her to a group of businessmen standing with his brother-in-law. Hoping to join the group before the woman and her escort got there, Luke slid through the crowd like a schooner through the rocks surrounding the outer bay of Alerra, arriving at his brother-in-law’s side just and introductions where being made.

“Captain Solo,” the escort said. “May I present Miss Mara Jade. My dear, Han Solo, Captain of the Millennium Falcon and our host.”

Han bowed and the woman curtsied before Luke nudged his friend and brother for an introduction. Up close she was even more captivating. Dark eyes, green perchance? Shone with enticing mystery.

Han shot him a wink only Luke could see before fulfilling his duties. “Captain Karrde, Miss Jade, a pleasure. And allow me to introduce my wife’s brother, Lord Luke Skywalker, Captain of the HMS Tantive. Luke, I’m assuming you heard the other half of the introduction so I’m not going to repeat it.”

Everyone gave the proper formalities before Luke asked, “Miss Jade, I’ve not heard that name before. Perhaps you are new to Alderaan?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said in a throaty voice that sent shivers across his skin.

“Mara’s parents where from Alderaan before traveling east. She was but a child of 5 when they left. It was in waters off Jedha where their journey ended when the ship they traveled upon was attacked by pirates and her parents killed. I was a crewman of the ill-fated ship and managed to secret Miss Jade and myself away before the pirates found us. She has lived in Jedha ever since. It is only recently that I have brought her back to her homeland.”

It was as the man spoke that Luke finally took notice of him. 

Captain Karrde was of some indeterminate years older than Han, though not so old as to be labeled Miss Jade’s father. He carried himself like a man of the sea, stance slightly spread for balance and steadiness. His black hair was kept short and neat, as opposed to the current fashion of longer, curled hair. The gray at the sides gave him a distinguished air that would hold up to stuff with any courtier. The skin of his face bore the trademarks of a life of sun and salt but was of a darker hue then just an ordinary tan. The equally dark eyes seemed to see much and express little. His dress was simple yet of the highest quality and spoke to refined tastes and deep pockets. Luke had trouble placing his accent but it only added to his air of foreign allure.

“It is as Captain Karrde says,” Miss Jade added. “I have begged him for many years to bring me back to my birthplace. Finally, he has relented.”

“Bad timing if you ask me,” Han said. “War with the Coruscant is on the horizon and may happen at any moment. The Queen cannot keep the peace forever.”

One Han’s friends, a Mr. Calrissian said, “You worry too much my old friend.”

“And you don’t worry enough ‘Old friend,’” Han replied, but in a jovial fashion. The others in the group chuckled. Even Captain Karrde gave a slight smile as if also knowing of the good-natured ribbing exchanged by the two.

It was then that Luke heard the strains of a Naboo Cotillion beginning and saw his chance to get Miss Jade away from her chaperone.

“Miss Jade, would you do me the honor of a dance?” He asked. “I fear my land legs may yet trip me up, as I’ve only just landed but a day ago. But if you can bare it, I would be delighted.”

There was an indefinable pause as she considered his request before curtsying and replying, “Of course, My Lord. I have yet to fill up my dance card and have been looking forward to dancing tonight.”

“Please, I am but a simple Captain in her Majesty's Navy and would prefer to be addressed as such.”

“If you wish, my Lor… Captain.” She nodded to the assembled group before taking his hand.

Now standing beside her, Luke noted that she was taller than most of the ladies of his acquittance and once hand in hand opposite each other as the dance began, he found it refreshing not to have to look down at her. Even so close, the light was still to dime to make out her eye color but he found he was utterly captivated by them.

“How are you finding your homecoming, Miss Jade?” He asked as they danced.

“To be honest, Captain, I find it lacking,” she said dryly. “The whole world touts Alderaan’s tranquil vistas and peaceful society, but I have yet to find it to my tastes.”

“Is there something wrong with a peaceful way of life?” he asked, curious by her response. 

“As a man of war how can you say such a thing?”

“Because I am not a man of war but of peace and protection. I offer my service to Her Majesty and to the Navy to protect those I care about.”

“And what of the rest of the world?” she prodded. “Do they not also need your protection?”

“It has always been Alderaan’s covenant to provide aid to those who ask for it. Even now I have it on good authority that the Queen is considering a proposal that would extend our ability to provide said protection.”

“I would believe you if I had not seen the lack of Alderaan’s ‘protection’ with my own eyes,” she said with a touch of bitterness.

“I fail to take your meaning.”

“Were you not aware of Coruscant’s invasion of Jedha?”

“I was. I am very sorry that your home has fallen to Admiral Thrawn’s ambitions. But I fail to see what Alderaan could have done to prevent it.”

“Jedha asked for help. Help that was never given.”

“I see,” he replied. This dance was not going as well as he hopped. Her lack of understanding in upper political workings of his country, made her bitter and resentful. “All I can say is that I cannot presume to know the mind of the Queen only to say that that must have been a very good reason for any withholding of aid.”

The woman said nothing and Luke found her silence irksome. Jedha was on the eastern side of Coruscant, far from Alderaani shores. If he were one of the Queen’s advisors, he would have cautioned against sending a large force and provoking Thrawn into open war with Alderaan.

He brought them to a halt before the dance was done and asked, “You doubt me Miss Jade? My sister and I were once wards of the Queen and her Consort.”

“I do not doubt you Captain Skywalker, and I have heard of your connection the Royal Family. Even as far as Jedha we have heard of the rumors that Queen Breha wishes to make your sister her heir.”

When he did not confirm or deny the rumor she went on, “But I have yet to see any proof of Alderaan’s commitment to anything but its own self interests.”

“Then I am sorry for you Miss Jade. Perhaps now that you are no longer sequestered in the east the truth will be revealed to you.”

~~~~~

This ball takes place during a house party and Luke finds Mara snooping in Leia’s quarters, tries to arrest her but she gets awa.

She escapes on a horse and he follows.

She heads to Talon’s ship in the bay where Luke tries to prevent her from boarding only to get captured himself as a trophy for Thrawn.

~~~

A little back story...

Anakin and Padme are Lord and Lady Skywalker. Padme was a Princess of Naboo when she met Anakin, a minor lord of Alderaan and fell in love. Anakin was matched with many young ladies but it is said Skywalkers only marry for Love. This was the case with Padme as she was supposed to marry another but left Naboo for Anakin. It was a scandal when she wed so far below her station.

Unfortunately their love was short lived and Padme dies in child birth to twins. Anakin soon follows her from a riding accident a few years later. Though many that knew the couple we say he died of a broken heart.

Luke and Leia Skywalker. They are fostered by the Queen and Queen’s consort of Alderraan. Luke becomes a Navel Captain while Leia manages the estate. She follows in her parents foot steps and marries a merchant and humble background, Captain Han Solo ( who also is involved in “free trade”). This is an even greater scandal then her mother as at least Anakin had been a Lord. Luke looks the other way concerning his bro-in-laws activities since tensions with Alderaan and Coruscant are rising and Han’s enterprises are for Alderaan and against the Imperial Empire.

Mara Jade is a courtesan/spy for Admiral Thrawn of the Imperial Empire of Coruscant. He holds on her the safety of a group of warrior monks, the Guardians of the Whills, that trained/raised her and she must spy on her countrymen to free them.

Talon Karrde is her accompli. Doesn’t approve of what she’s doing and just wants her to go to the Alderaan Government and come clean.

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

Bjorn Ironside x Female Reader: Skjaldmær

A/N : This is what I get for watching the Vikings before bed. A story based off a dream that I had a couple of nights ago, featuring Bjorn and a badass!female reader.  Part 2 may be in cards for this one if anyone’s interested? Let me know.  Also I have like a million messages to respond to, I promise I’ll get there. Please, bear with me? WARNINGS: Gore, violence, blood - the whole package. 

This wonderful GIF ain’t mine.  “This is a suicide mission”.

Your brother, Jonas, finally spoke, ever the optimist. With your eyes fixed firmly on the vast expanse of the open sea, you embraced the feeling of the salty wind brushing through your hair and caressing your cheeks. Your horse, Morning Star, grumbled impatiently underneath you, showing his excitement at what was to come. Animals, they simply sensed this kind of stuff - that, and well, he probably smelled dried blood and fire smoke, even from afar, that unmistakable odour of the others.

Your people called them the Vikings, the Norsemen, the Pagans - depending more on who was telling the story, than on the narrative in itself. Their reputation preceded them - half of your father’s counsel, or whatever was left of it, now that he went to war with the French, told you to leave everything behind, and move further into the country. That being said, none of them really believed that you’d be able to outrun these animals - it was written all over their faces, even if they refused to voice their thoughts - but you had to give it to them, their advice actually made sense.

It all started out a week ago, when a little farm boy called Jimmy ventured all the way to the sea front, trying to push the stubborn cattle back to the open fields. Something caught his eye as he tried to shoo one of his goats, who must have felt especially adventurous, from the edge of the cliff and back to safety. A series of little black dotes littered the horizon, growing bigger and bigger with each passing second. Jimmy might have been a very terrestrial creature, he knew a ship when he saw one. He told as much to his father - and from there, the word had traveled fast. 

When you were still a little girl, you father had made a point out of teaching you to reserve any kind of judgement based upon the words of others - but now, right at this moment, looking at the long, sleek ships cutting through the veins of the deep blue sea like razor blades, you could easily believe all those stories of bloodshed, violence and rape, surrounding the Vikings. The boats - maybe fifty in total - looked menacing under the dark grey sky, heavy clouds pregnant with unshed tears for those who would perish at the hands of the Pagans. 

“You should have left with the others”, Jonas spoke again, licking his dry lips as he, too, stared at the horizon. “You’re King Ipswich’s only daughter. Can’t imagine what those animals would do to you if they learn”.

“Now, now, they’d have to get their hands on me first”, a ghost of a smile lit up your features for a fleeting moment. “And if they do, I’ll be dead long before they touch as much as a hair on my head. And God be my witness, I will not go alone. If I go down -“

“You’ll go down swinging,” Jonas finished for you, a warm smile gracing his features for the first time since he learned about the Pagans coming. 

You watched him, unblinking, basking in the glow of his smile, making sure to take a mental picture of every little detail - the curve of his lips, small crinkles in the corners of his eyes… 

For you weren’t sure you’d ever get to see that smile again.

***

One calculated swing of your elegant curved sword was all it took for a giant Viking to collapse on his knees, choking on his blood. You watched him grasp his neck with both hands, his eyes wide and surprised as he stared at you, unblinking. 

Even with your armour on, all leather and metal, you knew you looked far less menacing than their women - sporting long braids soaked in blood, and black elaborate designs inked into their scarred skin. Yet, if anything, you considered this prejudice an immense advantage - your face stinging from the hot Viking blood spilled all over it just went to show that your skills had taken them by surprise. 

Sitting on the throne alongside your father for the last couple of years, you’d proven yourself to be a just yet merciful soon-to-be ruler; on the battlefield you were ruthless, baring your pearl teeth as you sliced another Viking’s head off.

What was an hour ago your people’s elaborate, beautiful lacquered houses was now a pile of burning wood, spitting black smoke into the air, thick with the odour of blood. Your eyes stung, tears forming in their corners, as you looked around, searching for your brother. You’ve been separated a while ago (minutes? hours? you’d lost count) by a group of Vikings with tattooed faces. You’ve killed three of them in a brutal fight - the last one managed to cut a side of your face, splitting your eyebrow - blood rolled down your cheek freely, but you refused to pay mind to the injury. Jonas was nowhere to be found, and with a clenching heart, you prayed to God he managed to get away...

An agonizing cry resonated over the noises of the battle - the sound pinned you to the ground, making blood freeze in your veins. Panic hit you like a hurricane as you recognized your brother’s voice, cursing the Vikings’ entire race to eternal damnation. 

