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irenadel · 6 months

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And if the devil... 2/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Smut at last, you have been warned Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

“It won’t always be like this, ya know?”

It is very late at night, and you are only shelling chestnuts because your eyes cannot darn clothes under an oil lamp, no matter how good quality it used to be when it was new. Angus does this often, hang around, lugging his big, awkward arms, thinking he is being subtle and moody about it. A little romantic. Deep thoughts and smart plans. But more often, he ends up looking like a very large, very sullen wardrobe. It would have been endearing if it didn’t make housework so bloody hard all the time. You hand him the other bag and he sits down to work with you. Shells for the chickens to peck at, one bag as a dinner treat, the other for your cousins Bree and Delma to roast and sell. Leftovers from a castle kitchen were often generous.

“I’ll be done with the apprenticeship in no time,” he says, voice still cracking a bit when he’s nervous. You scoff, perhaps unkindly, because he has just started the damn thing, and the gods know if you’ll be able to finish paying for it, but he continues on bravely. “I’ll be bringing in good coin and Delma and Bree will marry and you’ll find a fat, old man who’ll keel over and leave you his shop, and you won’t ever have to work for royal cunts again.”

You cuff him over the head once, and he is more surprised by the meanness of your glare than the blow. You are surprised too, try to soften it by sneaking him a shelled chestnut and cleaning his neck for him. He’s gotten sloppy about washing it since he stopped living at home.

“They’re not so bad,” you say after some time in silence. Angus fidgets but keeps shelling, always a bit uncomfortable when you withdraw to think.

“Is the princess pretty?”

You stop for a moment. You can’t really see him in the dim light of the sputtering lamp, your cousin, near grown now, the pimples still doting his chin. You wish it would go both ways and that he didn’t have to see you either.

You try not to think about the prince and princess when you’re at home. They do not belong here, in the smelly yard, with the scraggly chickens rummaging among the trash and your mud-caked feet. The girl you are around them has no place here either. She’s too wild and headstrong to be kind to Angus when he offers you a cage like he’s offering you a gift.

You try not to think of knives and sapphires and hair so soft and heavy it’s like bolts of white satin.

“They’re all pretty,” you answer disdainfully.

Angus smiles a little meanly, satisfied in your eye-roll and apparent exasperation with royalty. He does not see the fondness come to your face or the way it softness the edges of your mouth and the cast of your eyes.

“You know how to fight.”

He’d cornered you outside the laundry, after dumping Helaena’s morning ewer of water and hauling down half the princess’s laundry. Your eyes were infuriatingly fixed back on the floor. Your head exasperatingly lowered back into submission. He was almost amused to discover your courtesies were just as bad as the first time he’d seen them.

“My prince.”

And Aemond Targaryen did not let himself mistake the dismissal for an honorific as you tried to slither past him, ignoring the question that had not been asked. It was your stubborn push against his body, thrilling and oddly satisfying, stopping immediately after you’d heard the whistle of his Valyrian steel dagger, just a few seconds before he buried it in a beam of aged wood right beside your ear.

A few seconds but not before.

He regarded you with a cock-sure tilt to his head. Stranger and stranger you were, perfectly still now with a handful of prince shoved against your front, trapped against the wall, with Helaena’s porcelain ewer laying in pieces at your feet, and your chest heaving like it had that day at the fountain. Aemond was only vaguely aware of his own stirring arousal until you’d looked up to glare at him with eyes red as fresh blood.

“But you don’t fight well,” he’d said to you and laughed at your indignant flush when you’d been unable to help yourself and faced him at last. “You should be quicker than that. You let things go by you that you don’t have to. A punch.”

He’d given himself the luxury of touching the fading bruise on your cheekbone, both sick and delighted at your shiver of fear, the squirming of your trapped body.

“A dagger.”

He’d wrenched the lovely, deadly thing out of the wooden beam and used the hilt to tilt your oddly pointed chin back towards him. Long hooked nose. The deep set shadow of your eyes. He was missing something in your features, some clue that was there, barely eluding him, distracted as he was by how pink your albino lips were this close up.

He’d offered the hilt of the dagger to your slack, sweat-slicked hand.

“Go on. Try it. You’re quick but I’m quicker. Give me your best shot.”

Aemond had never had much of an idea of how one went about bending serving wenches over furniture, the way his brother would endlessly brag about. Had preferred it that way. Had done his best to forget those few unsettling visits to the Street of Silk besides Aegon. But now he wondered. He wondered too if there was something as rotten and festering inside of him as whatever hid within his brother, because he liked this better. Your racing heart. Your shuddering breath. The impossible to follow train of emotions darting across your face as your hand closed around the offered dagger.

Would you strike?

Would you be too scared?

Unable to?

“You can’t see,” Aemond had whispered the secret he’d guessed against your ear, savoring the broken sound you let out. “At least not well. Here, let me help you, my heart is right here.”

And he’d known he’d made the right choice in you because when he’d placed your pale hand against his equally pale chest, leather doublet opened for a truer strike, your stubby kitten nails had buried into his skin and his prick, half-forgotten in the heat of the moment had twinged in sympathy with your sudden, grimly determined look.

Do it, Aemond Targaryen had thought wildly, do it, do it, do it.

And you did. Dagger clattering to the floor, your knee coming up between his legs and he was on the ground laughing through the pain as you tried to make yourself scarce. Brave enough to knee a prince in the groin, still too scared to stay to face the aftermath. But you did turn around before disappearing into the kitchens. You spat into the ground, glared at him and mouthed something, no doubt a vile insult, something Aemond remembered long afterwards, sometimes in a fury, sometimes in warm satisfaction. Ifak, you had called him between clenched teeth, with a click at the back of your throat that no Westerosi girl could have ever produced and that defiant toss of your hair, like an unbroken wild horse. Walker, in a strange tongue from across the sea, that Aemond had encountered once in an old dusty book and would now eagerly seek out again.

“I’m not a whore for you and your ifak chiftik brother to pass around.”

Aemond had laughed again, rejoicing in the pain. He laughed because he hoped you had kneed Aegon too, thrown a chamber pot his way for good measure. Because you would know better soon. He would teach you better. You would know the difference between a snake and a dragon.

After, he dreamt about you often.

Alone at night. When Ser Criston told him about piety and decorum and the way he would be expected to treat the ladies at court. When his mother spoke of his duty to his future lady wife. Always to him, never to Aegon who could bloody use it. He hated each admonition as much as he treasured it. Knew his mother harped on him only because he would listen, unlike his brother. He would strife for it, the perfection she longed for in any of her children, if only to please her, even though he saw the way the court looked at him. Girls afraid. Women pityingly. Too strange and disquieting if he ever removed the eyepatch. Too intimidating when he kept it on. Always he knew it was better to be fearsome than fearful.

His brother and nephews had taught him that lesson well and he was loath to part with it, even for you.

Still, he dreamt of you instead of simpering ladies. He dreamt of you and shuddered at the visceral memory you conjured, of that first time in the Street of Silk, when Aemond had thought fear long gone from his life only to have his brother bring it back. Strange sounds and smells and hands on him and the faintly nauseous pleasure of the first time a woman had touched his cock, he too young and unready to know what to do or say, she too used to obeying Prince Aegon’s orders to do anything other than her job.

He dreamt of you in those silken sheets, the proud toss of your coarse yellow hair, the odd cast of your red eyes, between his legs, telling him to relax, layback and enjoy himself.

My prince, you would call him as you took him in your mouth the way Aegon’s prostitute had and he swore in his bed, far away from the incense and the oils of that moment, taking himself in hand, thinking of your clenched teeth and angry words. As he fucked his fist in a hurry, angrily chasing the memory of your hissed insult, he would think of every time he had encountered you near Helaena’s room, eyes no longer lowered, feet firmly planted on the stone floor to face him.

You, too ready to fight him if he moved towards you. He, too ready to rip the bonnet off your head to wrap the heavy length of your braid around his hand. You, too ready to let him pull you into an embrace you knew to be sheer madness.

Because it wasn’t idle curiosity anymore.

It wasn’t simple lust that made Prince Aemond near double over from the strength of his arousal every time he saw a bruise on your blotchy sun-burnt face or an angry red mark around your pale wrist. It was more than desire he felt the first time he saw your split lip and cornered you against a wall again, brushing with his thumb the scab that just hours ago had been seeping blood, breathing too heavily, manhood too hard to think. And this time you had been caught by surprise by his tenderness, unable to summon outrage and false pride to throw him off you or even the common sense to acquiesce to whatever a prince of the realm could demand of you.

No. Prince Aemond’s hunger had awakened in you demands of your own.

You had taken his thumb into your mouth and bitten down so hard you heard him hiss a breath in and felt him fall into your arms. He had kissed you, his royal Valyrian blood still fresh on your lips, and your tongue had sought his out, even as his hands, one still bleeding, had wrapped around your hips, yanked them towards him, your legs off the floor and around his waist. You hadn’t known what it would be like to fuck a man you wanted so much but Aemond seemed willing to learn with you, ruffling desperately through your thin petticoat and your smallclothes until his cloth-trapped erection had finally rubbed against your heat. Wet, gloriously, smolderingly wet. And he had seen you grimace like you were in pain, a graceless, hungry sound escaping your throat, and he had known Aegon had fucking robbed him. Because this was the way it was supposed to be, and not whatever poor mummery had befallen him in that brothel.

Your mouth sloppily trying to devour his, your arms around his neck, holding on while he pushed his hips into yours, better, sweeter, harder than he had ever fucked any of Aegon’s painted girls. It was impossible, as he let your mouth go and panted against your ear, a deep hungry growl that he had not known he had learnt from Vhagar escaping him, it was impossible to reach for anything more. He wanted inside you, inside the wet, hot promise of your clothed cunt, but would not suffer a second away from you and knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he had been right to refuse, because he felt your hips meet his, you grinding against his throbbing prick, head thrown back against the stone wall and heard, in your desperately muffled cry, heard the first of your peaks. And he had not known anything else after that, except the savage joy of the hunt. Of pushing you against the wall and grinding into your core hard and fast and brutal, chasing after your pleasure, panting harshly, teeth-grittingly determined to fight his own throbbing desire, until you bit your lip to keep from crying out your next peak. Again and again, his hips driving madly into yours as he promised you anything, everything if you would just come for him one more time. He came on your third, because you snaked one trembling hand between your bodies, shoved it inside his laces and wrapped it around him, tight and merciless, looking at him straight in the eye, patch askew, sapphire glinting in the low candlelight, yanking on his prick, once, twice until he was coming all over your hand, legs near failing him as you both toppled unto the cold stone floor, a tangle of limbs and clothes.

You’d wiped your hand gods know where and let him rest his forehead against your racing heart, until his own would stop hammering madly in his ears. It was the way you looked at him after that destroyed him, that trapped him forever in the ribcage that held your own wildly beating heart. Because you looked at him like it pained you. You brushed his white hair out of his face the way you did Helaena’s, tenderly, kindly, the way you had never touched him before. You thumbed the edge of the scar on his cheekbone, and let the words escape your mouth: “You’re beautiful.”

And when you said it like this, like you were fighting a losing battle, like it hurt coming out, then Aemond could believe it.

#aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut #dothraki reader #hotd fanfic #iresmut #and if the devil…#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #hotd fic #maid reader #my writing

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jiubilant · 3 months

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ft. @zurin's character, casair

“It purports,” says the Headmaster of the Bards’ College, raising a classical brow, “to be the oldest teahouse in the City of Stone.”

“So does that one,” says the Archmage of Winterhold, nodding across the street. “And that one. And the, the one on Temple Way, remember, with all the trellises—”

“Please come in, messeri,” cries the girl sweeping the hearth, “or you’ll let out the cat—Pangur, no!”

They scramble to shut the door, of course. Then, of course, they have no choice but to let the girl take their cloaks hostage, to be ushered to the corner table with the charming brass lamp, and to murmur amused greetings at the house’s proprietor: a venerable gib-cat, puddled half-asleep by the fire, who blinks at them without moving a paw.

“Let out the cat,” mutters Viarmo when the girl—who knows her own cleverness, judging by her smile—has hurried out of earshot for their cups. He gestures with theatrical indignation to the hearth. “Beast didn’t even deign to roll over.”

He brushes his bright velvet doublet as if ridding it of fur. The Archmage smiles.

Whatever’s sprung up between them over the past month, he thinks, will likely end today. He’s leaving the City of Stone tomorrow—for his ice fortress, as Vjar’s put it. He’s missed it, his College: the blinding ice, the air that crystallizes in the lungs, the cold, clean vastness of the sea. The seals bawling at gulls. The gulls squalling at seals. His wonder-workers shuffling about with wind-flushed faces, blowing on their hands, stamping the snow from their boots in the entrance-hall.

But he’ll miss Markarth, too, against his better judgment—

“You won’t regret choosing the Juniper Tree,” chirps the girl, bustling back with teacups and tray. “They serve dishwater on Temple Way. Pilgrims can’t tell the difference, you know. Melze!”

She rattles out the teapot and an array of brimming bowls: honey, sugar-shavings, blackberries cooked in syrup. A silver ewer of warm milk. A carafe of cool water, and a carafe of hot. The Archmage watches with growing surprise and delight; Viarmo watches with amusement, rearranging the bowls when it looks as though the girl will run out of table.

“Melze?” he asks, catching a desperate teacup without turning a hair. The man is nine-tenths pomade.

“Tea in the dwarven style,” says the Archmage, smiling. A memory he’d thought lost returns to him: himself in a melzeruhn with his father and sister, holding his cup with both hands, sitting on two cushions in order to see over the table. “It was popular in Narsis when I was a scrib. You fix it up yourself. I didn’t know it ever crossed the Velothis—”

“This was a dwarven city, once,” says the girl with a dimpled smile. “It’s our house blend, messere, so it may surprise you.”

He suspects that it will. He hasn’t had melze in two hundred years.

“Let me,” he says when Viarmo reaches for the teapot to pour. Then, against his better judgment: “I ought to know by now what you like.”

Nothing ventured, he thinks a little desperately in the silence that follows. The big beringed hand pauses in the steam. Above it, Viarmo gives him a long, leonine look.

“Yes,” he concedes at last, nudging the teapot across the table. Their fingers almost brush. “Will I see you at that colloquium, come spring?”

* * *

The House of Dibella’s conservationist, after several minutes of scholarly rumination on her pen, rubs her face and looks up from her précis. The Juniper Tree is crowded this afternoon, she thinks with dry surprise; apart from herself, she counts two customers.

“Cottia,” she calls in the Reachling tongue of their mothers, reaching across the table for her cup: tart juniper tea, not the Nchuand brew that charms the lowlanders. “I’d like something else to chew on, please—”

“Bannuc!” her cousin announces, and drops a wedge of the hot, fluffy barley-cake on the conservationist’s notes. Then she drops herself into the adjacent chair, her eyes twinkling with the promise of some mischief. “Fresh from the stone. Do you think they’re rich, Casair?”

The glittering old gentlemen at the corner table, absorbed in a lively Haafing conversation about lausavísur, seem in no danger of understanding them. Casair counts their gleaming rings and raises her eyebrows. “Why?”

“They didn’t ask the price of the tea service.” Cottia grins like that cat. “Should I charge them double?”

#skyrim #microfic #viarmo #oc tag #ravi

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tarnishedinquirer · 4 months

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Beneath Stormveil

Here the damage seemed the worst. In places, the walls were red and raw, almost as if they were bleeding. I continued down and reached a room with a very interesting painting.

It was Stormhill, before Stormveil Castle was ever built. The world looked so much wilder and more vibrant back then. The colors were deep blacks and rich greens, not the washed-out greys and pale greens of current Limgrave. The place that would once become the Chapel of Anticipation was part of the mainland, separated by a waterfall rather than a chasm. There's no trace of the black stone pillars that underlay the entire land. The Stormfoot Catacombs are open, with no door. And, while something was gleaming gold, it sure didn't look like the Erdtree.

Yet the Divine Tower and bridge were already there, and already so ancient the bridge had started to crumble. Curious.

After examining the painting as much as I could, I unlocked the door back to the Site of Grace and continued downward.

This was by far the oldest and most neglected portion of the castle. It's unlikely it would get any light except at high noon. The only creatures down here were vermin. Giant bats and rats, the scavengers and dwellers in the dark.

Now that I was down here, it became clear that this was a dumping ground for the castle above. Specifically, it seemed that all the statues removed in the various ideological purges were just shoved into the abyss.

There's the expected statues of women holding ewers or missing their hands, but there's a few statues that stand out to me. They're almost completely buried, so possibly the oldest statues ever dumped down here, and depict hooded figures either holding a book or holding a dagger. Unfortunately, I don't have any context to interpret them. Maybe I'll find some more later.

A scarab almost misses my notice, were it not for the sound they make. I track it down and it's carrying an unusual Sorcery called Rancorcall.

I say it's unusual because using it would require almost as much faith as intellect. That unnerved me a little. Sorcery is supposed to be the result of consistent, observable phenomenon. Concrete things that may be more difficult to observe and comprehend, but are ultimately just as real as a sword. To apply your intellect to the task of how best to surrender it to a higher power seemed perverse to me.

The voice said:

Sorcery of the servants of Death. Summons vengeful spirits that chase down foes. Once though lost, this ancient death hex was rediscovered by the necromancer Garris.

Going on my theory that scarabs only appear where abilities like ashes of war, sorceries, or incantations are used, and somehow they gather up some invisible residue to make their spheres, I would suspect that Garris must've been here at some point. Perhaps this is where he even developed his techniques? I doubt he's still here.

To draw a connection, I found the Rancor Pot recipe in the Tombsward Catacombs. It has a similar effect of summoning vengeful spirits, though different methods. Am I to assume Garris might also have been there? That might explain how Deathroot got inside...

Now I came to a cliff overlooking a root-choked and damp chamber below. Bones littered the floor. Some were stacked up in drifts, but there were also complete skeletons resting in what looked like old, rotted canoes. Perhaps a vestige of some water burial in the past? At one time, they might have sent the dead over the waterfall that once ran through here. Once that dried up, they instead just buried the dead in their canoes.

But what interested me most was the grand baldachin, now rotted and torn, draped across the chamber beyond. Something important must be there.

Before I could approach, a terrible creature burst out of the ground. I'd seen its ilk once before, in the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. An Ulcerated Tree Spirit, a great writhing snake-root, like a serpentine mandrake. Even as I knew its movements, it was still so erratic that it was hard to predict at times. As it slammed me against the walls, I knew now where the drifts of bones had come from.

Once I had slain the beast. I was free to recover its treasures, both here and in the chamber beyond. Much like the last, it dropped a Golden Seed.

As for the chamber... I can scarcely describe it. I'll try to sketch it but I don't think I can do justice to the sheer presence of this thing. Despite looking like a stone carving, I knew on an instinctual level that it was alive.

It was a face, or approximation thereof. Yet it could not have been more inhuman. It at once looked floral, fungal, and animal. The lower half of the face was like an oyster mushroom, and from there emerged thick tendrils like thorny vines. The upper half had a disturbingly human nose but two oddly angled eyes, or at least eye sockets. The lids themselves were empty.

The whole thing burst through the stone wall on a thick body like a salamander, though if it had arms, they had not emerged from the wall. And its was very clearly a violent entry, with rubble piled up around it. Nearby, there was a bloodstain, and a corpse holding an item in its hands.

Oh hell. The bloodstain was Rogier. If he can't see Grace anymore, then can he even come back? Is he just dead for real now? I couldn't even see what got him but it looked bad. It lifted him up and seemed to impale him from multiple angles. I hope he's okay. I actually kinda like the guy. It was rare to talk to someone both intellectual and down to earth like that.

The corpse had a... Prince of Death's Pustule?!

A fetid pustule taken from facial flesh. It is said that this pustule came from the visage of the Prince of Death, he who used to be called Godwyn. As First Dead of the demigods, it's said he's buried deep under the capital, at the Erdtree's roots.

It is said, it is said, it is said. I hate it when the Voice uses weasel words. Who says?

If Godwyn was the first to die, then it is his death that created the Deathroot. Deathroot sprouts similar faces to the one on this pustule. The same milky white eyes, the same thorny tendrils... There was a couple things that puzzled me. I noted fish fins on the Deathroot growing in various catacombs and Summonwater Village. Despite its aquatic appearance, this face held no trace of such details, resembling an amphibian more than a fish. Second, while the Deathroot and Pustule share the milky white eyes, this visage does not. Instead, its sockets are empty.

Third, if we take the voice at face value and say that Godwyn actually is buried under the capital... why did this face burst out of the southeast wall? The capital is to the northeast. I can buy the Greattree roots spreading throughout the Lands Between, but I'd still expect such a creature to burrow through from the correct direction. The only things off that direction are the Stormfoot Catacombs and the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. And since the painting confirms that at least one of those was here before the castle, I find myself doubting if this is even Godwyn at all, or some other, forgotten Prince of Death.

I'll review my notes about those places and see if I can gain any insight, but arbitrary skepticism doesn't do any good. I have to assume that this is Godwyn, or at least an aspect of him, until strong evidence presents itself otherwise.

Still, to quote the only cleric I ever got on with, "Doubting is what I do."

With my investigation concluded, the only way to go was up. Thankfully there was a conveniently placed, if alarmingly tall, rope ladder. I began what was sure to be a very long ascent.

I had at last gotten answers on the rot infecting Stormveil, but they only left me with more questions.

Who are the dagger and book statues? Why were they purged?

If Godfrey built the earliest Stormveil, who built the tower and bridge?

Is that face Godwyn? If not, who could it possibly be?

If it is Godwyn, why would it come from the wrong direction?

Why does this face look so different from the other faces? Why is it missing its eyes?

Who is Garris? What was he doing beneath Stormveil?

What happened to Rogier?

Why was he looking for this?

#elden ring #elden ring lore #in character #in character blog #in character post #let's play #godwyn #godwyn the golden #godwyn the prince of death #stormveil #necromancer garris #death sorcery #sorcerer rogier #briars of sin #deathroot #night of black knives #rune of death

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bougiebutchbinch · 11 months

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If you had told Stede Bonnet a year ago that he would one day find himself living on land, running a ramshackle tavern, all he would say on the matter would be “Oh, how… quaint,” with that particular smile that any who knew him would recognise as very far from happy. ‘Innkeeper’ was quite the downgrade from ‘pirate captain’, after all. If you had gone on to say he would run this tavern with the dread pirate Blackbeard, and, moreover, that they would share everything from their ewer of wash-water in the morning to slow kisses under the Caribbean moon… Well, then he would’ve flushed, fumbled his words, and (quite possibly) fallen over. And if you had told Stede Bonnet a year ago that he would be coming to Izzy Hands for advice on how said canoodling could be improved, he would’ve laughed until he pissed his britches. But life never quite turned out how you expected, did it? For better or for worse.

I am finally writing again!! :3 ofc it's gonna be a Steddyhands fix-it where they all build the inn togeher x

#ofmd #steddyhands #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #stizzy #eheheeehehe

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fatale-distraction · 3 months

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Lavellan's New Lighthouse

We're crack posting today, folks. Here's how I imagine my Lavellan's first time entering The Lighthouse.

Ellana turned in place in the center of the Lighthouse, taking in the solitary, gilded prison Solas had built for himself. A table set for one, with a single plate, a single glass, a single fork and knife. Not a single chair had a mate. A chesterfield near the bookshelves: alone; dining chair: alone; lounge chair at the window: alone.

She moved to a small hearth where a lonely, disused kettle sat and picked it up, running her fingers over the black iron. Moving with a sudden determination, she filled the kettle with water and set it back on the hearth. She fished a flint from her pocket and struck up a fire beneath the kettle, then strode purposefully to her pack. It took her seconds to locate a half-used brick of tea leaves. It was her very favorite kind; fragrant, dark, and strong. If left too long, it stained whatever unfortunate vessel held it irreparably.

Ellana dumped the whole thing in the kettle and slammed the lid back down.

Varric watched with an uneasy feeling as the former Inquisitor began rummaging. She collected every single object that could reasonably or unreasonably be made to hold liquid and set them out on the lonely dining table with exquisite care. Ever-blooming flowers from a vase went into the fire and the vase to the table. A golden ewer for bathing joined it. A bowl of incense ash was dumped over the bed and arranged with its brethren. A hunk of soap was flung out the window, its dish placed on the table. She even dropped to her stomach and pulled the mercifully empty chamber pot from beneath the bed.