It all happened so fast - and yet too slow - for the love of God, you felt too much, and nothing at all at once!… 

A deafening gasp left your bloodied lips as you turned your head in Jonas’ direction, the world around you coming to a screeching halt. You could feel your messy and bloodied strands of hair hit your cheek as your lips fell open, a terrified scream burning the back of your throat.

It lasted less than a second, yet still long enough to haunt you forever. 

Two Vikings, tall and proud, their faces scarlet with blood, towered over Jonas. Your brother - your everything - stood, vanquished, on his knees by their side. Your heart nearly giving out at the sight, you lurched forward, yelling your brother’s name at the top of your lungs. 

All it took was a caress of a blade. 

A slight, almost lazy flick of a Viking’s wrist. 

Your brother stared at you wide-eyed, blood pulsing through the neat cut on his neck, streaming down his chest in a red waterfall. Choking and gurgling, he pressed one of his hands to his throat, as if trying to keep the flow in, just to say one last word. 

“Sister...” he managed, reaching out to you with his other hand, broken, bloody and bruised.

He fell down on his face there and then, his eyes glassy, his bloody mouth giving up the ghost of that radiating smile of his - it was now gone, gone for eternity. 

You were screaming like a wounded animal as your feet took you to these barbarians. An hour before, you were a force to be reckoned with. Now you were deadly. Unstoppable. You couldn’t care less if you lived or died anymore. All you had now, all that made sense, was the fire in your chest, burning your heart to ashes, and a place you needed to reach.

Your features distorted by a mask of rage, you charged at the two Vikings, your sword held high and ripping through the wall of smoke. The cry you let out sounded like it tore your throat on the inside. Swishing your blade, you made both men recoil in surprise; your movements fast and precise, you cut one of the Vikings across his chest, glad to see him bleed. Growling, he stumbled back. Swinging the sword with a circular movement of your wrist, you gave him a twisted smile, all bloody teeth... right before you dug your fingers into the cut on his shoulder, pulling him in. Your sword pierced his chest squarely in the middle, as you pushed him onto it, his blood splashing all over your front and cheeks. Gripping the handle of your weapon tighter, you twisted it around, your eyes never quitting the Viking’s face - not until you saw the light go out in his watering eyes. Sliding your sword out of his hollow chest with one sharp move, you let his body drop to the ground as you looked around, your eyes searching for the deadman’s accomplice. 

A bitter laugh pushed its way through your lips as you saw the man stumble back at the sight of you - could you blame him? You probably looked insane, pain of loss and hunger for revenge taking over every fiber of your body. You cocked your head to a side as you took a step towards him, studying his face. He was young - maybe even younger than you. Among the usual attributes of those other men - long braided hair, strong jaw - you saw fear flash in those turquoise eyes of his. That elicited another smile out of you - and it was enough for the man to go into the attack stance, his sword aimed at your chest.

“Hvitserk, no!” 

Intricate sounds of the foreign dialect tingled through your body. Their echo gnawed at your earlobes, scratched your neck and caressed your shoulders, pulling you in. 

As your eyes searched for the man who’d spoken, you wondered whether it was the dialect or the man himself - you’ve heard the Norse before but it had never sounded so rich and tantalizing. Every minor change in the atmosphere, every breath, every clash of the swords on the battlefield - your body seemed to vibrate with terrible energy, adrenaline still pumping through your veins. That voice - that raw and guttural arrangement of notes - shook you to the core, leaving a pulsating sensation behind. 

The man standing before you - Hvitserk, you presumed - hadn’t moved. He stared at you unblinking, from the looks of it paying no mind to the powerful tenor. Your wicked smile grew wider as your gazes locked again; when suddenly, a torrid movement caught your eye behind Hvitserk’s back. 

The owner of that voice looked like the very definition of a Viking; he moved like one, too. Tall, ramroad straight, broad-shouldered and rock-jawed, he slid his sword out of a man’s chest, and squeezed its blade lightly between his arm and his ribs, wiping the blood on his clothes. Bear-like, his neck muscles drumhead tight, he sank his cerulean eyes into your frame, a content smirk playing upon his thin lips. Your breath caught in your throat as the man yelled something to Hvitserk again, something you didn’t make out; your heart clenched in your chest - much to your surprise - when the stranger bared his teeth like an animal - like a starved bear - as he headed towards you, ground trembling beneath your feet.

“Her Majesty is mine, brother!” he roared, wild and uncontrollable, quickly closing the distance between you. 

He knew. 

Realization struck you like thunder, your brother’s face flashing before your eyes. 

...You’re King Ipswich’s only daughter. Can’t imagine what those animals would do to you if they learn...

You growled until the sound grew into an angry holler - with your heart crushing hard against your ribcage, you squeezed the handle of your sword...

And started to run - to meet the bear-like Viking halfway. *** The desperate crunching of snow beneath your feet barely registered, as you zigzagged between the bare trunks of trees, now more than ever looking like old bones. Your ragged breaths almost blocked the ringing in your ears, the mocking whooping from behind you urging you to run faster. There was no point in hiding, you knew it all too well - the Vikings were the perfect hunters, probably capable of smelling their prey. Gritting your teeth, you jumped over a trap at the very last moment, nearly stepping into it.

Because that’s what you were now - their prey. The Vikings were hunting you, not for the fun of it, no. They were in it for a kill. 

A nasty sort of satisfaction flashed through your feverish mind as you heard the trap close on someone’s leg close by behind you, the man crying bloody murder. You allowed yourself to look back, if only for a moment, - and instantly regretted it.

Your stomach flipped at the sight of the bear-like Viking - the one with the cerulean blue eyes and a long blond braid - the one you’ve almost slaughtered during the fight. He was now mere meters away from you, so you swore a blue streak, forcing your legs to move faster. Your eyes also caught a growing crowd of the Vikings behind his back, all shouting in a wicked kind of anticipation, their faces smeared with blood. 

If you were honest with yourself, this was indeed a very unfortunate situation as it was. Your chances to get out alive diminished by half, however, when you saw the archer in a chariot pulled by a strong white horse, rush in your direction. That sight alone would have been enough for you to singlehandedly impale yourself on your sword, had you not lost it in the fight...

...When you and the bear-like Viking collided back on the battlefield, your swords connected with such a force, sparks shot out in every direction, and you found yourself thrown back from the impact. Instead of rushing back in, you quickly assessed the situation: you could never win this fight, not by facing the man head-on. He would use his brutal force, his powerful body, to his advantage. One punch or a swing of his sword would be enough for you to go down in history as yet another ruler fallen at the hands of the Barbarians. 

This simply wouldn’t do.

You were faster. Lighter. And certainly less rigid than this mountain of a man. You just had to find a way to use these differences to your advantage. 

And so you did. 

A rowdy crowd of Vikings gathered around the two of you, encircling you completely, urging the bear-like man - their commander in chief with eyes bluer than the skies on the sunny day - to kill you. Your breathing deep and calculated, you blocked them out. Balancing your body weight onto your toes, you jumped back and forth, throwing your sword forward at different angles, trying to get the Viking to follow your motions, to lose his focus. When you saw an opening, you dashed under his arm like a dancer, slicing a deep cut into his ribs. The Viking howled, surprised rather than hurt, even though the gash in his side looked deep and bled profusely. He barely even blinked - stoic as they come, he spinned around to face you, his sword narrowly missing your neck. You dived down just in time, using your position and your blade to slash his thighs open.

The roar that escaped his lips was raw, angrier this time. Still on his feet - how, in God’s name, did he manage to stay upright after that?! - he bolted in your direction, his sword clattering to the ground. His massive shoulders crashed into your chest, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Both of you fell back, the Viking’s body pressed tightly to yours, pinning you to the ground. It took you a while to gather your spirits - you hit your head hard enough against the frozen ground to see stars. When your eyes were able to focus again, you zeroed in on your enemy’s face as he hovered over you, shifting his weight to his hands, pressed into the ground on each side of your head. Bare inches separating your faces now, you stared into his cerulean eyes, watching you with... amusement?

You frowned, wincing at the throbbing in the back of your head, and when you looked back up at him again, you found that the Viking on top of you hadn’t moved, mirroring your expression. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d think... 

Was he concerned about you now?!

You must have hit your head harder than you thought. 

Biting your lip so hard it hurt, you chucked your head forward, your forehead landing on the Viking’s nose. He hissed in pain, rolling off you - the weight of him gone, you suddenly felt naked, his warmth leaving nothing behind.

Scrambling back on your feet as fast as you could manage, you picked up a sword from the ground - too hefty and too long for your liking, engraved with the Norse symbols. Realizing you’ve picked up his sword and not finding the strength to care anymore, you searched for the bear-like man with cerulean eyes, knowing you had to finish the job. Knowing it was either you or him. 

He didn’t go far. He stood right there, weaponless, that amused look back on his face, topped by a growing smile on his thin lips as he gazed at you.

This was your chance.

Using both hands to hold his heavy sword above your head, you could already see its blade bury itself in his shoulder, cut through his chest... When suddenly a sharp pain shot through you, forcing you to cry out. 

The handle of the sword slipped from your grip as you stared wide-eyed at the arrowhead, sticking out your chest just below your right collarbone. 

Dark droplets dripped from the tip and onto the ground, warmth spreading across your torso, as your clothes slowly soaked up the blood. Your vision blurred as you threw a lost glance over your shoulder, noticing a Viking in a chariot still holding his bow. 

Silence fell upon the battlefield - thick and leaden, save for the sound of your blood falling onto the ground; there was a certain rhythm to it that felt like a countdown. 

The loud and lonely cheer that reached your ears from behind had an almost ceremonial quality to it. You didn’t have to turn around this time to know it came from the archer. A hushed and indecisive murmur rolled over the crowd, when your eyes flicked back to your enemy, the bear-like Viking you’d almost killed.

His cerulean eyes sparkled in the light of the dying fires, his expression serious.

“Run,” he urged you, his voice barely a whisper. 

Your eyes growing wide, you pressed your fingers around the arrow piercing your body. Blood trickled down your hand now, leaving a burning trail in its wake, your legs already taking you away. 

The countdown over, the chase began... 

...Just when you thought you could run no more, the sight of the archer in the chariot gave you just enough of a scare to go on. Your survival instincts must have kicked back in - you ran faster now, your hectic heartbeat echoing in your ears. 

You knew where you were headed. Just like you knew there was no chance in hell you were getting out alive. Still, you reserved the right to choose the way you’d go down.

Swinging, your brother’s voice resonated in your head, a frantic sob raking your body. 

If you were to die tonight, you were sure going to take with you as many of them as you could.

Frozen lake’s surface shimmered in the stark red rays of the sun, setting on the horizon. Speeding down the hill towards thin ice, you nearly laughed in joy, relief washing over you like a final blessing. The end had never been so close before, yet you had never felt so alive. 

“Ivar!” the familiar deep voice filled the air around you, the bear-like Viking’s anger reverberating in between the trees. “No!”

You refused to look back, your eyes set on the lakeshore, so close...

And yet so far. 

Before you knew what happened, your legs gave out, pain pouring out of your throat into a hopeless scream. With your hands stretched out, you collapsed onto the ground, your blood painting the snow red. 

Biting on your lips, you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling every inch of the arrow that tore through your thigh. 

Swallowing hard, you propped your maimed body on your elbows, half-conscious, pain slowly dragging you into the darkness. The sound of the victorious hollers and general commotion slowly faded away, while your mind struggled to find something - anything - to hold on to. 

“Sleep it off, skjaldmær. And then we’ll face each other in a battle again.”

Feeling your body being lifted from the ground, you let out a moan, the end of it muffled by the armour protecting your enemy’s chest. 

Bjorn, your mind provided helpfully. The bear. The bear-like Viking. 