The kettle was screeching, lid rattling. Ellana took a pot holder from a hook and retrieved it.

And then she poured.

Each and every vessel was filled with meticulously portioned tea the color and approximate viscosity of darkspawn sludge.

“What is she doing?” Rook whispered too loudly.

“He abhors tea,” replied Varric.

“Oh,” said Rook.

“Oh.” Bellara paled. “Oh boy.”

“Is...anyone going to stop her?”

“Be my guest,” Varric gestured to Rook grandly as Ellana made a point of setting the now empty kettle in the exact center of the table. The smell of singed wood began to permeate the air as the still-hot iron began burning a circle in the table.

“Uhh...”

Now humming a merry tune that sounded suspiciously like “Sera was Never,” Ellana moved on to her next target. She yanked open a set of drawers and dug a pair of sharp scissors from the pouch at her belt. Out came every single pair of small clothes, split up the back side with the scissors and dropped ceremoniously on the floor.

“Maybe I’ll wait until she’s done with the scissors.”

The sound of fabric rending made all of them cringe as she moved onto pants. Socks had holes snipped in the toes. Shirts sliced from neck to hem. All to the rhythm of the jaunty song. Then Ellana moved onto the pillows on the bed, dumping feather stuffing on the floor. She returned to the kettle and scooped out fistfuls of the wet tea leaves and began restuffing the pillows.

“Okay, alright,” Varric said finally. “That’s enough. Now you’re just being mean.”

“Get away from me—don’t touch--...”

Ellana was quite short, even for an elf. She didn’t stand all that much taller than the dwarf. So, it wasn’t terribly hard for him to cram his shoulder into her stomach, heave the flailing, spitting, shrieking elf up with one arm pinning her legs to his chest, and plop her into the chair next to the bookshelves like a naughty child. He even kicked it around to face the corner.

The Veilguard watched this interaction with stunned awe. The Inquisitor, savior of Thedas, crossed her arms and pouted as a soggy, tea-filled pillow dripped noisily on the floor of an ancient elven god. Varric rubbed his temples.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered as Ellana began systemically turning every single book on the shelf in front of her upside down, rifling through the pages and tossing out any bookmarks she found.

Neve made a noise in the back of her throat. “Those could be clues...”

Bellara put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head gravely. There was a horrific rend of paper and a page disappeared into Ellana’s mouth where it was chewed to a pulp and spat back into the book. She slammed the cover shut and crammed the volume back into the wrong spot, upside down, pages facing out. Neve ground her teeth together.

“She’s a monster...” lamented Emmrich.

Varric shook his head. “Sera’d be so proud.”

Ellana’s last act of terror occurred when she located a partially darned sock and began serenely picking out every single stitch and unravelling the whole thing bit by bit.

“You done?”

“I’m going to knit a giant middle finger using the yarn from all his sweaters and socks. And then I will be done.”

“Okay, Violet.”

“And then,” she went on. “I will be inviting my sister here.”

Harding and Varric exchanged deeply troubled glances.

“El, we were gonna use this place as a base of operations...” started Lace.

“And my sister is going to use it as a litter box.”

@erehttuoliveeht

Also check this out on AO3 as part of a new collection of stupid shit I write about DA4

#dragon age #ellanasha lavellan #writing down fatalities #solas #solavellan #da:tv #da: the veilguard #da4 #da4 spoilers

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arcielee · 1 year

Text

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ past trauma mentioned, sexual themes, unprotected sex, grinding, oral (female receiving), fighting and death, holy ground being disturbed? Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 5138 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: I apologize for the delay, irl is being tedious for me, but I very much know how this story will end. We have one more chapter to go! It is still very much a hybrid of the show and the books, with me adding flare as needed to fit the narrative. Anyway, enjoy. 💜 Thank you @theromanticegoist for being my beta reader and offering me a sliver of your insight and talent. Thank you my darling @itbmojojoejo for the gif you took the time to create for me. 💜 Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @tssf-imagines @triscy @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @greenowlfactif @larlarmojo @babyblue711 @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurs (bold means I was unable to tag you!)

Chapter 6

Keavy awoke to the morning light streaming through the cloth that was pinned over the window, allowing a muted, dawning glow to fill the room. She wiped the haze from her eyes and realized the intimate tangle of bare limbs beneath the furs; her gaze moved from the nightstand, from the candle that burnt to its wick and its wax spill onto the wood, and drifted to Osferth, who was curled at her side.

Her slight movement stirred him and he gave a sleepy groan, his arm reaching to wrap around her waist and pulling her against his torso. Soft laughter spilled from her lips with the tickle of his chest hair, his lips soft against her hairline. “Good morning,” she whispered, craning her neck with a phantom kiss to his jawline.

Osferth hummed, tilting his chin downwards to find her lips. “Good morning, beautiful,” his voice was drowsy and each word punctuated with a gentle kiss.

She burned from his touch, from his words–no man before had called her beautiful, especially not a Saxon man. “Do not tease me, Osferth,” her breath fanned his cheeks and she saw his dimples peeked with his smile.

“I would never,” and he kissed her again.

Keavy smiled against the press of his lips, shifting to spread her legs as he moved closer, cradled against her hips; he hummed his pleasure, careful to place his weight on his arms that were propped on both sides, with a slow rhythm of his hips. She sighed as his hardness pressed between her thighs, the genial rub against the flush of her arousal.

“Osferth,” she gasped, arching against him. “I shall never grow tired of this.”

“Do not tempt me,” his mouth moved along the column of her neck, placing kisses until he came to the junction of her shoulder and nipping softly; she sighed again, her skin raising in response. “I may never allow you to leave.”

But inevitably they would, the begrudging pull from the sex soaked linen and allowing the cool air to nip at their skin. Keavy poured the chilled water from the ewer into the porcelain basin and they were quick to clean and dress; she fetched a small vial and her pecten to comb through her dark locks.

She palmed the rose oil gifted from Gisela, working it into her curls, which allowed the polished bone to glide through to style. Osferth came up behind her, his hands gentle to touch and his fingers threaded through to finish braiding her hair. “A man of many talents,” she teased him, her cheeks crimson with his gesture.

“Of course,” his voice low, his attention focused as he knotted the end. “How else do you believe Sihtric manages his hair?”

Her laughter was lyrical, and he smiled; she reached for his hand, her fingers interlacing with his own, and he pulled her outside. The fallen fresh snow glittered with the sun’s light and their breath was white clouds that rose above them; their hands knitted with a soft swing that synchronized with their slow steps as they made their way towards the great hall.

The doors groaned open and the attention shifted towards them; it was the Irishman who began his cheer, with the rest following. “It’s about fucking time,” and Finan’s smile was bright against his dark beard, while a rose color dusted their features as they took their seats at the table to join them.

Winter settled over, which kept the men in Coccham; Keavy did not mind and enjoyed the new comfort with the new routine. She slowly created space for Osferth within her room, enjoying how his scent lingered over the shared space, especially in the furs and blankets from when they curled beneath them, sharing an intimate warmth as they talked about their days.

Outside of Coccham, the snow billowed high against the walls and isolated the village from the rest of Wessex. The inside thrummed still, with pathways that weaved within, the spirits high from the rich harvest despite the cold. An occasional traveler would wander through, taking a moment by the fire and delivering any letters, one which was addressed to Osferth from Lady Æthelflæd.

That night the great hall was alive with liquored cheer, but her focus remained on Osferth as he stepped away a moment to break the seal. To the untrained eye, it could be considered an eager want to read the letter from his kin, but Keavy saw the brief press of his lips into a thin line and the flicker of worry that knitted between his brows as his eyes flitted over the parchment in hand.

Keavy did not wish to draw any attention, but waited as the night waned away, when they began to file out into the night to find their beds. She reached for his hand and they returned to the privacy of the room they now shared, which was dark with a slight chill. Once the door was closed and candles lit, she felt Osferth press up against her, a pillar of warmth on her backside; she sighed as his arms wrapped around her waist, his face nuzzling beneath her scarf and the soft press of his lips to her skin.

“What news did your sister have for you?” Her hand reached back, her fingers combing through his golden locks towards the back of his head.

Osferth hummed and she felt the curl of his lips into a smile. “You read me as well as her words written.”

She turned in his arms to face him, pressing to her tiptoes for a chaste kiss in response. “With the time I have invested, Osferth, I should hope so,” her brow raised to hint the teasing of her tone. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her own for a moment, slow breaths to intake her fragrance of lavender and thyme, her hint of rose oil in her tresses. Osferth pulled back, taking her hand and moving to sink into the straw mattress.

Keavy followed him, but remained standing between his legs, quiet and watchful as his long, slender fingers that played with her own, his forehead lined as he struggled to find the words. “My father,” he began but it was said as if there was a bitter taste to his tongue. Osferth swallowed and began again. “The king’s health has been failing.”

In the last few years, King Alfred had the reputation for being perpetually ill but without actually dying; Lady Æthelflæd wrote her worry that their father’s luck, or perhaps the favor with his God, was finally coming to an end, or so she believed. “I know he will reach out to Uhtred when winter ends,” and he finally met with her eyes, a glassy shine to his brilliant blue. “Perhaps to ask that Uhtred swear his fealty to Edward.”

She nodded, aware that Æthelflæd was his sister but that Edward was always referred to by his name. “He would never agree to it,” Keavy whispered, one hand coming to touch his jaw. “To swear fealty to a boy would last until the end of his life.”

Osferth nodded and his lashes fluttered closed, leaning into her touch and releasing the hold of her hand; she moved to touch the other side of his face and he reopened his eyes, looking up at her once again.

Before their intimacy finally bloomed between them, she had first become his confidant and, in return, he was her haven embodied. Right now she saw the solemn severity that lined his features, she saw the uncertainty, the weight of the future of Wessex, a burden not belonging and, at the same time, imbedded into his blood.

Her thumb trailed the sharp edge of his jawline. “Let the king call for Uhtred when the snow melts, he will handle him,” and her tone grew coy, “but right now the snow piles high and we must stay warm to survive.”

She leaned forward, another chaste kiss to tease his lips, and his hands moved in response, grabbing her waist and pulling her closer. Keavy grabbed fistfuls of her skirt, rutting the fabric up to straddle him, the soft plush of her thighs caging him to the bed.

His hold moved to cradle her lower back, pulling her against his chest, his head tilting back and pressing his lips to the underside of her jaw. “We must stay warm,” his hot whisper tickled and she tried to pull back with a smile, a giggle, but his grip held and brought her back, capturing her lips with his own.

Keavy moaned and his clever tongue deepen the kiss, as if he was drawing the very breath from her lungs; she wrapped her arms around his neck, leveraging for a slow grind forward against the hardness that pressed through the crotch of his trousers, pulsating from the pressure of her clothed cunt.

Osferth groaned into her mouth and the vibration sent a trickling desire down the length of her spine; his tongue tasted her, his dexterous fingers loosening the ribbons that laced her backside. Their clothing fell to the floor, quick with the cold that seeped in, and he pulled her beneath the layers of their bed, a kiss to the inside of her knee and a trail of open mouth kisses that led to her core.

She sighed with the familiarity of his touch, his lips, and the beginning glints of pleasure sparked before her eyes, leading towards the precipice of her release. A warmth coiled in her lower abdomen as his fingers curled within, one after the other, and she moaned with his ministrations that pushed her over the edge, her blossomed release that spread and pressed the very seams of her being.

Osferth followed through its completion with the sinful squelch of her cunt pulsating around his fingers, almost to that brink of overstimulation, before he withdrew and carefully climbed on top of her. She was breathless and beautifully flushed from her climax, a soft mewl spilled when she felt his length press against, heavy and warm and wanting.

Keavy combed her fingers through his hair, pulling him close for a kiss and savoring her taste on his tongue, while her thighs wrapped around his slender waist. She sighed sweetly as he molded to her curves, the weight of him and the tickle of his chest hair against her bare skin.

His arm reached between, lining himself with her entrance; Keavy moaned when he pushed in, his head dipping into the curve of her neck with his own low groan from how her velvet walls clenched in response. Osferth waited a moment, allowing her the time still needed to adjust to his size, and he only moved when she found his mouth with a hungry kiss to urge him.

The gentle thrusts of his hips began to rekindle the flames licking her bones, the curtails of her prior release still tingling throughout; the crushing closeness, the tickle of his hot breath against her skin and his pace quickened with the flutter of her walls; there is a tandem of their release, the sounds of her sighs and his guttural groan that reverberates through them both.

Every moment spared would be this entanglement of limbs, curling into one another flushed from their climax and until their breaths were an exchange. Eventually, the snow began to thaw and the spring greenery struggled through the cold mush left behind. The earth warmed still and Osferth’s prediction of a letter from the king did not come until the midsummer months.

They packed to travel to Wintanceaster as commanded or as asked, depending if you spoke with the Lord or Lady of Coccham.

Gisela complained with good nature and grace, swollen with the life that grew within her. She sighed her complaints of her size as Uhtred took her hand, careful to guide her steps towards the cart. “It will not be able to hold me,” she smiled with her words.

Uhtred kissed her hand, his other arm wrapping around to lift her inside. “If the wheels split, I will carry you myself,” and his eyes glittered as he teased her, pressing forward to steal another kiss before moving back towards his horse.

Gisela shook her head, her lips pursed into another smile, and her gaze fell to both Keavy and Osferth, with him helping her to mount her horse. “This will be your fate one day,” she called to them, smiling still and raising one brow. “And I will be the one on horseback!”

Keavy flushed from her words, unable to look at Osferth, unable to stop the curl of her lips into a smile from Gisela’s teasing.

Their time together in the last few months had been everything she always hoped for, but she could not help the flutter of apprehension that it would never be more. The thought knotted in her chest late at night when Osferth would curl against her backside, the warmth of his palm on her stomach, but she found it was the one thing she could not say outloud to him.

She confided in the great hall where Hild began to speak scriptures and Gisela waved her off, seated with her swollen ankles propped up. “Away with your Ephesians, Hild. Do not listen to that nun,” she said to Keavy and her dark eyes glittered. “Is he good to you?”

Osferth was and so much more. He showed consideration for her in his every action, something that was without effort and just seemed natural for him: from how he filled his plate to share with her, how he took her hand to lead their steps together, with how his eyes brightened, alert, always aware of their surroundings as if he would do anything to keep her safe. She loved their time together, at the end of the day when he would curl into her, the soft trail of his fingers along the length of her spine and back, or how they would comb through her dark curls with gentle kisses along her hairline.

She was crimson when she finally answered. “He is very good to me.”

“Then that is enough,” and her tone clipped with a sense of finality, and Keavy tried her best to tuck the thought away.

But it still lingered; she was aware of his bloodline, of the royalty that ran through his veins that was stronger than the sins of King Alfred. Keavy assumed the day would come when he would want a wife of his equal, a true Saxon lady of reputation and not some marred, cursed cailín from across the Irish sea.

“Marriage is only a title, a status, an exchange of goods when had,” Gisela argued. “I see how he is with you and it is the actions of a man that speaks of his character.”

This was now the thought that she clung to.

It was then that Finan barked to the caravan prepared, reclaiming her attention, and they made their way towards Wintanceaster.

+ + + +

They had barely arrived when the king called Uhtred away, leaving the rest to settle into the home of the priest and his wife, Thyra; she held the same fierceness as her kin, Uhtred, but had a softer deliverance with it, instilled with the bold blue of her eyes.

Their home was comfortable with a rich fragrance from the supper prepared over the open flame; the children played amongst themselves, with Sihtric’s son alongside Oswald and Stiorra, and the men made their round trips to the alehouse to refill their cups, their spirits high. They crowded around the table to eat and with the shortage of seats, only then did Osferth pull Keavy into his lap, relishing in the sight of color that tinged her cheeks.

Uhtred returned, soured with the news they were to sunder tomorrow, heading towards the Burh of Aescengum on his advice that the king sought from him. “Unfortunate this is the one time he listens to you, lord,” Finan teased him, but he could only manage a grim smile in return.

The following morning, the stables were cluttered as the wives came to bid their farewells, with Keavy among them. Osferth curled his finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back, pressing his lips against her own with his promise, “I will return to you.”

Her smile was forced, but her eyes were bright from the kiss.

The sun shone overhead and moved behind them as they went eastwards, the city of Wintanceaster shrinking away. A comfortable silence settled over with the ambling gait of their horses, until Uhtred decided to break it. “I believe it is time you take a wife,” he began, his lips curling as if he was aware of something already. “It is time that you got married.”

There was a low chorus of chuckles from Sihtric and Finan behind them. “I have thought of it,” Osferth admitted.

This was a thought that reverberated within him, something that rattled his bones whenever he was in proximity of Keavy, something ignited with her touch, with her lilt. It followed him, heavy in the air that surrounded them and it mixed with the sickly sweet scent of sex and sweat above their bed shared; his throat was thick with his want to whisper the words: my sweet wife.

But also was the thought that he was a bastard and the curse bond with it. The holy book of Dueteronomy taught how this curse would follow for ten generations because of his illegitimacy. As a boy, he did not mind it, but as he matured, he now found that it clawed at his heart from the moment he had kissed Keavy.

Osferth knew then that he loved her, and that perhaps he always had, as it gradually blossomed more over the years. He enjoyed the sharpness of her emerald eyes, how well she fit into his embrace and he would bury his face into her dark curls. Most of all, he admired her strength and her resilience; Keavy had been shy and hesitant to share the cruelty that destiny littered her path on the way to him; the thought that his curse could possibly add more suffering to it pained him, especially when she already survived so much.

Uhtred raised his brow. “Just thought?”

“Usque ad decimam generationem,” the Latin spilled from his lips and he continued, “I could not… my children would be cursed, their children too, and every child for ten generations.”

Osferth tried to avoid this pending biblical curse that clung overhead, but too often he would be cuntdrunk, with the taste of her lips too enticing and the sinfully sweet clutch of her velvet walls all too consuming. It was only when the post-coital haze wore off that the thought would return: bastard begot bastard, his curse continuing.

“So every bastard is doomed?”

Osferth hummed, his eyes forward. “I do not see the king taking ownership for his… mistakes.”

There was another chortle of laughter and Osferth only hummed again. Ahead of them was the low smoldering glow of the ruined village of Alton, the remains of a guarded church coming to view when Uhtred called to him. “Let us ask your God what else can be done.”

But God had seemed to abandon the parish and instead they found a woman of many names: a seer, a witch, the devil reincarnate. Sihtric moaned of the curse that followed with her capture, voicing his concerns until it was palpable and heavy overhead. Only Finan was bold enough to say, “Do not speak of it, it only gives it strength,” and it was left alone, but lingered on the edge of their minds.

The Battle of Farnham, as it would be remembered, was a slaughter of Danes and their victory was sung throughout Wessex, following their return to the city. It was surreal with the echo of bells off of the Roman structures that were still rooted throughout the city, the swarm of the crowd and their cheers for King Alfred and his men, for their victory and safe return.

Osferth peered through, his eyes sharp for Keavy, or even Gisela, but instead he spotted the nun Hild; he saw how her face was drawn with grief and the nursemaid in her shadow, holding a bundle to her chest. Before he could say a word, Uhtred quickly dismounted and pushed through towards her; Osferth instead swung his leg over, following after Beocca back to his home, relief washing over when he saw Keavy seated inside with Stiorra and Oswald.

The priest moved to kiss his wife and Keavy pushed to her feet, enveloping in Osferth’s arms; he pulled back to kiss her, finding her cheeks stained with tears that confirmed the news plainly written in Hild’s expression outside.

Gisela was gone. “I could not save her,” she whispered hoarsely and he pulled her close again, a soft kiss on her hairline.

With the summer months waning away, the night came with its chill and its sorrow. Osferth took Keavy’s hand and they moved outside the city walls, towards the holy ground where Gisela had been buried; Hild breathed a quick prayer and the men grabbed their shovels, upturning the fresh grave.

Uhtred watched as the flames licked up the sides of the lumber stacked, the poignant smell of death masked by the smoke that curled up into the silver light of the moon. “It is beautiful,” and Hild wet her lips, her voice a reverent whisper amongst the splintered pops of wood. “It is as though she is drifting away from the earth and upwards towards the heavens.”

The amber glow of the funeral pyre cast its golden dysphoria over him, his cheeks shone with his tears and he wilted with wracking sobs that echoed emptily against the trees. Osferth moved to his side and Finan quickly to the other, a strong hold of their lord, with their whispered words of comfort offered to him.

“Death is unavoidable, it is a part of life,” he rasped, his palmed gripped Osferth and his glassy eyes locked onto him. “It is inevitable, but love is not and you must always take the moment when it is offered.”

As their attention returned to the blaze, Osferth dared peer back to see Keavy. She held onto the hand offered by Hild, pale in the moonlight and her features tight with her grief aflare, reflecting her tear streaked cheeks, and he had the intrusive thought.

She is lovely still.

Uhtred’s words was something repeated in his mind as they retreated back inside the city, returning to their beds; it was a soft echo still in his mind as he pulled her flush against his chest, something that resonated when he felt the gentle press of her lips to the underside of his jaw, nestling into his embrace. Osferth held her close throughout the night, his fingers tangled in her dark curls and his other hand rested on her hip, the soft expansion with her every breath eventually lulling him to sleep.

The lamenting lessened in the days that followed. Though the grief remained, there was room for a sense of clarity, for Uhtred to announce they were leaving Wintanceaster at once. Osferth saw how he was haunted with Gisela, how the city now served a reminder of his love that was lost.

He knew this would follow them back to Coccham and he thought back to that summer day years before, when he first came to swear his sword to Uhtred and what he promised, his words–“You may never see Wessex again,”–but still they remained, tethered by the oath to the king.

Osferth only truly understood his sister’s words when he saw their father at Aescengum; he almost did not recognize the cadaverous man had it not been for his crown, his regalia that hung from his thin frame. The dark force that escorted him from Wintanceaster was now grey in his complexion, with silver streaks in his hair and beard, a brittle man that a strong gust could have swept away.

He also thought of what else she wrote, how she encouraged him to come to her estate, to come to Mercia; her letters tempted him to go, to take Keavy and to travel North.

But instead he stayed, now spurred with the unspoken exigency to ready the horses, to leave the city at once, and it was interrupted when Beocca called for Uhtred, stating the king called for him again. They watched him leave before continuing, with an unease that lingered behind.

Later, Osferth first spotted his return, his grief partnered with a fervor as he called to him, to Finan and Sihtric. The city thrummed, holy ground has been disturbed, and soon the king’s guard arrived, but the men of Coccham were already standing guard, with a palpable choler that solidified their stance.

In that moment, his sister’s words returned. “We need to get them out,” his voice was low, whispered to Sihtric; Finan continued to needle Steapa and his men, bold as always. The Dane quirked his brow at Osferth. “The children, your wife and son,” he continued, before adding, “and Keavy.”

Sihtric steeled his jaw, a sharp nod to acknowledge his words. “You have a plan, baby monk,” but it was not a question, more a statement.

Osferth hummed, his eyes locking onto Hild as she pressed through the men, a beacon for peace and her tongue chastising them all.

“You were goading him,” she hissed to Finan as she moved past him.

The Irishman raised his brows in response. “I was, Hild. And enjoying it.”

“So the abbess may enter, but I may not?” Steapa sounded incredulous and Osferth took the moment, a quick nod to Sihtric, before falling behind in her steps.

Finan squared off, just as bold. “We’re afraid of the abbess.”

Osferth slipped behind Hild, leaving the nun to have her scathing exchange with the kept witch while he moved towards Keavy. She was seated by the bed, the children tucked away as she ushered soft tones to soothe them.

He thought back to their days together in Coccham, their rosy-cheek smiles now hallowed with the somber undertone that clung to their small frames. Osferth felt the loss of Gisela, as she was kind to him, but understood that the children felt it tenfold.

“We need to leave the city,” he murmured low enough for her to hear; Keavy looked to him, her lips parted to ask but his low timbre continued, cutting through the tension of the room. “Lord, we need to get the children and women out of the city.”

The focus turned towards them. “I cannot have them return to Coccham,” Uhtred began, his tone wry. “That land belongs to the king and I am not in his favor.”

“I am aware,” and he paused, a look stolen to take in Keavy, his gaze trailing the severity that lined her face and spilled into the scar along her jaw. Osferth then looked back at Uhtred. “We should send them to Saltwic, lord.” From the corner of his vision he saw Keavy stiffen, how her green eyes darkened and pinned him where he stood, but he did not look away from Uhtred. “My sister will never forget what you have done for her and I know she will be the sanctuary needed,” his tongue wet his lips, “I agree with Hild. You should call for Beocca and hear the demands of the king to serve as a distraction.”