The thought of fighting him was not as tempting as reuniting with your brother, yet somehow… 

Somehow his promise turned out to be enough for you to live to see another day.  

[joe-young-stories]

A Week.

Hey, new to tumblr. This is something I wrote in an enclosed, dodgy Christian community in 2018.

The last time I saw Dad in person I was seventeen, and I’d either just finished my A-levels or I was halfway through them. I’d seen him a year before, for Grandad’s funeral. After we’d got home from the wake I’d nicked a crate of Guinness, and thrown up on my suit. I’d thrown up all over the guest bed as well, and I’d left all the empty cans in the waste paper basket. I told my dad that the emotional stress of the funeral must have affected me, and I didn’t really give a shit about the fact that he knew.

This time it was summer, and it was that one week of the British summer that is actually scorching hot. Dad was waiting for me at Oxford train station for my visit. Visa Skank was there too. Visa Skank is my dad’s Russian wife, and perhaps she married him for a visa or perhaps she really loves him. I’ve never actually had anything against her. It was rude, offensive, calling her Visa Skank, but it made me feel really savage and clever back then.  This day at Oxford train station she was in her late forties, and she was wearing this shimmer- shimmer peach linen halter top harem pants combo thing with a dainty cream pashmina and a big floppy straw hat. She was basically just easy mockery.

We went straight from the station to this ultra quaint Riverside pub/restaurant garden. I had Peronis. I had a burger too. We didn’t really have a conversation because Visa had seen a picturesque riverside photo opportunity, and she had my dad take pictures of her next to a drainage sluice for almost an hour, at different angles and filter settings. At the end we walked back through the pub to get to the car and she started draping herself mystically around rustic beams and cosy fireplaces, or sat herself next to like, napkin dispensers that pleased her. And my dad took more pictures. I just wanted to get back to the house. I don’t remember too much more from the meal.

In the daytimes that followed I fell into a routine. Dad would wake up late (his teaching job at the schools wasn’t on) and he might mooch about or he might go into Oxford, or he might just go to Headington High Street. Visa Skank had a busy social schedule attending a young mum’s social club in the Florence Park Cafe. She would spend a lot of time there. I would wake up and take a walk into Central Oxford. And I would stop for a pint in the White Horse, where we used to go for Lunch when I was little. In town I would walk the old streets around the Radcliffe Camera, and this was back when I had academic ambition before I stopped caring about most things, and the scholarly atmosphere excited me. I walked past the cathedral boys’ school – my first school—and into the Eagle and Child, or the Kings Arms, or the Turf Tavern. I would read Franz Kafka stories or Iris Murdoch novels or I’d listen to pretentious students talk shit and praise myself for being more intelligent than them. After a few pints I’d saunter back over Magdelen Bridge and back up towards the house in Headington.

Dad’s house had changed a lot over the years. The retro porn PC used to be in the dining room, and all my 9 year old self used to do at my dad’s was either play SimCity on that computer or watch Dad’s porn. He’d archived literally thousands of pictures, all categorised according to hair/boobs/race etc. Albums of particular stars. I got up early at that age, and if you were proper stealth about it could get up with the dawn and watch a four second clip of a woman getting pleasured by a mechanised shoe buffer. Only if you were stealth though. The computer screen could be seen from the stairs via the dining room mirror. You had to listen for footsteps. God forbid that Visa or even Grandad would walk in. View me wanking it to Dad’s shoe buffer porn.

Now though the house layout was different. Grandad had been a cantankerous twat since Nan died, and all he ever did was sit in the living room watching cartoons and chat shows. GMTV, Pokemon, Digimon, Homes under the Hammer. That was all I ever saw him do on visits to my dad’s.  I left him to it.

But he started losing control of his faculties, and Dad and I would walk in from the pub to a stray smell of nappies, the CBBC channel playing in the background. His osteoporosis got worse. The last time he was alive I was seventeen and he’d been moved to a hospice. He was half asleep next to his colostomy bag but he murmured a greeting and a goodbye. The three of us, Grandad, Dad and me, sat in near silence for approximately fifteen minutes. “Good to see you, Grandad,” I said to him as I was leaving. Grandad had written “to a very impressive grandson” on my birthday card seven months previously.

While Grandad was dying his house was being renovated. The dining room and kitchen had been knocked together into this rustique farmhouse experience, with a big beaten up pine table, a pine dresser and a freshly installed aga. An aga in a nineteen thirties semi. There were a lot of wholesome wicker baskets bought in and gooseberry jam jars were placed in them for effect. Next door the garage was knocked down and a den/conservatory/stargazing lounge/music studio was built. The living room, where Grandad watched all the kids TV, and which I was told was always going to be “His Space” had had all the carpets ripped out and new sofas put in. Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered every wall, and they were all full of this intelligentsia Russian shit no one read. The retro porn PC was upstairs in Dad’s bedroom now, so after I got back from Oxford that last week I’d sit in the conservatory on my laptop. Sometimes if my dad was around I’d bring up an attractive female friend’s Facebook profile and wait for him to ask me about it. He’d talk about organic food and hand picking your own raspberries, and how Russian customs and traditions were the best way to live. But most of those afternoons he was upstairs in his bedroom checking his email, which took about two hours and was a pretty full-on activity for him. If Visa was at home she’d make still life displays from Kitsch crap she found in charity shops. And she’d do photoshoots. Most of the time she was out though. Presumably with the young mums.

When I was downstairs on my own I would drink from the many, many bottles available on the farmhouse shelf. I never drank in front of Dad, but I’d never bother hiding how drunk I was getting either. A little bit of gin, little bit of vodka, whiskey, white rum.

I’d always done this. When I was about twelve, thirteen, fourteen I’d go through Dads bedroom and raid his wardrobe. I’d find his extensive magazine stash and his books on “Tantric Passion”, “The Multi Orgasmic Man”, “Make Her see you Mean Commitment”. I’d find the hamper full of Bombay Sapphire bottles; I never questioned the water bottles full of urine next to his bed. I wasn’t subtle. I’d try and incite his scorn, his discipline, his parental authority. I’d find glow in the dark condoms in his bedside drawers, and I’d take them out of the packets and leave them under his pillow like a treasure hunt. I would neck a bottle of chardonnay, refill it with tap water and leave it in the fridge for him to find. He’d look at the bottle, look at me, deliberate and stammer “I must have rinsed it out for recycling and put it back on autopilot.” I don’t think he knew me well enough to confront me. He once drove me back to mums with me throwing up ass the way down the M40, and we both agreed that I must have eaten some “ropey” quiche.

I didn’t want Dad to parent me anymore; I just didn’t really care. So while Dad was upstairs checking his email I’d access the WiFi and watch naked men beat each other, and I’d masturbate and drink gin. I think on the Tuesday of that week he found me full-on passed out in the stargazing conservatory, sleeping it off. Later on he’d said something about travelling being exhausting, especially across London, and it always took a few days for the mind to properly relax on holiday. I agreed.

In the evenings we’d go out to a pub, the Vicky Arms or The Chestnut or something. I would tell Dad what A levels I was doing. I’d namedrop attractive female friends quite a lot, and talk about parties I went to with them. I’d wait for him to be like, “Are they pretty?”, “Are they into you?”, “Like yeah, get in, my son!”, “Well done, boyo!” and things like that. Visa would come with us. She’d sit there in peach tracksuit bottoms and some kind of burgundy flamenco/matador top, and she would say things like, “Never microwave food because it changes the molecules. Did you know this? We go through a recipe book and you will find meals you would like to try.” We might order popcorn from behind the bar. Visa might demand a photo shoot of her next to an inspiring sunset or whatever.

At home Dad and Visa would go to bed in Grandads old room. Nans room, now the guest bedroom, was being fitted with a “Roman balcony” so I slept on a blow up bed in the living room with all the Russian volumes. I’d drink more whiskey and watch a comedy show about teenage lesbians.

That was it, really. The last week I saw my dad was fairly uneventful. Mundane. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was the last time I saw him I doubt I would have remembered it

Only two events stand out in particular. On the Thursday of that week Dad was playing at a jazz and tango concert at a bar/club in Wantage. He did concerts like that to keep money coming in when the schools weren’t on. Visa took tango lessons down at the community centre, and she’d met a new friend and tango partner called Allan. He had had a stroke and divorce in a five year period and had taken early retirement, so I was told. So I was briefed. Briefed why? I didn’t care.

Allan met us at the house. We all sat about having a back garden beer and then Dad and I set off for Wantage. Allan’s and Visa came later, in Allan’s car, which he could still drive all post stroked up apparently. We had another pint in a pub in Wantage. Dad introduced me to the concept of a “Session Beer”. Advice I have never followed.

Dad gave me money for the evening and then left me to my own devices. I sat on the balcony and drank a lot of Stella, and from my vantage point I could see Dad playing onstage. I could see Visa and Allan as well, and she had her head on his shoulder and he was holding her close around the lower back. This didn’t look particularly tango-ey, but Visa had told me on one pub evening that tango was more about feeling than steps. “Feeling. Yes?” she had said with gusto. This was the passion of the dance I was watching, then. Dad had told me in the car that tango was Allan’s hobby, it’s what got him out the house, like his physio. I looked at Dad, and he was playing some sassy chords on the piano, watching the two of them become one with the dance. He didn’t do anything else. He just sat there, watching them get on with it. I finished one of my Stellas, and later on I thought to myself that he looked like a drooping bunch of flowers in a vase, half dead. A bit sad, maybe. A bit lacking. I was quite proud of myself for thinking of that. It felt very grown up.

Two days later we were having a back garden beer, Dad and I. The garden had changed, and where a swingset once stood there was now a very wholesome vegetable plot. Beyond that was a washing line. It was one of those washing lines with one pole in the ground, and it folded out like an upside down pyramid. You could spin it around for ease of pegging/unpegging. I looked at the washing line and remembered my eight year old self playing by it. I had been playing with a football. I was staying with him for a few weeks or so over the summer. I was out there, by myself, with the football. But I liked to pretend I was playing with all the other children I knew from school. Kids who were actually busy with their own friendship groups or who called me poofty boy by the wildlife pond. But when I was playing with them by myself they were all like, “I did not see this coming! We have not appreciated your serious skills! Hey guys, check out this Baller!” and none of them called me a poofty boy by the wildlife pond.  

I had devised a game where you had to throw the ball into the opened up washing line to score a point. Dad came outside just as I was about to land the sickest shot from ten feet away, the shot which was going to blow George and his gang away, and was going to make Sadia and Carrie-Ann think I was total boyfriend material. He asked me if I wanted anything to eat.

And I really don’t know what came over me, but I said something along the lines of “I’m playing a game. We have to get the ball off each other and get it in the net. Do you want to play?”                          

“Oh, right!” was something like he said “Yes alright then, I will”. I’d never played a game with Dad before, and we were both a bit hesitant. Like, do we just…start, or what? I chucked the ball at the line and missed, and he grabbed it. We ran around the garden, playing the game. He scored a point. I scored a point.  At one point he wrestled me to the ground to get the ball off me, and then helped me up. I remember laughing and smiling, being out of breath. I was tense, too. How did things like this come to a logical end? Did, like, the session finish?  Was there a way for this to end without Dad having to just be really rude? Like: “I’m sorry Joe, but I need to stop doing this at this point and go back to my day. You are welcome to continue though.” How did it work? After approximately fifteen minutes it mercifully started raining, and we went inside. It was the only time we ever played the game.

Sitting and having a beer with my dad that last week was the last time I looked at the garden, or indeed spent any time with him. Halfway through our drink Visa came out of the stargazing conservatory doors, and she was wearing a floor length lacy white gown, a white bonnet and silky white gloves. She was carrying a large wicker hamper, and she put the hamper down and pulled out a silver teapot. “I am English lady at tea,” she said, and she raised the teapot in the air. Then she laid the patio table for a country manor high tea, and started demanding a photoshoot. I went inside.

The next day I was due to go home. I woke up that morning to find that I’d drunk too much and pissed the blow up bed. I put my soggy boxers in a plastic bag, and I covered the damp sheet with my duvet and left it to fester.

I hardly spoke to dad after that week. There was no reason to most of the time. I rang him twice to ask for money, once to say merry Christmas can I have some money and once to tell him I’d just left rehab. In 2018 I had written to him to tell him he was a cunt and I wanted to burn his house down. “Past wounds” with my Father had become a significant part of my “Life Story” by that point, and I thought that sending such a horrible letter might activate a Life Event in some way, some dramatic finale.

Dad has always had his settings such that I can’t find him on Facebook, so I have to log in as my mum to see his profile. Him and Visa quote Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare sonnets on each other’s pages. Visa’s profile has about 64 photo albums. They’re all called things like “Casserole dishes on the patio”, “Beauty In Autumn”, “Sensuous mermaid has adventure”.  Her name isn’t actually Visa Skank. All the photo albums are silly and innocuous. When I’m drunk, or self pitying, or feeling like a victim, or all of the above I sometimes find myself thinking about the game me and Dad played with the washing line and the football.

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

The Witchress of Keadwen (Geralt x reader, Part 4.)

Series description: The Butcher of Blaviken has a long and famous past, thanks to his friend Jaskier. Yet, neither of those dies easily and it still lurks behind Geralt like a shadow after all those years. History, neither unfriendly relationships, doesn't die easily.

Part Summary: Your arrival to villages of Borin and Corin were more or less accepted by the folk living there. Yet with uncovering the mystery risen up around Mahakam mountains, there were more questions than aswer. 

A/N: Why did I fell so hard so the Witcher politics? It was almost not mentioned in the series at all, but I am all about Temeria this and Redania that.

Tagging:  @osgon-azure​ @davnwillcome @missdictatorme​ @nemodoren​

Word count: 2.8K

Master list: H E R E

The party of mighty heroes was established, consisting of two witchers and one certainly attractive and legendary bard. As it was said the previous night, all of them met in front of the residence early in the morning to gather the last clues so later that day, they could set on their journey. The fog was thick and white as cow’s milk, the air was ice cold.

"I feel that I'm dying Geralt, I swear, I shall fall on this grass and never get up again." - Jaskier jested rather loudly, catching your attention. You were just feeding your horse and it appeared that you were talking to the animal. That was kinda a common thing when you were a witcher. You hadn't a better friend than your animal.

"It's only a hangover, Jaskier. You'll be fine as always." - Geralt grunted back, having a hangover himself. He shouldn't drink four ales and two wines. Yet he did and this was what he had gotten for acting dumb.

"This is the professionality you get from Geralt of Rivia himself." - You chuckled back and swung your leg over your horse to get on top of it. While Roach was a small, brown, and gentle mare, your horse was a beast. It had about two meters and it was as black as night. It was one of the expansive warhorses that weren't common for a witcher. What was common for a witcher was a werewolf head you had strapped to the saddle. Geralt has done the same and jumped on Roach’s back, only Jaskier still stood on the ground and was looking at both of you.

"Where is your horse, bard?" - You asked a bit unbelievably, your look being shot at Geralt as he was the bard's friend. - "If you ride on one horse, I don't judge. Just hop on there so we can go." - You said to Jaskier, petting your horse's neck.

"He doesn't have a horse." - Geralt said, making Roach go forward. Jaskier nodded and started walking behind Geralt. No. On your watch, the bard wasn't going on his feet. It wasn't that you liked him or anything that human, it would just be too fucking slow. And your horse was a big, strong one. Your two meters tall horse called Chamberlain stopped right next to Jaskier and you furrowed while you offered him your palm.

“You are too slow on your feet and I am not listening to your crying.” - You hissed as you helped Jaskier on the horse’s back. You almost slapped the man when you felt palms on your hips. - “If you touch me again I swear to Melitele that I will decapitate you, bard.” - You hissed and made Chamberlain go.

Jaskier wouldn’t recognize you in the morning. All the fancy diamonds were now gone, you weren’t wearing any make-up or jewelry. Jaskier could feel one of your swords poking his leg the whole ride, the second one’s hilt almost hitting his forehead.

Since he never has seen a female witcher, a witchress you would say, he was kinda wondering about your armor and the similarity it bore to Geralt’s. You had the same medallion of a wolf head, the same leather was used on your chest pieces, even the scabbard of the swords were similar. Yet you looked more charming, feminine, and gentler than Geralt could ever look, which made a lot of sense.

It could be felt that you’re going to the mountains shortly after - even if the sun got on the sky and the birds started to sing, the air was getting colder and colder. You had to cross three villages and a mountain pass to even get to the place of your contract - that could last a week if you’d be quick. Which certainly wasn’t your case since Jaskier was with you. And besides, you and Geralt had to look at the place where did all of the massacrings happened, and you had to speak with the survivors, which could be a difficulty on its own.

You had your suspicion about the monsters. It could be trolls or giants. But... This behavior wasn’t normal for either of them. Giants mostly didn’t even live on the Continent. Once you encountered one, it was on Skellige and you were glad that he didn’t notice you. And trolls... Yeah, they cooked people rather often, but they weren’t big enough to massacre a whole village and to break trees and stones apart. There was something fishy going on with this whole contract.

Most scared you were of the case that you would not have enough herbs to brew potions. Healers and herbalists could be hours, days, or weeks away and although it was just the start of fall, many rare herbs simply didn’t grow anymore.

To your surprise, you were stopping by the first village in the evening. It was getting cold, the sky was cloudy and the rain was about to break through any second. It was kind of normal when small kids started to yell and cry when they saw your pupils glow in the dark. Cows were running away, pigs shitted themselves. That was what being a witcher meant most of the time. Animals shitting themselves, usually being the first ones to notice you riding by. Then children crying and hiding behind their mother’s skirt since you were the scarecrow used when kids didn’t want to go to sleep. And at last, it meant a shit ton of disrespect and hatred from strange people.

The innkeeper was more or less quick with you.

“Are there any survivors from Makaham mountains taking refuge in this village, good man?” - You asked quietly, but at your question, the innkeeper shook his head.

“No, lady, we don’t have any folk from these poor villages ’ere. But if you’ll continue souther in the direction of Lyria and Rivia, you will surely find a village of Borin and Corin. There is the folk you search for.” - He answered, giving you two pints of ale for you and Jaskier. Geralt was sitting there with a pin of beer. As you mumbled a quiet thank you, you got back to your companion.

“Borin and Corin are the villages we need to visit next. Something tells me it will be already the territory of dwarves.” - You furrowed and sat down to the men, now waiting for the dinner you’ve ordered.

“Something about all of this doesn’t make sense.” - Geralt drank up and looked over the inn. It was calm, there was only one musician in the corner and most of the people didn’t even notice you. They surely weren’t provoking you, at least for that moment. Jaskier didn’t completely understand what you were talking about, but you hummed and nodded.

“Why would these rich Redanians hire us for a contract that is taking place in Mahakam? These mountains aren’t even in Redania, this isn’t Radovid’s concert nor theirs? And for a reason, I don’t trust that this is because they are worried that the monsters could ascend to their homeland.” - You nodded at Geralt’s suspicion, gently stroking your hair.

"Do you mean that this has something to do with the tension between Redania and Temeria?" - Jaskier asked all of a sudden, making you both interested. Geralt mentioned Jaskier to go on with his speech.

"People like you do not take interest in the normal people's problems," - Jaskier started, yet as soon as he saw Geralt raising his eyebrows and you shifting your position uncomfortably, his tone and expression changed drastically. - "Politically speaking, King Radovid is trying to take over Temeria, which is by cutting off its business and preferably killing off its king. Yet I think this has barely anything to do with this nonsense. It's just another bloody monster, killing everything that moves. You both know how these things go."

For a long moment, there was complete silence. Geralt was drinking his beer, so his furrowing face was hidden behind the bottom of the pint. His eyes were presumably closed as far as Jaskier could say. Your face was turned from the bard as well, but suddenly, after ten long minutes, you woke up from the trance. - "That makes sense. You aren't completely dumb."

"I can't be dumb when I am the biggest storyteller on the whole Continent." - The man in bright clothes jested playfully, laughing unbelievably.

"Although, I am not sure why would Skellige gave their consent to this. Honestly, I think all we are going to find will be some giants, piles of bones, old blood, and ghouls that were attracted to the place of massacre. Yet we can't just turn out horses back and drive to Redania just like that. Trying to accuse the king of buying giants, sailing them to Mahakam, and watching as they get out of your control... It is an amusing story and an impressive theory, but I don't think it would get us too far." - With that, you had Jaskier speechless, which didn't happen often.

It was rare to see witchers speak... Normally. You were talking in full-blown sentences that made some sense and told kind of a story. And it actually could be heard that you know what you're speaking about. Redania, political situation with Skellige, possibly bounded to Cintra and Temeria. One would never suspect that witchers could know so much about politics.

"But we can't be sure. Maybe the Devil sent his reign of terror to rule over Mahakam? Maybe we will find some undead, what can I know?" - You finished the speech, finishing the ale in one good swing. The truth was that witchers could not digest alcohol well, but they were good and grateful drunks. Whatever alcohol you would serve them, they would drink all of it.

As the last night, all of you went to sleep early. There was a long road ahead of you just to get to Borin and Corin and you weren't even thinking about some bad weather if a storm would meet you on the road, the journey could last additional week.

As far as you would talk about Jaskier or Geralt as your companion on the road, it wasn't exactly the best, but it wasn't the worst either. Jaskier could lift your spirits after you had enough forbearance to listen to his voice. His stories were pretty interesting, even if you were aware of how many of them were manufactured by the man. His facts about the monsters were mostly wrong, God knew what happened, but you at least smiled when his voice got the loudest and his eyes started to widen itself.

Geralt could at least hunt and prepare the fireplace when he wasn't exactly the most talkative from the bunch. He was mostly sitting there and prepared various potions and liniments. Your pouch was full of them already, yet Geralt was making some recipes you had never heard about. These recipes were unknown to you.

When the mist was settling down on the dawn of the fifth day, you were approaching the gates of Borin. Normal people were living there along with the dwarves, yet these villages couldn't be more different from the ones you would find in Redania or Kaedwen. There were mining shafts, members and ashes were flying in the air and there were only some conifers or bushes, normal flowers weren't growing where Borin was built. Some houses were built into small hills, only showing the door in the ground, some wooden cottages and houses could be seen and on the main square of the village, there was a monstrose fireplace.

For you, these villages were kind of a mystery. They never appeared as rich, neither they bounced above the abyss of poverty. Dwarves who lived in this town and who quarried inside the shafts exported their ores to Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms, sometimes to Lyria or Rivia... Basically to anyone who had the best offer. Who paid the most got the best ore on the Continent.

And there were camps for the refugees who lived higher up in the Mahaken mountains. The tents were big and could fit at least ten to twelve people. A lot of fireplaces were started to the human beings and dwarves could warm themselves up.

"This is so terrible and ashaming." - A voice in your ear had woken you up from your thoughts. Jaskier was looking at the suffering people. And in his eyes were tears. Oh, you have forgotten. This man surely never saw how whole towns and cities... Sometimes even provinces or kingdoms looked after Nilfgaard raided it. There were dead bodies set on fire laid down next to roads, people hung up on the trees, buildings that were torn down, and cities that were fabricated.

That was mostly why you had to take roads that were leading through the woods. That was where elves, Cintrans, dwarves, and halflings were hiding. That was where most of the refugee camps were located. And the things there... You saw non-humans eating cooked parts of their friends because there was nothing else left to eat. Non-humans were killed, their clothes and poverties were stolen, their bones were cowardly buried in one big pit.