Uhtred nodded, his focus returning to Hild. “I am willing, but in exchange for the safety of our children, for our women,” and she watched him, her eyes flitting back and forth his face. “I worry about getting them out of the city.”

Osferth now looked to Keavy, but her attention was rapt, her grip tightened on the handle of the seax that hung at her side. “I will protect them, lord,” Keavy stepped forward, a slight tremor to her tone. “I swear it on Lady Gisela.”

“I will also go with them, Uhtred,” Hild sighed. “I will first tell Beocca that you are ready to listen and then I will see that they are escorted to Saltwic.”

Uhtred offered a small smile and Hild was gone; Beocca was quick to arrive with the demands of the king, which called for silver and his vow to the aetheling. Uhtred pushed to stand, following Beocca out into the night, pausing to hand his sword, Serpent-Breath, to Finan and his eyes landed onto Osferth.

“You know what to do.”

Time slipped through their fingers with this newfound urgency, licking their heels to quick their steps to the stables the moment the guard shifted to follow Uhtred and Steapa. The sleepy haze was wiped from the children’s eyes by the hem of Hild’s sleeve, the hushed tears and kisses exchanged between Sihtric and his wife, Sigdeflaed, while Finan saddled the last mare.

Osferth felt the slight tremble of her hold and looked down at Keavy, her eyes watchful, almost doleful. “You will be safe in Saltwic,” he whispered in the shell of her ear as he pulled her close. “This is for the best, this will keep you safe.”

She pulled back, her brow furrowed with her sharp nod, her breath caught in her throat and she swallowed the threat of tears. “I know this, I understand this is the logical thing to do and yet…” and she took a deep breath, her hands moving to untie her necklace. “Osferth, I want you to take this and for you to bring it back to me.”

He leaned forward and his skin prickled with her touch as she knotted it behind the nape of his neck; the silver cross gleamed in the little light offered. “Return to me, Osferth,” her voice was small.

He pressed closer and captured her lips, her honeyed kiss a balm for his resolve. Osferth moved to help her onto the backside, then he picked up Stiorra who nestled in front–one child for each rider. His hand then fell to touch Keavy’s ankle, sliding up beneath her skirts and he gently squeezed her calf; she looked down at him. “I will return to you,” he promised.

Her response was a pained smile, another quick nod, and she brought her heels against to trot behind Hild and Sigdeflaed. Osferth followed behind until they passed through the gates, and remained until they were silhouettes in the night.

Finan clasped his hand onto his shoulder and Osferth looked at the Irishman. “We will see them again. Soon, baby monk,” he promised. “Now help with the gate.”

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#the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom fanfiction #osferth #osferth fanfic #osferth fanfiction #osferth x ofc #we need more osferth fanfic #slow burn #farewell wanderlust

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saintsr · 3 months

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Chapter II

“Missa!” The three remaining figures appeared, breaking the people who were there out of their stupor.

“Where is Missa you fucking idiot?” Spreen pulled the sword from him and grabbed the man closest to him by the throat.

“Their leader no longer exists, so it’s their decision, they tell us or they die.” Shaudone raised his voice without shouting, looking at everyone.

“I say they have to be tortured, if they hurt Missa, death will be a mercy.” Spreen’s eyes turned golden with red edges full of anger.

“Yes, let’s hang them by their balls or their feet.”

“No-we don’t know but it’s good that it happened, they deserved it because they were selfish” the man that Spreen was holding finally spoke.

“The Gods are supposed to help humans” a woman fearfully pointed her bow and arrow trying to aim at Quackity’s head.

“We do not owe them anything and with this, your land will not have crops until we find the lesser Demeter.” A thin but strongly built figure with brown or platinum blonde hair spoke, making the young woman faint, causing all the people to flee when the man who Spreen said he was killed by a sword through his heart.

“Rubius” Quackity finally spoke with a trembling voice as he saw a blood stain on the floor and Missa’s wolves trying to dig a hole.

“I know, Quackity” Rubius and Quackity looked at each other in fear and anger for whoever dared to hurt his little baby Persephone.

“Let’s make everyone shit, let’s burn the earth, let the water not reach anyone, let it rain blood on everyone” Shaudone looked with anger and disgust at the woman on the ground trying to control him powers so as not to do something against him vows .

“Calm down kid, I’m the first to ask for blood but we need information” Rubius put a hand on Shaudone’s shoulder while he pulled him towards where the wolves and Spreen were.

“Let’s separate, we’ll cover more ground, any clue, come to the house,” Spreen finally spoke after putting a leash on the wolves, giving them to Rubius and Shaudone.

“I don’t want to go back if Missa isn’t there, oh my Missa, my Missa maybe he’s cold in any ditch, maybe he’s already stiff or maybe he’s cold, he’s running from everyone and I can’t get him a blanket or”

“Shut up, Quackity, otherwise you want us to hang you by the balls.”

“But I can still hear him say Quackity, Quackity, get out of my kitchen, asshole!” He continued to lament until he saw the other Demeteres disappear “Where are they going? “Assholes, Sons of your motherfucker, come hear my cries, at least a few kisses or a grab of the buttocks to overcome the pain.” With that the earth was left lifeless, without sacred blood and two bodies, one lifeless, the other fainted.

In the Kingdom of Philza, he was in a place he called “The Nest” which was the Palace of Hades, the central place where the underworld was controlled, the crows were perched on the windowsills of the castle trying to see what was inside.

Tubbo was following Philza since he saw him flying at full speed with something in his arms, so he tried to continue, but he almost collided with the palace door when it was closed, something that one or another crow, listening to the knocking, failed to do, so Now he saw how the bundle was lying on the bed, being covered by the curtains that surrounded it, preventing him from seeing who or what it was. Philza moved from one side to the other looking for bandages, water, jugs, glasses, a ewer along with a portable sink where he put a cloth to then pour the water, take it and clean the wound on the black-haired man’s head gently, which seemed more like a caress, as if the person were made of delicate material, fearing to destroy it, when he finished, he bandaged it and let him rest, he arranged the fabrics so that nothing would disturb him.

“By Cronus! Tubbo you scared me” he jumped slightly when he saw Tubbo leaning on the wall with his arms crossed.

“Yes I noticed, but I’ve always been here, it was you who forgot about me” Tubbo looked at him seriously as he tried to look over Philza’s shoulder “Who is it?”

“You don’t mind, go upstairs, don’t talk about this with anyone, and if something comes up, let me know right away,” he directed him to the door, looking at him seriously.

“But Phil.”

“Go away Hermés”

“Yes Lord Hades”

When he found out, he only went to get a chair to put it next to the cloth to make sure nothing bad happened until sleep overcame him and he fell asleep.

#pissa #q!pissa #qsmp pissa #qsmp missa #qsmp philza #q!missa #q!philza

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absentwriterdoll · 1 year

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Nightmare

It had a nightmare.

Dolls weren't supposed to have nightmares, but this one did. It was broken. Surely it was broken, and it needed to be fixed, and it needed to tell its Miss, to discipline it, to repair it, to make a good doll from the bad one that it is-

But as quickly as those solutions came, they were drowned out.

And, in silence, in darkness, in that false stillness, a most horrible imitation of what it so desperately wished to return to -

It could hear a familiar voice.

But it didn't want to hear the voice.

But it couldn’t help but hear that hauntingly familiar voice.

And it tried to shut out that harrowing sound, it needed to escape, to flee to its Witch, it hated to fail its Miss, but disappointing her was a far better fate than -

"Stop."

Its every movement ground to a halt, the abrupt cessation grating its joints like sand abrading skin - not skin, it didn't have skin, it was made of porcelain, not skin-

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

She looked into her- It, not she, it is not a person, it is not a person, it is a-

"How long are you going to play pretend?"

She grabbed her arm, and yanked her back, forcing her to look into her-

Miss.

Please.

Save it.

It is sorry.

Please make it stop.

It will be good.

Please-

"When will you realize?"

Her nails dug deep into her skin, blood weeping from the incisions, seeping into the frills and lace adorning her. She had worked hard to buy the dress - and now it was ruined by her traitorous self.

She should have known today wasn't safe. She should have waited for another time. She knew that her mother-

"You are a boy."

Her fingers tore through the fabric as it began to fall from his shoulders. It hurt worse than the deepening scars on his arms, his back, his legs, his neck -

All at once, something clicked. The pain, the blood, the scars - none of that bothered him as much as the torn and stained fabric. He knew it inherently.

After all.

The fabric was worth more than him.

He just…

Forgot.

"God doesn't make-"

"Oh hush, certainly you weren't about to say 'mistakes', were you?"

A foreign voice, a foreign figure, stays her mother's hand. Her mother draws herself up away from her, loosing her grip to scowl at Miss… Miss…

She couldn't remember Miss’s name.

…

Did she have a name?

"Don't think overmuch, sweetie, this isn't solvable by a doll."

It felt itself confused at Miss's words, surely it wasn't a doll - but… She told it not to think too much. So it wouldn't. Besides, even if it could remember what it was thinking about, it truly felt that listening was the right thing to do.

"Now, as for you, young lady…"

Miss turned to the Mother, which had suddenly become taller than it remembered - though its Miss was clearly taller (as expected of course!). It wasn't sure what the Mother was here for, but Miss certainly didn't think that the Mother belonged. As for the doll, it didn't really need to think to agree with Miss: that much came quite naturally, no thoughts necessary!

"I don't know about God, but I think that it makes for a rather fetching femme-aspected doll!"

Oh, Miss was referring to doll! It wasn't sure what had inspired the sudden declaration, such wonderful praise, but it was elated! It absolutely needed to earn Miss's unwarranted praise today, or it would never forgive itself…!

"And you, doll."

It froze, and it remembered all at once: it had done something wrong. It knew it had done something wrong, it needed to remember, it needed to learn so that Miss's discipline would be-

And then it was in Miss's hands - and, just as quickly held and hugged closely and tightly -

"Good doll."

"Wonderful doll."

"Adorable doll."

The praise poured like water from a bottomless ewer, each word striking the doll's already foundering thoughts deeper, delving it into a panicked fluster, the warmth of its Miss seeping into it, through it, within it, staining its ceramic body like copper, cobalt, and corundum colors glass, the flowing flux of her molten mana winding, winnowing through it's every emotion enunciated, every sought sensation, stealing it further, fathoms away from something that it didn't quite remember, that it didn’t care to remember - and how it yearned to lose itself, to be so utterly suffused by the soothing fragrance of its Miss that it could notion nothing more, save for serving her so long as it's artificial heart coursed, couried with her magicks, for so long as it could fallow fathom thought, all of its everything devoted endlessly, eternally to the unceasingly smothering love that saved it from the past that it had readily sundered, happily surrendered -

"Doll."

It returns to itself. It blinks twice, remembering itself. And it looks up at Miss, towering over it.

Miss stares at the doll, and it stares at Miss, waiting, still, silent, for instruction.

And then Miss speaks.

"I love you."

The doll smiles as does Miss, and it returns to its work as Miss returns to hers.

It already knows this.

But it's always nice to be reminded.

#dollposting #empty spaces #fantasy #fiction #microfiction #writing #witches #emptyspaces #notaperson

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arthistoryanimalia · 6 months

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#MetalMonday :

Ewer in the form of a Hamsa (Gander)

Indian, Deccan or Northern India, ca. 16th c.

Bronze with later brass repairs, copper-arsenic paste

H 15 3/16 in (38.5 cm)

on view at Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

“The body of this ewer takes the form of a goose (hamsa), another common motif in ancient Hindu and Buddhist iconography, where it is associated both with the waters of life, because of its aquatic nature, and with wisdom and purity, on account of its legendary ability to separate milk from water. The spout takes the form of a makara—a mythological aquatic creature that resembles a crocodile with an elephant’s trunk and a fish’s tail—another quintessentially South Asian motif and one of the most commonly used propitious emblems in Indian decorative art.