"They have something to drink, normal things to eat, and a place to sleep. I have seen way worse than this, bard." - You said quietly, getting off Chamberlain's back. As usual, witchers were the main interest of everyone. Yet this time, it wasn't meant to make you angry. Refugees and beings living in Borin understood that you are there to investigate.

Slowly, you walked to the refugee camp, having an emotionless expression on your face. You led Chamberlain just a few meters behind, still letting Jaskier sit on its back. - "Is there anyone who comes from the villages of Lhanbyrde or Hwen? I wish to speak to someone who saw what happened there."

Geralt was watching you with his eyes. That charm, calmness, and smile could be admirable. You politely asked the people if anyone saw what happened in the heart of Mahakam - Geralt would just randomly ask someone in his typical barbaric style, scaring them to death. Jaskier surely thought the same thing since he was already looking at Geralt with his eyebrows rose. This was the way to go.

"I, good lady, I saw what happened there." - A boy stood up immediately looked you in the eyes. The boy was about sixteen years old, he was pretty tall and too slim for his age, which could be caused by the events of the last few weeks. No matter what, he was too young to even see such horrors. A nod of your head was what made him talk about what he did see.

"It happened all of a sudden. We were sleeping, oy? And suddenly, fire and screaming filled the air. I heard bones breaking, I saw people bleeding out, I saw all of that. But these footsteps, fair lady..." - The boy gasped for air and looked away for a second.

For a second, you shot your look at Geralt, widening your eyes a bit. The giants you were talking about before. Dear lord, this was strangely exciting. - "Do tell, boy. What about these footsteps? What about them?" - You sighed and the corners of your lips curled upwards.

"I don't know what it was, lady, but the footsteps were... I have never heard anything more horrifying. It was... Like the sound... Of a gong. The land was shaking under the footsteps. Whatever it was, it was huge." - The boy told you and there were tears in his eyes. The memories sure were terrifying someone who wasn't a witcher, yet for a witcher, their memories were everything and more.

Quickly, you bowed to the boy and put up the emotionless expression once again. Chamberlain was still slowly driving behind you with Jaskier on its back. As usual, you booked a room inside the inn, ordered alcohol, and some food to eat.

Good thing was that now you were almost sure about the monster species. On the other hand, there was also the thing that you were most possibly about to die in a painful death. The other thing was... How did giants get into the middle of the Continent? As a lot of questions got answered, more of them raised from the darkness of mystery.

[mythologyfolklore]

Baldr in Hel - Ch. 01

(A/N: This is another fanfic I’m rewriting. So prepare to be confronted with some crack ships (yes, I mean BaldrxHel). Also, they’re both ace and Baldr has a crap ton of issues. If you don’t like that, you’re perfectly welcome to leave.)

.

Hel's POV

Hel was sitting on her throne, just being her usual self and ruling the underworld.

Before her throne was a queue of dead souls, waiting to be assigned to their respective afterlife.

First in line was a middle-aged woman.

Hel's black eyes bored themselves into the soul in front of her.

Hmm … extreme vanity, violent outbursts of anger, abuse of servants and slaves, adultery. Died of dysentery. Gross.

“Náströnd¹. Give her to Níðhöggr² as a chew toy.”

Two servants dragged the screaming, flailing soul away.

Hel grimaced in scorn at the cries for mercy – mercy! For that scum! Who would praise her incorruptible and fair judgement, if she let evildoers get away with their crimes, just because they begged for mercy?

“Next”, she ordered.

A man stepped forward.

Pathological liar, murderer, perjurer. Fell from his horse and broke his neck. That's hilarious.

“Same as the last.”

Same reaction as the woman before him.

“Next.”

An old man.

Womaniser, but not married. Guilty of avarice. Died of old age.

“Niflheimr. He shall shovel the pathways.”

The old man let the servants take him away, muttering something that sounded like “was nice, while it lasted”.

“Next.”

A little girl.

Guiltless. Died of hypothermia. Poor little thing.

Hel's expression softened and the dead side of her face turned lively and fair, both to accommodate the innocent soul in front of her and because her face changed condition according to mood. Cute things made her happy and children were darn cute. Most of them anyway.

“Oh my Norns, you're so adorable!”, Hel cooed and the child smiled shyly. “To Helheimr with you. There are lots of children for you to play with.”

“Will I be punished?”, the girl asked frightfully.

Hel smiled gently: “Of course not. For what would I punish you? You have done nothing wrong.”

“Can Mama come too?”, the child asked and stepped to the side to reveal the woman behind her.

Hel read the woman's soul and found her to be blameless as well.

The queen smiled: “She can.”

Mother and child cried with joy and she picked her daughter up, as another servant led them away to a more pleasant life than their old one had been.

The underworld wasn't as unpleasant as everyone thought it was. The living spoke of horrible torments, but why would Hel let the innocents be tortured?

She took a moment to smile after the two, before turned back to- oh. Apparently those were all the souls for the day.

Hel just shrugged and resumed her usual blank expression. She would enjoy a few minutes of quiet, before leaving to do her paperwork.

Or not.

Because right that moment her manservant Ganglati³ entered the throne room, unusually light-footed.

After the old man had caught his breath, he addressed Hel: “Your Majesty, Queen of the Underworld, Ruler of Helheimr and Niflheimr, Lokidóttir-”

“What do you want, Ganglati?”, Hel groaned in annoyance. She really wished they would just call her by her name instead of rattling down all those titles.

“A very special guest has arrived!”, the old servant announced excitedly.

The queen was not impressed. “A 'very special guest', huh? Well, who is the unlucky soul?”

“It's Baldr Óðinnson!”

Hel's black eyes widened. Then she smirked wickedly.

Baldr. Óðinn's most beloved son. The fairest of the Æsir.

She had already been waiting for him; her tables were laid, the mead brewed.

“Hm, he took his time, didn't he?”

.

Baldr's POV

Where was he?

What had happened?

The last thing he had felt was this pain in his chest, where the mistletoe dart had pierced him.

Strangely enough it hadn't hurt as much as he had suspected.

No, what had hurt him more was what he had seen last – how Loki had tricked Höðr – his blind, darker, yet beloved twin – into shooting him. Oh poor Höðr, he had to be so heartbroken! Knowing that he had killed his brother …

Ah. Yes.

That was it.

He was dead.

And this had to be the entrance to the underworld.

Finally! No more pressure, no more getting stuff thrown my way … oh Norns, why am I like this?!

Now he just had to find the gate. A bit of a challenge in this fog.

Before he knew it, there was an obsidian bridge with a golden roof. Where had that come from?

More so, there was something inviting and mesmerising about this bridge. It called to him.

Come, it seemed to whisper to him. Cross me. Go to the afterlife. Enter the place, where you will be beyond all pain.

He chose to follow the call.

As he was in the middle of the bridge, he encountered a Jötunn, who was sitting on a watch tower. When she saw him, she jumped off her seat and greeted him briskly: “Welcome, Baldr Óðinnson. I am Móðguðr⁴, the gatekeeper of the underworld. Her Majesty, our venerated queen, is already awaiting you.”

She was? Huh.

This was exactly what Loki had told him, a night before he had murdered him.

Baldr smiled: “Well, I better hurry, then. It would be rude to keep the queen waiting, wouldn't it?”

“That it would”, the Jötunn agreed, unsmiling.

Suddenly a new voice made them both jump.

“Baldr? Where are you? Wait for me! Don't leave me here! I can't see anything in this fog!”

His blue eyes widened.

Nanna?! Oh no! When had she – okay, scratch that, he had to get away!

He stood on his tiptoes to whisper to the giantess: “I beg you, Madam, give me directions, quick!”

Her colourless eyes twinkled in amusement, though she still didn't smile.

“When you arrive at the other end of the bridge, go to the left, until you arrive at an iron gate. From there, just follow the black path, but be careful not to slip. Inside the castle are signs and layout plans, so you should find your way to the audience hall easily”, she whispered back.

He thanked her and made haste to follow her directions.

.

Hel's POV

Hel picked up her scythe and made her way to the audience hall to receive her new special subject.

The bells tied to her scythe jingled as she walked.

A long time ago, her father had given them to her, to remember her daddy by. Lucky charms he had called them. She still cherished them dearly, that was why she had tied them to her scythe in the first place: so she could take them with her, wherever she went. They were a reminder of happier times, times before the Æsir had come, had torn her and her brothers away from their mother, had bound Fenrir and thrown Jörmungandr into the sea that surrounded Midgardr and banished her to Niflheimr.

That and they were a nice change from the constant howling of the wind and wolves and the faint whispers of the dead. Their jingling was comforting (and alerted dead souls, that she was near).

She entered the audience hall to receive this indeed “very special guest”, sat on her high throne, placed the scythe on her lap and waited for the dead Ása to arrive.

.

Baldr's POV

Baldr had almost got lost in the many crooked corridors, but he had somehow managed to find the way in the end.

Eventually he found himself in a huge hall, presumably the throne room.

It was rather dark in here. The only light sources were tiny, pale blue lights, that floated through the hall like fireflies. Every time they neared the walls, their dim light would make fluorescing minerals glow.

A thick ground mist was covering the ground up to Baldr's knees, but everything above that level was perfectly visible.

As he looked around, he saw that he was standing in front of a golden throne. It was currently vacant, but he could tell, that normally the Mistress of the Dead herself sat on it.

What didn't escape Baldr, was how the tiny lights gradually orbited closer to him. Maybe they were attracted to his own glow, like moths to a flame.

This place had a foreign kind of beauty to it. It was nothing like the descriptions of Helheimr he had heard in life (well, except for the darkness and mist).

As he was standing there, taking in the ambience and letting the tiny light balls circle around him, he heard slow steps approaching the room, until from a side entrance an old lady emerged and came up to him.

“Baldr Óðinnson?”, she inquired.

“That's me”, he confirmed.

“Good”, the woman said. “Welcome to Éljúðnir⁵, the high castle and seat of Her Majesty, the queen. I am Ganglöt⁶. My mistress is expecting you in the audience hall. Follow me.”

He obeyed and followed the old maid.

All the while, he tried to figure out what she was. She wasn't an Asýnja, nor was she a Jötunn. She was clearly not a Light Alf or a Vana and, if the appearance of Iðunn was anything to go by, not a Dark Alf either. She didn't even look like any of the Midgardians he had ever encountered. Maybe an Elemental? But then the question would be what she embodied.

His train of thought was put to an end, when he and the old maidservant arrived in front of a giant fluorescing green door.

And suddenly it came back to his mind, that he was about to meet Hel Lokisdóttir – the daughter of his murderer.

Baldr took a deep breath to compose himself.

Ganglöt seemed to notice. “Are you nervous, young man?”

He nodded awkwardly.

She lifted her head to give him a small smile. “If you're remotely as virtuous as people say, you have nothing to fear”, she assured him.

Then she tapped the threshold with her walking cane and Baldr screamed in terror, when the ground between the two and the door opened up to reveal a pitfall.

“What is this?!?”, he gasped out, as he recoiled from the pit.

“Eh, just one of the little tricks her Majesty has installed”, the old lady explained.

“Little tricks???”

“Aye. And now we need to walk over the chasm.”

The bright god gawked at her. “Excuse you?! That chasm is too wide for-”

But the maid only giggled softly: “Don't wreck your pretty head, young one. Watch.”

Then she stepped forward – into the empty.

And Ganglöt walked. Over the void of the pit. As if it was solid ground.

His eyes grew even bigger. “What … how …?”

“Come”, the old woman smiled and stretched out her hand to him. “There is nothing to be afraid of. I will hold your hand.”

Baldr gulped and took the offered hand.

Ganglöt's hand was as could be expected of an old woman's hand, but at the same time it felt really strange; as if someone had warmed up a piece of wood, softened it and given it a pulse.

“Come”, she repeated. “The queen doesn't like waiting that much.”

“Right”, he mumbled and took a few deep breaths.

Pull yourself together, Baldr scolded himself. Stop being such a wuss!

He closed his eyes and stepped into the void.

But when it didn't feel like he was falling, he opened them again – only to find, that he (just like Ganglöt) was standing in the air, right above the chasm.

“Huh”, he said. “Okaayyy …”

He let the old woman bring him to the other side (to top it off, she proceeded to hum “Walking In The Air” as she did so) and sighed in relief, when he stood on actual solid ground again and the chasm closed behind them.

“What was that?!”, he desired to know.

The maid shrugged: “Ask Her Majesty. Now compose yourself and straighten your posture, young man. You don't want to face queen Hel with that expression, do you?”

.

Hel's POV

When the door finally opened and her handmaid Ganglöt brought the dead Ása in, Hel was startled.

What everyone had told her, it really was true.

There were no words to describe just how beautiful the person in front of her was.

His face was boyish, almost feminine, and very pale. His hair was almost white and hung from his shoulders in two thick braids, in addition to the open hair in the back. He had the cutest little nose and big, sky blue eyes with long lashes. Despite him being dead, there was a faint blush on his cheeks (she wanted to pinch them), his lips were rosy and he was shining!

His eyes held a whole range of emotions: nervousness, anxiety and an undefinable sadness, but also warmth, softness and curiosity.

But this wasn't the time to get distracted.

Hel mustered a small smile and stood up to greet him.

“You must be Baldr Óðinnson”, she addressed him. “Welcome to my humble abode. I have already been waiting for you.”

.

Baldr's POV

So this was Hel?

For a few seconds he was speechless.

The queen of the eponymous world and of Niflheimr was certainly a sight to behold.

A bizarre sight; she was the strangest thing Baldr had ever seen.

It started with her hair. It was platinum blond on her right side, pitch black on the left.

She was wan, probably from the lack of sunlight. And parts of her face were black and withered, like a rotting corpse.

He was struck by pity. Was it painful for her to be half dead? And if not, how much did it bother her? And did this really make her ugly, like everyone said?

Strange, yes.

Ugly? Hmm … no, not really. Not in Baldr's opinion.

The way she united life and death in her person gave her a strange kind of beauty.

And when he approached her, his glow illuminated her enough for him to see more.

She was thin and a head taller than himself.

Her right cheek was as rosy as any maiden's.

Her night blue dress spoke of her wealth and power⁷ and she was wearing a moonstone necklace.

Her profound black eyes, which at first had looked startled (probably by his appearance, Baldr was used to it), were now looking at him with mild interest and curiosity, which for some reason was really cute and endearing to him.

I must have a weird taste in what I find cute, he thought.

Hold on – where were his manners?! He had just walked up to her without bowing or even saying hello and now was staring at the queen of the underworld, like a total idiot!

Time to fix that!

.

Hel's POV

Hel could tell, that the other was just as startled by her looks as she was by his. Of course everyone was, she was used to it, but he didn't seem to be as disgusted as most other people were.

In fact, he seemed fascinated.

How curious.

Then he blinked and seemed to remember, that he was standing in front of his new sovereign.

He blushed bright scarlet and hastily knelt before her.

“Y-yes, I am indeed Baldr”, he responded to her own greeting. “And you are, without a doubt, Queen Hel. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!”

Now it was her turn to blink. “A pleasure to finally meet me”, she echoed blankly.

He smiled up at her and nodded – primordial cow, he actually meant that!

“Your father has told me so much about you”, Baldr continued. “Oh, speaking of him!”

He rummaged through the leather bags he was wearing around his belt, until he found something – a small stone plate.

“Your father snuck this note into my bag. I do believe it's for you?”

Hel took the stone plate and read the content:

“To my beautiful little girl,

the best birthday present ever to the best daughter ever. A ray of light for your realm of darkness. Happy birthday, Hel!

Love you lots, sweetie. Your dad.

PS: Sigyn says hi.”

She sighed in exasperation and shook her head. That was so typical for her father …

Then again, who was she to complain?

Not only was this beautiful creature in her hands now, his death surely caused his father and all the Æsir great grief. The soul of Óðinn's beloved son was the best birthday present indeed.

Now, what to do?

Should she take her grudge on the Allfather out on his son?

No.

Her resentment towards Óðinn would not cloud her judgement.

“Look me in the eyes”, she ordered and he did so.

He squirmed a little under her gaze, as her eyes bored into his soul and read him.

Hmm … no bad deeds, no condemning character traits. What a pure and adorable cinnamon roll! But what is that … oh! Oh no! What a mess!

.

Baldr's POV

Baldr was getting increasingly unsettled by the blank expression on Hel's face.

He was pretty sure, that he had never seen such a blank face in his life. Her big black eyes were like two voids. It reminded him a little of the owls he had sometimes seen, when he had walked in the forests in Asgard. Oh yes, that was the word: owlish. Her stare was owlish.

“Are you alright?”, he asked worriedly.

Hel tilted her head. Her face was still blank, but at least she now seemed to snap out of her trance.

Then, finally she opened her mouth to speak again.

“Nope.”

“S-sorry?”

“The son of the jerk, who banished me down here, can't be this cute. It just doesn't make any sense”, she … uh, clarified?

“I-I'm sorry!”, Baldr stammered and blushed a deep red.

He didn't know how to deal with this.

Baldr was an Ása, he was used to being around people, who were brutally frank and outspoken.

But Hel seemed to be a different kind of blunt.

Though he had been called cute before, it had never been like this. Hel had said that sentence with a completely straight face, without the faintest blush and in the most no-nonsense tone ever – as if it was a matter of fact. And that startled him somehow.

What startled him even more, was when a third person stumbled into the room.

Baldr almost cringed at how dishevelled Nanna was looking (and at the fact, that she was now here and there was a high chance that she would make him and/or Hel insanely uncomfortable).

“Oh, finally, I found the right room!”, she gasped. “The gatekeeper gave me wrong directions – hi, Baldr – so orientating myself was a nightmare, then I almost fell into a pit and this old lady showed up and brought me here!”

She pointed at Ganglöt, who was lingering in the background.

The light god paid close attention to Hel's reaction. Her expression didn't change at all, but Baldr could have sworn, that the left side of her face just had become slightly more decayed.

Still her overall demeanour stayed the same.

“Seems like Móðguðr played a trick on you. You have to forgive her. My gatekeeper has the tendency to give wrong directions to people she doesn't like”, she told Nanna.

“Eh, whatever”, the other goddess muttered, “I'm here now. Sooo … uhhh …”

Whatever she had been about to say died, when she got a good look at Hel. Baldr could feel the horror and disgust radiating from his former wife.

Obviously Hel noticed it too, because she brushed her black hair forward to conceal the left side of her face. Somehow that really bothered Baldr; the queen shouldn't have to cover half of her face, just because others couldn't stand it.

Nanna on the other hand seemed to have it easier now. “You're queen Hel, right?”

“No, I'm just your average Jötunn woman with a half decayed body, who has power over the dead and the entirety of Niflheimr and can read dead souls like open books”, Hel deadpanned.

For some reason Baldr couldn't help but burst into giggles. He quickly pulled himself together, but the fact that he had laughed at the queen's comment at all seemed to be enough to tick Nanna off.

“Good to see that you're having fun!”, she hissed.

Her husband coughed and mumbled an awkward apology.

“Now, now”, Hel spoke up. “Let's not get into an argument. Welcome to my realm, Nanna Nepsdóttir. Aren't you going to at least say hello to your new sovereign? Because now that you're dead, you're my subject – whether you like it or not.”

“Oh … right. Sorry”, the dead goddess mumbled, bowed and gave a polite, but cool greeting.

“Better”, the queen nodded. “Now, let me see …”

.

Hel's POV

Hel couldn't claim to be surprised by what she saw, when she read Nanna's soul.

This time she said it out loud, if only to expose her.

“Ah. Cynical, self-esteem issues, guilty of adultery with … Hermodr? Isn't that Baldr's bro-”

“Oh no, what a shock, I couldn't possibly have seen this coming!”, Baldr deadpanned.

Nanna stared at her former husband in horror. “You knew? All this time you-?!”

“Nanna, I'm neither naïve nor stupid. Yes, I knew.”

“Then why did you never say anything?!”

“Because I-”

Hel cleared her throat: “You two, this isn't couple therapy and I'm not a marriage counsellor.”

The two blinked and apologised sheepishly.

“It's forgiven”, she accepted it. “But please settle your marital issues between yourselves. I may be Loki's daughter, but that doesn't mean, that I have his sense of humour. I do not revel in the misery of others. It would be unbecoming of a queen like myself.”

The dead couple nodded.

“Anyway, Nanna, I think you know, that adultery is a crime, no matter what.”

“Yes, I do”, the dead Asýnja sighed. “So, what will it be? A snake pit? Being chewed on by a dragon, or whatever punishment people like me get around here?”

“That is indeed the standard punishment for adulterers”, Hel confirmed.

“NO!”, Baldr screamed and fell on his knees. “Please, don't do this to her!”, he pleaded. “I beg you! My wife doesn't deserve such a harsh punishment! She only-”

“Let me finish”, Hel cut him off and turned back to Nanna. “What I was going to say, before Baldr interrupted me, was that this is the standard punishment for adulterers, who actually deserve it. My judgement is fair and just. As I said before, dead souls are open books to me. I know what kind of life you two led, what tragedy your marriage really was and why you did what you did. And that, Nepsdóttir, is your saving grace.”

“So, what will it be instead?”, Nanna asked nervously.

Hel considered for a moment, before answering. “I think shovelling the snow off the paths outside would be appropriate. A bit of manual labour and cool, fresh air never hurt anyone.”

“I accept my punishment.”

“Good. Servants, take her into my garden and give her a snow shovel. The pathways out there really need to be cleared.”

Her ghostly servants were about to lead the goddess away, when Hel remembered something:

“Oh, one more thing, Nanna.”

“Yes?”

“Now that you two are dead, Baldr is your husband no more. Wedding vows do not transcend death, contrary to the assumption of the living, that they do.”

The daughter of Loki wasn't surprised to see relief run over the other woman's face, before she nodded in acknowledgement. Then she was led away.

.

Baldr's POV

“They won't hurt her, right?”, the Bright One asked the Mistress of the Dead in concern.

“Unless she does something to warrant it, no”, she replied, to his relief.

Then she told him to follow her and he did so.

She guided him through dark halls, illuminated only by his glow. No word was spoken, until Hel stopped in front of a door, opened it and motioned for Baldr to go inside.

As the dead god glanced around the room, he was stunned by the the splendour, visible even in the dim light. It was elaborately furnished, with jewels embedded in walls and furniture.

Seemed like Hel acted on the maxim “If you've got it, flaunt it”.

“Wow”, he breathed. His house in Asgard, Breiðablik⁸, hadn't quite been as luxurious (even though compared to the other houses in Asgard it was the most splendid), mostly because showing off wasn't Baldr's thing.

“I'm glad you like it”, Hel stated. “This is actually one of my own spare bedrooms, but there have been complications, while preparing your rooms, so for now you will be staying here. Your things will be brought to you shortly. In the meantime, you can make yourself comfortable.”

Baldr blushed in embarrassment. “I … I don't think I'm deserving of such honours.”

Hel lifted an eyebrow. “What, are you questioning my sound judgement?”

The blush was immediately replaced by pallor. “No! Of course not!”

“That's what I thought”, she said and he could have sworn, that there was a hint of amusement in her otherwise still completely toneless voice. It didn't show on her face either, but Baldr was pretty sure, that she was enjoying herself at his cost.

With a sigh, he sat on the bed. It was a king-sized bed and it seemed really comfortable.