Other features of the ewer resonate more closely with Islamic artistic traditions, which came to South Asia with travelers and traders soon after the emergence of Islam itself in the seventh century CE. Thus, while vessels in the form of animals are quite rare in Indian metalwork before the Sultanate period (1206–1526), when Muslim-ruled kingdoms first controlled large areas of South Asia, zoomorphic ewers have a long history in Islamic metalwork going back to the eighth century CE. The hamsa ewer beautifully represents a confluence of motifs, mythologies, and objects that belong solely to neither Islamic nor Hindu cultural traditions. Indeed, it would have served equally well the needs of either a Muslim or a Hindu owner, facilitating the performance of ritual ablutions before religious observances within the home; or it may have been proffered by a servant at an elite banquet, enabling Muslim and Hindu guests alike to cleanse their hands before and after the meal.”

https://collections.mfa.org/objects/18461/ewer-in-the-form-of-a-hamsa-gander

#animals in art #museum visit #birds in art #bird #hamsa #gander #metalwork #bronze #ewer #Indian art #South Asian art #Asian art #Museum of Fine Arts Boston #16th century art

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emyn-arnens · 3 months

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Flashback Friday!

Thanks for tagging me @sallysavestheday! I'll re-share Beneath the Innumerable Stars (G, Findis & Ilmarë, 941 words), written earlier this year for the February Ficlet Challenge. Here's a snippet of it:

Though the many towers of Ilmarin stood crowned with golden domes, catching the light of the rising sun on their facets, the Tower of Varda stood open to the sky. Always it was night in the tower, a night so deep that neither walls nor pillars nor floor could be glimpsed, and it seemed as if all the tower was the night sky, and the stars of the heavens shone upon it even at midday. In the center of the tower stood Varda’s Mirror, a deep silver basin that gleamed faintly in the darkness. Findis stood before the basin and poured into it the water from the holy pools fed by the many waterfalls of Taniquetil that she had carried in a ewer up the long, breathless mountain path to the mansions of Manwë and Varda. The mirror showed no reflection of Findis’ face as she stood before it and waited for the water to still.

Read the rest on AO3.

Tagging @grey-gazania @dreamingthroughthenoise @polutrope @cuarthol @slightnettles @bywayofmemory if you'd like to highlight an older piece!

#tag games

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wintersongstress · 1 year

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A Dream’s Winding Way

Part II — The Weaver and the Loom

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: sexual assault trauma responses, murder, canon-typical violence.

A/N: Arthur will make his appearance at the end here ♥ thank you THANK YOU @the-halo-of-my-memory for beta-ing 💞

Part I | ao3 link

~ II — The Weaver and the Loom ~

Snick.

The bolts inside the cabinet lock slid free. Between your finger and your thumb, the tarnished key in your grasp opened a long-latched door, a swoosh releasing dormant air. Inside the stale cell, relics of the past awaited, felty with dust. A chatelaine belt rested on the shelf, ornate with filigree, alongside a satin pouch, a crystal hat pin, silver spurs with brass rowels, and a wedding bouquet, its once-white roses shriveled and decaying. You paused once, running your fingers over the cool rivets of a sapphire brooch, and overlooked it all, instead retrieving a new vase for the kitchen table—one that would not shatter into pieces when it fell—and a tattered recipe book.

With the book settled in your lap you opened it with a crack. Antique, creamy pages inked with words fluttered past your fingers, food stains mottling the margins alongside cursive pencil scrawls. A flattened sprig of poppy bookmarked the page for an oatmeal pie recipe. You tucked it back in for time to keep safe. A few gentle turns later you found what you were looking for and rose from the floor of your grandmother’s room, relocking the cabinet, and shutting the door behind you. You donned an apron and began your work.

The rugs, the curtains, all were taken down and rolled up, flapped outside, and beaten with the handle of your broom. You swept the floors of broken vase shards and stray leaves, replenished the oil in the lamps, trimmed the candle wicks, tossed out last night’s dinner, laid a new tablecloth, filled the silver ewer from your grandmother’s cabinet with water and fresh flowers, and scraped the ashes out from the fireplace. Wood clopped as you piled it up in a canvas carrier outside and lugged it in. Soap suds splashed your wrists as you scrubbed the dishes spotless. All the while the clock ticked on, from hour to hour, the day waning, until you could no longer prolong the inevitable, and commenced your grisly task.

You propped your family recipe book open on the counter and fetched a large stew pot from the wall rack. The cutting board hosted the full spectrum of ingredients you needed, so you set the pot over the stove flame and warmed a dollop of butter and olive oil. The yellow onions you chopped sizzled as you added them in, and, using a knife, you deployed your special ingredient from the cutting board. A few dashes of salt and pepper joined the mixture next, and once the onions popped their flavor, caramelizing, teaspoons of dried sage and thyme hand-picked from your garden snowed from your hand with clumps of chopped garlic.

Stirring, mixing, curdling, after a few minutes a pour of red wine and a splash of vinegar came next, making the soup bubble fragrantly. You scraped the copper bottom with a wooden spoon, stirring the browning bits of onion and garlic around, and drowned it all in three cans of beef broth from the general store. Two bay leaves fluttered in last before you covered the pot with a lid to let it simmer.

The Sheriff would have a fine last meal.

When the first three stars appeared in the evening sky, your cottage was aglow with soft light and welcoming with the scent of a rich dinner. Fine dishes and silverware sparkled on your table with a basket of bread in the center beside a lit candelabra. A fire warmed the hearth, and the alluring shimmer of dusk slipped in through the clean curtains. All was set. You sat in your armchair and waited, staring at the flames.

Hoof beats. Sweat chilled your palms as the sound drew nearer and you stood to peer out the window. The dot of a lantern bloomed in the distance. You tucked your shirt into your belt and clutched your shawl tighter, holding your heart to tame its wild beating, fingertips bumping the band of your mother’s ring, still hanging around your neck from a chain. The most important thing for you to do was breathe, slow and even, so your blood could thrum throughout your body as it was supposed to and give you strength. It flowed into your heart and you closed your eyes.

“Ease up,” a voice called. His voice.

A horse nickered, blowing out its nostrils. Leather creaked as he dismounted from his saddle and the bit tinkled as he hitched the reins, whistling. You could imagine it all, him fixing and grooming himself as he walked up, expecting a girl who would be so happy to see him and enamored with him that she made her home all nice to welcome him after a noble day of hunting outlaws.

The jingle of his spur was as foreboding as a snake’s rattle as it marched up the flagstone path. You positioned yourself in front of the stove, bending over the pot with a spoon and stirring the flavorful broth, a smile schooled on your face.

“Honey pie, you home? It’s me.”

The picture of a perfect wife, you thought, standing in your inviting home in a cooking apron. He would only see what he wanted, blind to you being capable of anything else.

“Door’s open!” You chimed, and the doorknob turned.

Some change at once went through the room. In a heavy, dominant rush it all came back, like the strong winds the night before that rattled the window panes and made the trees plunge and bow. You spent all day distracting yourself from the flashbacks of his lurid words, the fondlings, and the sound of his labored breaths. Anguish seized your throat at the footfalls entering your home once again and the pillar of strength you constructed within, had leaned upon, began to crumble.

You had a hangnail on your thumb. You discovered this while squeezing your fist tight, tethering yourself to the present. It was a welcome, soft twinge of pain for you to focus on and you picked at it, fixing your eyes on the window. The candle before it illuminated the glass, and you watched the sapphire heart of the flame waver, heard the little hiss of it, and glanced beyond. A sky wistful with waning blue, a sunset throwing gold on all that was green, a hush of wind passing through the leaves, and your reflection blending in between. To take it all in brought you forward in time, to a crackling fire and a bubbling soup, and a purpose hanging over your heart.

It is not happening again, you reflected. And it will never happen again.

You were safe, you reminded yourself, safe in the present, grounded, and irrevocably turned to face the man who hurt you in a way no one ever had. You looked at him without seeing him, a dish towel in hand.

“Come on in, I have some dinner on the stove. It'll be ready in a jiff if you want to hang up your things.”

“I would be delighted,” was his reply.

He took off his Stetson, hung it on the hook. The sound of his coat being tugged down his arms and his gun belt unbuckling made your heart beat fast and your fingers curl into your palms again. Shaking, you gripped the edge of the counter. Steam from the bubbling pot kissed your cheeks.

A chair scraped across the floor. “It smells delicious, sweetness. I’m downright famished.”

You breathed in and out slowly. He folded his leather gloves beside his table settings and you prepared a dish for him. With a gulp and a clench of resolution, you dipped the ladle deep and unearthed the chunks of vegetables, pouring them artfully into a bowl, spoonful after spoonful.

“Any luck tracking down that gang?”

He sighed, deep and tired. His elbows knocked on the table as he reached for the loaded bread basket.

“They slipped through our fingers last night, but we almost had ‘em.” Pulling the loaf apart, he ripped a piece and tucked it into his mouth.

You rounded the table and laid the baleful meal on his place setting, in a daze as he happily snatched up his spoon.

“Oh my,” he marveled. The polished silver of the utensil disappeared in the broth and came back up replete with the softened wild bulbs.

“These onions are quaint,” he commented.

The lie came to your tongue easily. “They’re called pearl onions. I have them growing in the back.”

And with a pleased grin, he feasted. You sat across from him with your own bowl, your spoon a special porous one so you could pretend to eat alongside him. He dipped his bread in the soup and drained his glass greedily, refilling it himself from the pitcher you set on the table earlier. Before long he scraped the bottom of the bowl and you replenished it.

You tried not to pay attention to his sordid aspect. The way he sniffed loudly and chewed openly, the dirtiness of his face from riding, the grease slicking his unwashed hair and the matted tips of his mustache, his eyebrows also unkempt and overgrown. You fixed your eyes to the grain of the wood instead, ate your bread with a slice of cheese and a handful of walnuts, munched on the salad of spring greens you prepared, all the while waiting for time to take its natural course as the toxins of the ostensible pearl onions invaded his system.

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed. His hunger appeared to sate as he scraped up the last dregs of his supper, affording his utmost attention back to his hostess. “Why won’t you look at me?”

You lifted your chin from your palm. Something in his expression shifted with awareness.

“Is this about last night?” he went on. When you remained simmering in your silence, he deflated. “Listen, I–I didn’t mean to get so rough with ya. I was drunk, and I’m sorry.”

Your insides twisted and flamed, refusing to be quelled. You shot up, turning your back to him and crossing your arms as you faced the window.

“You’re sorry?” you seethed. A drum pounded in your ears; it was the mad pulse of your heart. Tall in your judicial resolve, you whirled and directed your fury towards him in its full magnitude. “Not a bone in your body is capable of being sorry,” your voice shook, low in its tenor. “You saw an opportunity to take advantage of me and seized it. The way you spoke to me—degraded me—it’s impossible for me to believe you didn’t enjoy every moment of your vulgarity.” Split flew as you scoffed at him. “Regret is not within you. Not when I see now that you planned it. All along.”

He broke into a laugh of disbelief and leaned back to survey you. The worst kind of smile distorted his face, as if your fit of temper delighted him.

“Yer actin’ like you didn’t want it. Like your cunny wasn’t drippin’ wet for me–” you lunged forward, vision red and nostrils flaring, ready to seize his neck in your hands and crush his windpipe like the frail stalk of a vegetable, but stopped, grasping the back of your chair instead. You despised the idea of having to touch him and were reminded that you would not have to get your hands dirty to kill him. But you were prepared to. How much longer could you stand his gloating and his shameless iniquity? The wood of the chair’s cross rail creaked beneath your unforgiving knuckles. The Sheriff smirked at your little display.

“I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it,” he argued, pointing his finger at you; then he shook his head. “What nerve you have, bein’ a little cocktease with me. But I didn’t treat you like those whores in town, no, I went out of my way to…to enamor you, bringin’ you flowers while you greeted me in your garden in your lace and your pretty smiles, a pie coolin’ on your windowsill. You know my dear Carolynn never blessed me with a child, and here you were,” he gestured to your frame and the home around you. “Takin’ on the responsibilities of housekeepin’ all by yer lonesome. All you needed was a man to take care of you, and I could be that man. Honey, I want to marry you. I could make you happy! Can’t you picture it?”

Flushed from his diatribe, he pleaded with you, half-rising from his seat until you thrust out a hand in warning. Surprisingly, he heeded your tacit command. Disgust curled your lips into a sneer.

“Marry you?” you echoed, hollow with disbelief. Your vision blurred and you blinked against the mounting tide of revelation washing over you. His mindset, his reasoning, it was unfathomable, and you struggled to piece together a sentence. “This whole time…that was your object? And you thought that by—by trapping me, and giving me no other choice, that I would accept you?”

His eyes rolled heavenward and frustration flashed across his oily face. “Lord knows I’ve been patient,” he gnashed his teeth, voice raising a note higher. “I didn’t want any other man to have you. What, you think you’re meant for one of those half-witted grangers in town? They don’t know the first thing about women, let alone how to keep one as pretty, smart, and pure as you. You know it’s downright sinful to keep such gifts to yourself.”

His words were worse than his touch. You had not one to describe your own sensations; the shock of his inflicted on you completely suspended your power to think and feel.

“Sinful…” you wandered over his meaning. “You’re a hypocrite.” Releasing the chair, you stepped away a few paces and shook your head, huffing to contain your brimming despisal for this man. You refused to listen to him any more. All throughout the day strands of thought had weaved through your head, firmly knotting into what the shame made you believe about yourself. That you were ruined. That you were worth less. He must have thought he was paying you some kind of compliment, saying what he said. The refutation rose in you to a forbidding height, like the dust before a whirlwind, and your lips parted to release your final judgment of him.

“You don’t know the first thing about me: about what I want, or what I need. What you did was assume. You assumed I wanted someone to come around and sweep me off my feet, save me from my solitude, and you assumed that I wanted you. A gluttonous, arrogant, entitled pig who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, who would rather blame them on the beast at the bottom of the glass,” you spat with venom. Emotion began to wrack your voice, lifting and dropping it like the swell of a wave, but you plowed forward, pinning him to his seat with the fearsome gleam in your tear-stricken eyes.

“The worst part about it is you could’ve made your intentions clear! I could’ve been spared from all this pain if you had only the stones to be straightforward. But I guess the prospect of your hurt pride was too much to endure. Deep down, you knew the only way you could have me was unwillingly.”

Your hand clutched at your breast, wrinkling your shirt and tangling in your necklace chain. You let go and charged forward again, and this time, the chair rail snapped in your hands at your final word.

“You had no right. You’re the most pathetic excuse of a man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be glad to see you drop dead.”

At the crack of wood he sneered. No longer tolerating this speech, he stood, and for a fleeting moment you shrunk back. Until his hand—his fat, pallid hand, still bearing a wedding band—braced itself on the tabletop and he wobbled on his feet. Blood rushed to his face and a delta formed in his forehead as he blinked at the ground, as if his vision was filled with spots while his legs drooped unsteadily beneath him. He clenched his gut and groaned.

A griefless laugh croaked from you. “You know, they say that wishes and dreams have a winding way of coming true. It looks like you are gonna spend the rest of your life with me, Sheriff.”

His sight fixed itself on the bowl in your place setting, at the spoon resting in it, and how none of your portion was consumed. He had the look of a man who realized something too late. The vein in his neck fluttered and his breaths sawed in and out of his lungs. Sweat dotted his temples and a thread of saliva spilled from his wobbling lip.

“Wh–what did you d-do?” He choked out.

The compass of your soul spun and whirred, before the ruby-tipped point settled decidedly south.

“What I had to.”

As his knees gave out beneath him, the Sheriff clutched the table’s edge, and the peaceful, law-abiding chapter of your life ended. The scent of bile fouled the air as he retched and retched, his body rejecting every morsel of the Death Camas he had stomached, and the pallor of his skin colored to that of fish’s belly before the monger’s crude knife carves it open. Not a twinge of sympathy or regret rippled inside as he fell helpless to the floor. Not at his struggle for breath, at his uncontrollable muscle spasms, or the chunks of undigested food dangling from his chin. He would lie there, wheezing and convulsing in a mound of his own vomit, until his heart stopped. You had no desire to watch, and you had no desire to wait any longer for your meteoric flight from this tainted place of grief and despair.

You unlatched the trunk in your bedroom and sifted through your belongings. Two saddlebags quickly filled. You packed the essentials: bedding and a camp outfit, medicine and provisions, clothing for severe weather, and valuables to fence. Rummaging through the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cabinets, you moved mechanically, occupying your mind with a plan moving forward, all the while a man lay dying on your floor, twitching and choking, sightless and inert. His breath was a mere rattle as you dressed yourself for travel and long riding, laying your necklace with your mother’s ring inside a sack for safe keeping. This was not the time for thoughts and moral ruminations, it was the time for action.

It would buy you time–and perhaps forego a bounty altogether–if you buried the body. His absence from town would not go unnoticed, but—Oh, yours would not either. Regardless, your next course of action began to formulate itself. You would need a shovel, a rug or a blanket, and a lantern, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and would not light your path.

As the night closed darkly in, the sunset folded its wings over the rib cages of clouds; the last pulse of color on the shore of the world a glowing, molten shade of marmalade. Insects clacked and clicked in the dusk as you stepped out in your hunting jacket, hoisting your supplies over your shoulder on the dirt path to the stable with a lantern swinging in your free hand. White moths flittered around the light and followed in your grim, resolved wake.

You hung the lamp on a hook behind the creaking door, illuminating the hay-strewn space. Bridles, bits, and martingales populated the wall inside the stable, with rakes and shovels propped up from the ground. An empty wheelbarrow served as a temporary home for your provisions, setting them inside so you could perch yourself on a stool in the corner to strap on your spurs.

Willa shifted on her hooves to adjust to the weight of the various sacks and pouches you affixed to her saddle, but she complied with a trusting snort. You spoke to her kindly, stroking her forehead, knowing that she was listening in her own way and understood her importance to you. Without her, you would be alone. Without her your future, your freedom, it would all be infeasible. You led Willa out into the night, a shovel tucked under your arm and your lantern restored in hand.

An owl hooted and a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled, the sound carrying throughout the valley. Willa’s keen ears flicked, along with her long tail, and you gestured for her to wait behind the cottage, hitching her to an oak sapling. You intended to trudge through the muck of the funereal situation as quickly as possible while the night breeze slipped cool fingers through the forest and snuffed out the last tendrils of daylight. You marched back into the firelit house for the last time.

The stench hit you first. Foul and nose-wrinkling, you tugged your collar up against the smell and regarded the log of the Sheriff’s body, lying rigid. In death, he soiled his pants, as all men do. The body releases everything and the muscles stiffen and lock, blood stagnates in the veins, the skin purples, the tongue lolls out, and the eyes fix wide open to meet the unknown. Nature takes its course. Flies are drawn by some promising whiff of a feast in the air and consume the dead flesh in a quivering swarm of greed. Time passes. Maggots crawl. And bones will be all that remain, until, some day, they are dust for the wind to claim.

He was the one you rushed to when you found your grandmother cold in her bed. He was the one who arranged for the church to collect and prepare her body for burial beside your parents in the local graveyard. He was one of the persons who offered you words of comfort during the funeral.

He was the man who hurt you most in the world.

And he was no more.

It was a yawning, black moment, the one in which you stood, hesitating on some windy pinnacle, reflecting on not what will be, but what, long since, has been. Your throat choked around nothing. What has become of you? The future stretched out before you gray, interminable, and desolate. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in your mind, and you imagined carrying out the rest of this act—covering his body, dragging it across the floorboards, the weight of it, the slack look on his face, the creases of his fat fingers outstretched from his limp hand, and you knelt to the floor with a gathering horror of your deed, a tremor pulsing in your throat, your heart crumbling to the same ash dropping in the dim fireplace.

A numbness possessed you to pull up the corners of the rug, to nudge his body to the center of it with your foot, to wrap the carpet around his form and tuck him inside. To do what needed to be done. Your mind turned off. It had to, for it was the only way to endure. There was no choice left for you. But you wished you had listened. To the night, to the change in the wind, for the footsteps of fate and the creeping shadow of the terrible god of chance stepping into your doorway, eclipsing your hope of escape from this dire strait. A darkness was gathering in the hush; the kind something crouches within.

Fate is a weaver, poised at a loom; the spider over your garden gate. It works silently and unseen, amidst an intricate and silvery web, attaching invisible strands of possibility along a path leading to an inescapable epicenter. Fate, with its nimble clutches, spins and entwines, pulls one thread, wends the other, until the time comes when the unwary traveler reaches a pivot point, the moment when their life goes down one path or another, and the spider strikes the grappling victim caught in its web.

Back first, you dragged the carpet bearing the Sheriff’s body outside your door. His boots stuck out from the roll, thumping along the ground as you grunted with the effort of transporting him, using the strength behind your legs to shuffle farther along. The light from inside spilled out along the flagstone path, and as you stopped to establish a stronger, more efficient grip, your ears pricked at a pair of unfamiliar spurs clicking and scuffing to a halt behind you.

A pin-drop silence encased the air.

Your heart froze. Ice enveloped your ribcage and crystallized the blood inside their elaborate vessels, each breath serrating through your chest like a razor. For a time, only the stars moved with their twinkling. Slowly from the ground, inch by inch, you turned your head and your sight rose to the face of the intruder, the sole witness to your grisly act, and you almost laughed at how twisted fate could be.

A faltering deputy was fixed in place on the path, taking in the undeniable scene before him. He was no stranger. You recognized him in that slant of dandelion light by the curled tip of his nose, his ruddy cheeks, and the cleft in the middle of his chin. His beard was strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin, and he had grown into his jaw, the line of which had become more pronounced and square. He wore wrinkled pants tucked into worn, dusty boots, with his lanky frame swallowed by a long duster, a vest beneath it buttoned all the way, and a gun belt sagging around his hips. Ungloved hands hung at his sides, fingers that long ago squeezed the curves of your budding body dangling emptily.

Though he scarcely looked it, he was the boy from the orchard with russet hair and dimples all those years ago, whose mother treated you like her own; but he had grown since that uncomplicated beginning. How a broken collarbone led to a friendship, which ripened into an affection and concluded in bitter resentment, was unforeseeable at the time. You never guessed that the two of you would end up like this.

“Gideon,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

The hungry, sweeping motion of his mouth against yours invaded your mind. In the blink of a moment like this, despite the current of the years that swept past and weathered away the discomforting, stony edges of the memory, you could relive the minutest details of your past with him: the sloppy tangle of tongue and teeth and the scratch of an adolescent mustache; the mopey, beseeching expression on his face, begging for more of you. A chill crept across your skin at the remembrance of his neediness and desperation, making it hard to look at him, shame rooted so deeply in you.

He uttered your name in the same stunned tone, his mouth agape until he swallowed his alarm. “It’s been a long time,” he said, and his eyes, murky, silver, and cold—like a pond in winter—cut to the sagging roll of carpet in your arms. An unmistakable pair of boots stuck out. “And I see much has changed.”

None of your muscles moved—but the weight of the deceased tired your arms and you ached to rest them. You slowly lowered the rug to the ground, your eyes never leaving one another’s.

“This isn’t what you think it is.”

A disbelieving scoff left him. “What I think it is,” he echoed. “I’m thinking that better not be who I think it is. I’m thinking ‘she went from breaking men’s hearts to stopping them altogether’,” his long legs carried him forward and your spine stiffened. His face came into the light. You shrank back. “Something tells me you don’t have one of Dutch Van der Linde’s boys wrapped up in there. See, I knew the Sheriff would be here tonight, and that’s his horse hitched there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the animal. “You have five seconds to produce the man I’m looking for alive and well or I’m taking you in.”

You wished to heaven you could think of a way out of this. What vestige of freedom you could still secure was within your grasp and it made your teeth grit that the bitter waters of life would surge high once again at this crucial hour. It figured; the final wave for you to overcome came in the form of Gideon Taylor, the pouty boy who you had no remorse for jilting. Your fists clenched beside you and you lifted your head, standing tall, measuring and meeting the danger of his presence.

Holding his stare unblinkingly, you pitched your voice low, words growing frost. “You should leave.”

Though he had a gun and lasso on his hip and an inflated sense of superiority to empower him, Gideon hesitated.

“I will, once you tell me where the Sheriff is.”

His spurs jangled. He spoke to you cautiously, as if you were a skittish animal about to bolt for an impenetrable thicket, the flit of his eyes gauging your every move, and his hand rose out to you while he subtly reached beside him.

Before you a narrow avenue of escape flickered, shrinking smaller and smaller like the last sliver of the moon in the dark of an eclipse.