Suddenly exhaustion set in with a vengeance and he felt really tired. Why was he tired? He always had assumed, that dead people didn't need to sleep – after all, wasn't death already an everlasting sleep? Oh well, another afterlife lesson learned.

Hel seemed to sense his fatigue, for she said: “You must be exhausted. After all, you travelled all the way down Yggdrasil. That's not exactly a stroll in the park. So lie down and sleep a little. A servant will come and wake you up, when dinner is ready.”

He stood up once more and bowed. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

“No need for formalities. Just Hel will do”, she replied. “I'm more than just the queen of Niflheimr. I founded a whole kingdom and named it after myself. I think that expresses my power more than my queenly title does.”

Baldr couldn't have argued with that, even if he had wanted to.

Hel left the room and closed the door, leaving the dead god alone.

The Bright One sat back down and contemplated his new situation.

Hmm … Hel doesn't seem so bad. Neither the place, nor the person. The Mistress of the Dead seems to be a fair ruler. And of course, no one throwing stuff at me is always nice … I think I'm going to like it here.

He lay down and found the bed just as warm and comfy as his old one in Asgardr.

Baldr fell asleep within seconds.

.

---

.

1) Náströnd: "Corpse Shore", the place of Helheimr, where oath-breakers, adulterers and murderers are punished. 2) Níðhöggr: "Malice Striker/Hateful Striker", a serpentine dragon living and gnawing at the roots of Yggdrasil (the cosmic World Tree), who also chews on the corpses of the inhabitants of Náströnd. 3) Ganglati: "Lazy-Step", Hel's personal manservant. 4) Móðguðr: "Ferocious Battler", the guardian of Gjallarbrú, the bridge across the underworld river Gjöll. 5) Éljúðnir: depending on the translation either "Misery", or "Sprayed With Blizzards/Damp With Sleet" (personally I tend more towards "misery"), Hel's castle. It's described as being enormous, having really high walls and large gates. 6) Ganglöt: "Slow-Step", Hel's handmaid. 7) Dark dyes for clothing were quite expensive, especially black-blue dyes (raven black). Most Norse societies only had access to them via trade (with the Byzantine Empire, for example). So really dark or colourful clothing was a status symbol, since it was only available to the wealthy. 8) Breiðablik: "Broad Gleam". According to Snorri Sturluson's Prose Edda, it was the fairest hall in Asgard.

[norafike]

Despite all this, I still love you 10

*Contains spoilers for Chapter 3 mission; A short walk in a pretty town.

Depictions of violence, please read at your own risk as the material can be unsettling for viewers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took a day or more's journey to travel as far as Rhodes from the business she underwent back at Valentine. Even longer due to Maggie's distraction.

The female hitched her horse near the Gunsmith, noticing the unsettling silence that haunted the town. Nobody could be seen for miles and the store's looked empty whenever she peered through the windows inside. She wondered why Arthur sent the letter, requesting for her help, given that there was not a soul around.

“Hello?” She called out for nothing, expecting something to call back to her. Silence was met and so she decided to walk deeper, seeing where the men she was meant to meet lurked. “Arthur?.. Sean?”

She saw them eventually, hiding near a building all talking amongst themselves. She smiled at Sean and took a stand near him before whistling for her horse to trot on over to where they waited. She tethered him to the correct post, standing near. “How are you feelin' gentlemen?”

Micah snorted the minute she opened her mouth, gripping his gun belt and kicking his leg up onto a crate near to trap her between him and her animal. “Jus' fine, yourself?”

She tried not to visibly cringe once he spoke up, but could not help but scrunch up her nose in disgust. She used the tip of her finger to push him away. “I was doin' so much better before you started talkin', Mr. Bell.”

“I feel like we've gotten close enough, call me Micah.” He grinned and she had to bite her tongue to not snap back at him. “Of course, I'd like to know you.. a little better.”

“A shame I'm gettin' to know Kieran a little better first.” And Sean let out a roar of a laugh at her subtle way of dismissing his offer, this displeasing Micah enough that he left her alone.

"I am only kidding of course." She made it known so none of them would go ahead and tease the poor boy when they returned to camp, after all he was not considered highly amongst the group and the last thing he needed was someone taking her words the wrong way.

Micah snorted again before walking away from the female, ignoring her subtle giggles from behind and taking the lead with Sean on their walk into town. It had been far too quiet for Nora's liking before but now, while they were exposed like how they were.. well she felt more uneasy than ever.

“None of it feels right.” She mumbled under her breathe, going unnoticed by the others. They talked before Arthur raised his voice over them, finally addressing the situation and repeating what Nora had said earlier.  Sean turned around. “Now none of it feels right?” His accent was thicker here but before anyone had time to process what they were saying and shot rang out, setting them into ‘fighter’ mode. Nobody had noticed Sean, yet.

She covered her ears as she followed the men behind cover, finally taking a moment to compose herself and assess the situation. Here, she counted visible faces and let out a choked sob when she counted one short; Sean not being present. Nora faced Arthur, fear reflecting in his eyes and through a shaky voice managed to ask him the dreaded question. “Where's Sean?” He frowned; not asking and instead taking her deeper into the alley they hid in once the bullets to close to be comfortable.

“We'll worry about Sean later.. are you okay to fight? I feel we got half the family after us.” She slowly nodded to answer. “Good.”

He ran out of the alley, both revolvers in hand and began to fire blindly down the road. She watched until he disappeared around the corner, taking a shaky breath she soon followed, her revolver in hand.

“Sean.” Her voice was small once she noticed the boy lying in the dirt, an unmistakable pool of blood around him and only growing. With the little strength she had left she managed to force herself into hiding behind a few crates, her vision growing more blurry from the tears that kept falling. She wasn't even trying to hit anything, only shooting behind her to make it seem as though she was helping but in reality she was only trying to not blackout as she always does. Her voice was called by an invisible creature, sounding similar to Lem but not quite her friend but it was familiar enough to feel safe.. she focused on it, it repeating one phrase over and over. ‘Come back to me, Nora.’ The very thing Lemuel had said that night with the flammable-moonshine explosion. It kept her distracted and it kept her awake..

“Stay low, girl.” Arthur seemingly appeared from nowhere, crouching by her side and shooting in any direction he heard bullets. He knew of what happened to Nora in situations like this, seeing it many times before and when the reality of Sean's fate kicked in the thought of preventing Nora's emerged. “I'm stayin' low. Make way to the General Store and sneak around the back through there, bastards are hidin' away where we can't see 'em.”

“And risk endin' up like Sean?”

“You can stay here, but I'm going. Prevent you lot endin' up like the kid.” With that she made haste over to the shop, ignoring Arthur's cries for her to run back. It was silent inside but that didn't mean she wasn't careful creeping through, her gun entering or leaving a room before she did at all times. She presumed that Micah and Bill dealt with a lot of the Gray's as the numbers were thinner now, but that didn't mean she didn't take out any herself.. feeling no guilt in doing so either.

“Bastards.” She cursed under her breath as she searched for the remaining bunch.. slowly finding one cowering behind a few barrels. He begged for his life, raising his hands in the air. She staggered for a moment, moving to holster her weapon and the man began to thank her for her “generousity” yet Sean had so much stripped away from him and she remembered it quickly. She put the gun away, opting for a more *satisfying kill and using her knife, she placed the steel against the man's neck and cut as deep as allowed. His blood ran down her hands, onto her lap and he fell lifeless.

She didn't notice the blood, didn't care for it.

…

“Where's Williamson?” She asked; met with silence from the two men who provided no answer.

“Well..?”

“We don't know, lady. Why, you gonna kill him too?” Micah spat and without thinking she lunged towards, gripping the lapels of his jacket and pushing him back. He made contact with the side of the wall, gasping with the wind knocked out of him and not expecting such a small woman to have this much strength, she was almost as feisty as Mrs. Adler and he admired her for it. “No, but I'll kill you asshole.” She shouted and finally Arthur stepped in, wrapping his arm around Nora and pulling her off of the antagonistic individual.

“You're fucking crazy, woman.” Micah hadn't learned his lesson.

“Enough!” Arthur yelled; scowling at the pair of them. “Let's find Bill and get out of here.”

“Whatever.” Nora grunted, walking past the men and back down towards the gunsmith. Arthur watched after her, maintaining a distance as he soon followed behind. She wasn't in any place to be alone right now and he knew it.

“Stop right there!” Sherrif Gray in his bitter tone called out, revolver pointed straight for Nora. She froze in her tracks and raised her hands, looking at the group with a fake smile. In some man's arms she noticed Bill and subtly pointed at him so Arthur could see.

The two finally joined her, Micah on her right and Arthur on her left so she stood perfectly in front of Leigh Gray. How she could spit at his name, a disgusting roach of a man she never had any liking for.. the killing of her only friend which he allowed being the final straw and so god help her she was going to make sure he got what he owed. “You gonna let our friend go, Leigh?”

“I plan on takin' you all in.. or killin' ya if need be.” He replied; his threat meeting deaf ears. She didn't care, couldn't find it within her. “That a threat..? Or a promise?” And Micah looked over astonished as she continued teasing him.

“I ain't playin' games girl-.” Leigh began, but Nora raised her hands to dismiss him. “Never said this was no game, jus' let my friend go.”

“Ain't gonna happen.”

“Very Well.” She was quick, just as skilled as Arthur and unexpecting. A few shots were fired and the Gray's fell, some falling off of the porch of the gunsmith and onto the roads.

Bill clambered forward, completely astonished but holding thanks he needed to pass on. He placed a sweaty palm on her shoulder, reluctantly muttering a quiet ‘thanks’ and walking away.

“Sean.” She cried before running over to the body. The thrill died down and reality kicked her in the face with a steel toe cap boot. Her friend really had been killed, his face disfigured and unrecognisable and her chest tightened when she saw him lying there, on the ground. Her brave face shriveled and she let out sobs, earning an eye roll from Micah but a gentle pat regardless. “Bill, take the boy an' get him buried. I'm gonna ride with Nora back to camp, I don't think she should be alone.”

She chuckled at Arthur's instruction, despite there being no humour behind it. “I'm twenty-four. I can look after myself.”

“Trust me, I know that. I've seen it.” He replied with a light smile. “Jus' need an excuse for me not to be seen alone cryin'.” She laughed as he tried to lighten the situation, there was no time for mourning.

“Come on, let's get you out of here.”

She managed to wipe away a small tear, following him over to Casper and climbing into the saddle without fail despite an ache in her muscles slowly kicking in. Everything coming down and having an effect. “Thank you.” She managed to whisper, following Arthur out of the town.

“It ain't nothin'.”

[love-and-monsters]

Wyvern Prince 11

Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope you enjoy the next installment of the Wyvern Prince. Next week I’ll be doing something for Faebruary, so stay tuned for that.

As it turned out, the castle was far less complicated than the winding series of tunnels that made up Davrakoss’ home. At the very least, in the castle you could see.

It took almost thirty minutes of walking before you realized that you should have been back to your room already. And thirty minutes later, when you were supposed to be back to where you started, you realized that you were entirely lost.

You spent several minutes trying not to panic. There was no real reason to panic. Davrakoss would find you eventually; you found it hard to believe that he would leave without you. But being alone in the dark started to grind down your calm very quickly. You sat down against one of the walls and started taking deep breaths.

“Sara!” Davrakoss’ voice echoed through the tunnel. Footsteps crunched on the loose stone and dirt of the floor. “Sara!”

You stood, stumbling as you tried to feel your way through the pitch black. “Davrakoss!”

“Sara!” The footsteps slowed, but kept approaching. It was hard to tell where he was; you’d never had a terribly good sense of hearing. You stretched your fingers out in the dark, trying to locate him.

A hand caught your own. Despite half-expecting it, you still yelped. “It’s me!” Davrakoss said hurriedly. “It’s just me.”

You clung to his hand, stepping awkwardly closer to him. He took your other hand. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was warm with concern.

“Fine. I’m sorry I made you come after me. I truly thought I could make my way back,” you said.

“It’s all right.” Davrakoss squeezed your hand and rested his other hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay.” He huffed out a breath. “I was so worried when I couldn’t find you! I should have thought, I forgot humans can’t see in the dark.”

“It was my fault. I should have waited for you.” Your voice had been wrangled back into perfect calm.

“It was no one’s fault,” Davrakoss said. “I’ll lead you back.” His hand tightened around yours. “There aren’t any lights down here, so you’re going to have to wait for a little until you can see again.” He started walking, gently pulling you along with him. You stumbled slightly, uncertain of your footing in the pitch black.

You were very aware of that fact that Davrakoss was holding your hand. His palm was warm and soft and you could feel the tips of his claws tickling slightly against your skin. In fact, the longer you were in the dark together, the more aware you were of his presence next to you. There was no one else, no risk of anyone in the castle seeing you. It was only you and him. Your heart thundered, crawling into your throat. A trickle of sweat dripped down the back of your neck, despite the slight chill in the air.

One of your feet caught on a dip in the ground and you stumbled. Davrakoss was nearly dragged down on top of you as you fell. “Apologies, sire,” you said, instinctively bowing in the dirt.

“I’ve been through worse,” he said. “Get up.” He took your hand and hauled you to your feet. “I should really be more careful too. It’s not your fault you can’t see.” He brushed his hands along your collar and front, apparently trying to clear off dirt. The casual touch made your heart lodge firmly in your throat, choking off your breath. “Oh, dear.”

“What?” you managed around the lump in your throat. His fingers were suddenly at he hem of your dress, lifting it up and you felt the ground sway under your feet.

“There’s a tear here. It must have caught when your fell.” He lifted his fingers under the dress, testing the rip. “It ruined the lace.”

“It’s all right,” you said. “I can sew it back together.” Davrakoss let the dress fall back into place and stood.

“Here, let me take your hand again- oh!” He removed his hand from yours. “You’re bleeding!”

You hadn’t even noticed, but there was a gouge in your hand from where you’d caught yourself. “Apologies, Davrakoss. I didn’t notice.”

“Don’t apologize to me! Doesn’t it hurt?” He seized your hand again, this time holding your palm up. “Let me.” He pressed his mouth gently to your palm. An odd sensation rushed up through your chest, a sort of light, fluttering feeling that made you feel pleasant all over. “There,” Davrakoss said, pulling away. “Is your other hand hurt?”

“No.” You had taken the brunt of the fall on that hand. The other one was just skinned.

“Good.” Davrakoss brushed his thumb over your hand. The touch was simple and gentle and you’d never quite felt anything like it before. Your heart was no longer in your throat, but it was pounding hard enough to shake your body.

“We should keep moving.” Your voice felt like it had come from someone else. It was completely steady and neutral.

“Of course,” Davrakoss said, sounding a little startled. He took your hand again, drawing you close to him. “We’ll take it slower this time.”

This time, your pace through the dark was quite leisurely. Davrakoss linked his arm through yours, holding your close to him. Presumably it was to catch you if you fell. Practically, you felt like you were far too aware of his contact with you. It felt entirely too casual and entirely too good. You couldn’t get used to this, you kept having to remind yourself. He was a prince and you were not. This was not going to be something that would continue.

But still. You could enjoy it in the meantime, right?

Relief washed over you when you saw the light at the end of the tunnel. You pulled away from Davrakoss, ignoring the twinge of regret in your chest. He followed you as you stepped out into the flickering firelight. “We still need to go back to your room,” he said. In the light, you could see that he seemed a little tired, but the smile on his face was genuine.

“Are you in trouble with your parents?” you asked as he fell into step next to you.

“A bit. They aren’t going to do much, but they are going to keep a close eye on me.” He shrugged. “Nothing too awful. Although…” His eyes shone as he looked at you. “You impressed them a lot.”

“How so?”

“My mother’s very good at compelling the truth from people. I suppose it’s a skill she’s developed over the years of judging wyverns. It can be a little much for humans, I’ve heard, but you did very well!” He nudged your side. “She was very pleased, I could tell.”

“I’m glad to have earned her approval,” you said. “I only spoke the truth.”

“I know.” Davrakoss’ voice softened a little. He looked at you for a long moment, then turned his head aside.

“If it isn’t too personal,” you began, trying to dispel the tension that had blossomed in the air, “what did your parents wish to speak to you about?”

He brightened at that. “They were informing me they are planning on having a new egg.”

“Your mother is pregnant?”

“Not yet. Wyvern females need certain conditions in order to lay a new egg. She’s been busy enough since I was hatched that my parents have deliberately kept the conditions so she won’t lay another. Now, though, she’s been considering another hatchling, so they’re planning on altering conditions to make her lay. Simple as that.”

“I am happy for you,” you said. “A younger sibling is exciting.”

Davrakoss glanced at you, gaze full of curiosity. “I’ve never asked. Do you have any siblings?”

You laughed. “I do. I’m the oldest of five.”

“Five!” Davrakoss repeated, eyebrows lifting. “Really?”

“It’s not that large,” you said, defensive at his obvious surprise. It wasn’t that large, not really. Your neighbors had nine children, after all.

“Four would be unusual for a wyvern couple,” he said. “I thought… well, the royal family doesn’t have that many.”

“No, most nobles have less kids. They can afford to have less kids. They can get medicines that stop them from conceiving and they don’t need to worry about diseases as much.” Your voice dipped into bitterness toward the end. Davrakoss looked at you, waiting for you to say more, so you did. “I used to be the oldest of seven.”

“Oh.” His voice was soft and startled, like you’d physically knocked the noise out of him. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t remember the baby. He was born two years after me. But Matilda was the fifth and she was seven when she died. She fell off a horse. She didn’t look injured, but she died in the night.” The words spilled out of you, unstoppable. “I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t lost a sibling or a child until I moved to the castle.”

With a soft wumph, Davrakoss rushed into you, enveloping you in a hug. It was tight and soft at the same time. His cheek pressed to the top of your head. One of his hands cupped your back. The other nestled itself in your hair. Startled, you held your hands up and slightly out, uncertain if you should hold him back.

He didn’t say anything and then kept not saying anything. His thumb brushed along the back of your head, through your hair. The softness and warmth of his cheek radiated into your skin. Slowly, you rested your hands on his back. He squeezed tighter. Not uncomfortably, but just a little more securely. Davrakoss was a good hugger. It was easy to feel secure when you were so close to him. And you didn’t need to worry about anyone else seeing you. A weight slid off of you as you leaned into his touch.

After a few moments, Davrakoss let his grip loosen. He stepped back a little, hands still resting on your shoulders, but with enough distance that he could look down into your face. “Feeling better?” he asked.

It was strange, but you were. The touch had been enormously soothing, like applying balm to a raw wound. “I think so.”

“Good.” He lowered his hands. His tail brushed gently against your leg. “I feel as though this is something I should have known about sooner.”

“There’s no need for you to know. Most nobles never concern themselves with the personal lives of their servants.”

“Ah, but you should know by now that I am not a normal noble,” he said, starting to walk again. You kept pace with him. “You already know much about me. It’s only fair that I know a little about you as well.”

It was hard to come up with an argument for that. You just dipped your head respectfully. “As you wish, sire.” He glanced at you. “Davrakoss.” His smile returned, sweet enough to make your heart stutter. You felt heat creeping into your cheeks and quickly looked away so he couldn’t see it.

After finding the light again, it only took a few minutes to find your way back to your room. Davrakoss had no issue working his way through the tunnels at all, not an ounce of hesitation. Was there something about the tunnels that only he could sense? It would make sense, you supposed.

“We’ll be flying back tomorrow,” he said as you sat down to look through your bags. “My father asked me to go hunting with him, so I’ll be out for a while. Are you going to be okay on your own?”

“I’ll be fine,” you said. Davrakoss smiled and squeezed your shoulder for a moment before leaving the room. You settled down with your sewing kit and began to stitch the massive tear back together.

The tear was easy to stitch together, but you found yourself fussing with it regardless. You’d learned to embroider when you were young, but ever since becoming a servant, you’d had little time to continue the hobby. Under the firelight, you used the black thread to embroider a small flower pattern up along the tear.

Time turned fluid as you focused on the pattern. You could only see it under the flickering firelight, so you had to hold it to your face and squint. Still, gradually, you could see the shapes of flowers along a vine stretching out along the tear. The pattern wasn’t noticeable from a distance, but you would always know it was there. It felt oddly nice, like a little reminder of the time you’d spent in Davrakoss’ home.

“Sara.” Fingertips touched your shoulder and you whirled around. Davrakoss smiled at you. His hair tumbled around his face in a pale golden waterfall. “I brought you some food.”

He sat down next to you, offering food on an old, silver tray. It was mostly an assortment of berries and fruits one could find in the forest, along with a hunk of venison that had, to your relief, been cooked. “Thought it was an interesting change of pace,” he said.

“You don’t want anything, s- Davrakoss?” you asked.

“I ate during hunting,” he said. He pointed at the venison with a claw tip. “That’s actually from the deer I killed.”

You weren’t entirely sure what to make of that, but he seemed proud, so you made noises of appreciation. The meal wasn’t entirely bad, but it was sort of obvious that wyverns didn’t cook all that often. There was no seasoning and the meat was partially overcooked in some areas and undercooked in others. Davrakoss watched you as you chewed on it. “Is it all right?” he asked.

“It’s good,” you replied tactfully. He beamed.

“I’m glad.” His voice was warm enough to heat you from the inside out. When you finished, he took the tray and you took the opportunity to get changed into your sleep clothes.

When he returned, you were already curled up under a blanket. “Good night,” he called across the room to you.

“Good night, Davrakoss,” you responded. You heard a faint rushing noise and when you lifted your head, you could see that he had changed into his wyvern form. He settled down close by, tail only a foot or so away from you. As you drifted off, you could see one of his eyes on you, sleepy, but still intent.

Davrakoss woke you early in the morning. “We should be off soon,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

You’d unpacked precious little and so you only needed to change and put away your blanket to be ready to leave. Davrakoss shifted to his wyvern form and made sure you were nestled safely in the crook between his neck and his wings before he started heading up the tunnel.

His parents were waiting for him at the entrance of the cave. They leaned their necks over his, tangling their heads together. “I’ll miss you,” Davrakoss said.

“As we miss you, my son,” Queen Kandolva said. She turned her head to look down at you. “I thank you for your service to Davrakoss.”

You bowed as best you could while seated on a wyvern’s back. “I was merely doing my job.”

“Regardless. You have done a great service to him.” She lowered her head to your level. “I thank you.”

Davrakoss made a low rumbling noise. “We should go, mother.” They touched muzzles for a moment, then Davrakoss launched himself off the side of the mountain.

There was a moment of terror as you fell, then Davrakoss’ wings opened and the ground receded. He rose up until the trees looked like a soft fuzz of grass beneath you, then settled into a glide.

You sat back, letting the wind whip through your hair as you stared down at the ground below. The flight allowed for your mind to wander. And you weren’t entirely sure you liked where it went. It kept circling back to Davrakoss. An unsettling amount of times. You couldn’t stop thinking about his hand around yours, his gentle eyes as he smiled at you. It was impossible to stop thinking about it.

That was a problem.

You recognized the feeling. It wasn’t the first time you had felt it. And the last time you had felt it, you had been stupid. Way, way too stupid. Stupid enough to do something about it.

This time, you were going to do something about it too. You were going to do the thing you had learned how to do, the best thing to do when you started getting crushes on nobles: ignore it until it went away. And it would go away, eventually. Davrakoss would never know your feelings and he would never get the opportunity to hurt you.

You leaned back down over his back and carefully shoved away the ache that swelled in your chest.