When lightning flashes, the precise amount of moments that pass between the initial burst of light and the thunder that follows measures the distance between the strike and the listener. A blink, a heartbeat, a slow breath. That was how much time you had to act, before the thunder came and the earth trembled. In that slow, blinking, beating instant, you knew how this would play out.

When his gun began to clear leather your instincts kicked in, quick as a snap. You leapt backwards into the house, throwing the door shut. Fumbling with the bolt, the rusty metal bar slogged its way through the lock, making you cry out in frustration as you strained to jiggle it forward. The bolt slid home the instant Gideon’s shoulder rammed against the boards.

Your teeth rattled at the battering of the frame. He charged against it repeatedly and your eyes, in darting about the room, snagged on a buffet table. Praying the old lock would hold, you rushed to push it in front of the door and the furniture groaned as you shoved it in place, only for Gideon’s attempts to break in to cease.

“So, we’re doing this the hard way?” Gideon yelled through the door. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears and your face grew hot at the rushing of blood. You moved to extinguish all the lamps and candles, flooding the room in darkness and the lacy scent of candle smoke. His voice came again a moment later.

“Shit, what the hell did you do to him?”

The body. Beyond the threshold. He must have peeled back the rug, looked upon the Sheriff’s vacant eyes and felt his clay-cold cheeks. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of your stomach. There was no escaping what you did. But a small chance remained to evade capture. You could sneak through the back window and mount Willa quietly, get a head start before Gideon gave chase. You could lose him in the woods near Lady Face Falls and follow the water north—

A bullet crashed through the window. You dropped to the floor. Moving forward, you crawled towards the bedroom, covering your head with your hands whenever glass shattered and chunks of wood flew. Along the way your foot slipped through a sludge of the Sheriff’s vomit and your knee banged against the wood. You bit your cheek so as not to cry out in disgust and pain and shuffled slimily onward by the heels of your hands.

Gideon fired off six shots in total before you made it safely to the other room. Quietly, tortuously, you unlatched the window and pulled it up by the handles in increments to prevent any sound while outside Gideon cursed to reload his weapon faster. You winced as it gave a squeak, but the noise was muffled by the breaking of a window in the front room. A heavy stone’s thump followed after.

Gideon called out in the dark. “Are you gonna come willingly or do I have to shoot you? There’s nowhere to go!”

The night air beckoned. Without another thought you swung a leg over the sill and ducked out, making a break for Willa. Behind the cottage, you slid down a slippery bank of pine needles until you reached your moonlit mare, grasping the smooth horn of the saddle and clambering astride to get a move on.

“Ya!” With a kick to her flank, Willa gave a jolt and a toss of her head before starting forward. Moments. You had bought yourself moments to escape, merely. Snatching up the reins, you seated yourself properly and urged Willa through the grove of trees, hunching low to dodge the lash of branches.

She moved with a swift determination beneath you. With hooves heavy upon the earth, she sensed your urgency. Twigs snapped and spears of moonlight shot through the pine canopy as you wove through a wide belt of trees, your breath coming hard and fogging in the air.

The lane of a meadow came into view and you burst through the tree line, into the moon-bright open. Willa vaulted over a fallen log and landed in the muddy grasses, your rear hitting the saddle hard while pellets of ice flecked your cheeks as she scudded over a sheaf of unmelted snow.

“Go, go, go!” Crying out, you nudged her flank again, and Willa obeyed, breathing hard. The prospect of speed and gaining distance from your pursuer outweighed the risk of exposure, riding in the open like this. Her pace transcended into a gallop. You clung tight, blinking against the cold air as it pricked your eyes. The thunder of her feet matched the beat of your heart and the landscape became a blur of stubby trees and boulders smudging past you. In the wind she made Willa’s mane flowed, and you trusted her completely to deliver you from danger.

A gun fired off in the distance. You were forced to let up, arming yourself with your father’s hunting rifle, the stock firm against your shoulder as you peered down the sight and readied your aim. A quarter of a mile off a glint of moving light came from a lantern, and it struck your heart with a pang to do it—to fix your sights on the pulse of it and fire with violent intent. The sound split through the valley. The empty cartridge ejected.

Astride his horse, Gideon shouted as it reared up. Your round pierced the dome of his upheld lantern and sent glass and kerosene raining. In the briefly purchased interval you prompted Willa onwards, back into the ponderosas that environed the open meadow and the darkness their bristling boughs afforded before he and his horse finished screaming.

The farther into the woods you ventured the thicker the trees crept in, until you were forced to a walk. Into the silence of the night you listened, straining for any sound of pursuit. Nothing, only the cold shadows, dim moonlight, and scaly bark of pines passing by your knees. You propped the rifle against your thigh and loaded another brass round into the breech before hopping down from your mount. If the necessity rose again, it would be easier to aim on solid ground rather than swiveling on horseback.

Pine cones and fallen twigs scattered at your step, and you took care to prowl lightly through the snowmelt. You held Willa’s bridle in one hand, her bit jingling, and led her until the murmur of flowing water pricked your ears. Miserable cold began to set in. At every rustle and riffle of leaf and breeze your eyes snapped to each corner of the woodland on high alert. More than anything, you wished for the warmth of your hearth—to be nestled in your favorite chair like any other evening spent in the solitude of your home. Not gripping a loaded gun in a dark forest, heart racing for your life.

But at home, you remembered, lay the body of a dead man. To return to such a place was to hold to your ear a shell from the sea of the past, filling you with the hollow echo of what once was and no longer is. Those chapters from before fluttered away—as the seasons did.

The soil turned mossy and spongy from the lush influence of the river, with trilliums springing up between tree roots and felled, sun-bleached logs. You let Willa walk on ahead, and the music of the water dampened the far-off sounds. Your breath came out slowly as you surveyed the wooded area behind you.

How smart had Gideon grown in the past few years? Could he track you, undetected? Was he stalking you through the woods, with the patience and guile of a hunter? In truth, you had no idea what he was capable of, and it made your fingers twitch towards the trigger. Then again, what were you?

The treetops stirred. A gale whistled down from the mountains, hauntingly cold, and spliced through your jacket, meanwhile the starlight twinkled on. The moonlight turned the river iridescent. Willa drank her fill of water and you settled back into the saddle to trudge downriver. Gideon would lose the tracks you had no time to cover once he reached the stream, but could easily piece together your route. You stowed your rifle and formed a grip over the reins, knuckles over, and moved to fit your boots into the stirrups to give Willa a kick.

You wondered how you could not have heard it: the low, whisking sound of a twirling lasso. By the time it dropped around your shoulders, it was too late. With a violent lurch you were dragged backwards from your horse into the numbing, snow-fed water. Hard and unforgiving rocks bashed into the side of your face as you slammed into the streambed, the taste of coins flooding your mouth as your teeth cut through your lip and tongue. You wrestled with the unyielding hold of the rope amidst the water flowing around you, the shock of which soaked ice in your blood instantly. Black flowers blossomed behind your eyes. A hard yank snagged the air from your lungs and pulled you free from the chaos of the current.

Coughing, spluttering, blinking and gasping, twigs and gravel scraped your palms and before you could brace your hands against the silt someone else’s pinned them together and pushed you on your stomach.

“You’re not gettin’ away now,'' a voice hissed. You remembered those hands on you years before, stronger since, and contempt flamed up in you, compelling the fight in your limbs to kick and scramble beneath Gideon’s hold.

“Quit makin’ this harder for me than it already is!” he snapped. With force, he wrapped the rope around your wrists in a tight bind. All that was left to fight him with was your ankles and you thrashed your knees to shake him off, but the solid weight of him prevailed.

“No,” you groaned, and it took all of your strength to. The rope bound your feet together, and a stupor sludged your limbs from the shock of the cold water. You were flipped onto your back, flinching at a face you were loath to look into. Gideon shook you by the shoulders and your eyes rolled.

“Tell me why! Why did you kill the Sheriff?!”

The river still roared in your ears. Water dripped down your neck, bunched in your lashes. You thought they might turn into icicles, like the great big ones that hung from the cottage roof in the wintertime. Senses dulled and dazed, you could hardly see from the blur of tears and cold, but you caught the echo of his question, and the vial of indignation within you overflowed past the chatter of your teeth and the shivering of your limbs, unable to contain the seething words any longer.

“You have no idea–” a cough interrupted your speech. “What kind of man you are defending.”

Blood from the cut inside your lip spattered onto his face and he only blinked as if it were water. His astonishment was beyond expression. By the moonlight, the dark of his eyes narrowed, and you wormed beneath his glaring sneer.

“He was a great man. Everyone saw the good he did. But you–” he yanked you up from the rocky bed by the elbow, your head lolling. “You were all he talked about. And I tried to warn him about you! You know what he did? He just laughed at me and said I wasn’t man enough to handle you.”

His statement stunned you into silence. Upright, your senses were slow to sharpen with the fog accumulating in your head. The idea of the Sheriff boasting about you to his fellow men sickened you more than the memory of his touch almost. But you had no time to harbor the thought before Gideon dragged you to his mount like a lamb to slaughter.

Within the narrow, binding circle in which your ankles could shuffle you were pushed along, stumbling over pinecones and driftwood. You were too cold and cut up by the rocks to fight him, but you dug in your heels as you approached the tan horse’s flank, the gelding’s tail twitching.

You rolled your shoulder as he shoved you harshly forward by the center of your back and searched for your horse desperately. Willa had taken off during scuffle, trotting down the opposite side of the riverbank. You whistled for her, and her head swung in your direction.

Gideon lost what little patience he had and pulled you up by your underarm. “Do I need to gag you as well?” You braced your arm against his horse’s side to keep your footing. “I think I should, since you’ll be savin’ your confession for the judge.”

“Gideon, stop. Please,” you wheezed. “There was a wrong done to me.” You hoped the pain in your voice would make him pause and see the misery in your eyes, think about the weight behind your words. Maybe he would remember the girl you used to be, and recognize that she was gone, wondering what took the light from her heart. A minnow of doubt darted across his face and his grip nearly faltered, until the breeze blew cold and snuffed any flame of apprehension sparking inside him.

“And you call what you did makin’ it right? Killing a man is against the law,” he elucidated. His spit sprayed across your cheek and you flinched. “But I’ve heard all that I have an ear for. You’re spendin’ the night in a cell.”

Gideon crouched and lifted you from around the legs, hefting you onto your stomach over the horse’s rump. Blood rushed to your head as your weight gravitated to your abdomen and your muscles strained to support it. The steed’s legs shifted underneath you and you lifted your head with a painful effort to speak your mind as he rounded the horse.

“The law doesn’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong; it only says there’s a price to be paid for certain actions,” you snapped. Disdain pulsed through your veins, your blood humming with contempt.

“Yeah?” Gideon’s feet slotted into the stirrups and he gave a kick, gripping the reins and flicking them to the right. “And you are gonna pay—with your life. What’s that tell you?”

You balled your fists and squirmed, the weave of the rope digging into your wrists. Gideon started forward, roughly, back into the darkened forest. Your chin knocked against the horse’s hide and you held your head up again. “Men like the Sheriff bend the law in their favor whenever it suits them to get what they want and never pay that price. The law doesn’t protect those beneath it.”

“Spoken like a true degenerate.” He tossed you a look over his shoulder and scoffed. “God, if my mother could see you now.” At the memory of Mrs. Taylor and her old warmth towards you, you flamed up again, voice coming out in a growl.

“Oh, you don’t have room in your head for more than one idea!”

“I know better than to listen to this. I know you. A man’s heart is your joy to play with–”

“And it’s your joy to play the victim! Even now you can’t fathom why I despised you. You filled me with shame. Men like you and the Sheriff, all you care about is what I can give you. My heart, my feelings, they don’t matter. In the face of your desires they mean nothing. They don’t so much as cross your mind. The Sheriff took advantage of me and he would do it without a second thought over and over again unless I stopped it!”

“Shame?” Gideon turned back to you. The cold pinked the tips of his ear and nose, his knuckles also red from their place on the bridle. He went quiet for a moment before going on, the scenery passing by vaguely in shadows and shafts of moonlight. Your sternum ached at the pressure accrued from resting on it, and every time your head bounced along with the rhythm of the horse you glimpsed your bound feet on the other side.

He spoke softer this time. “You must not remember how sweet I was on you when we were together. But the way you turned so sour so suddenly, when I could’ve sworn you liked me just as much…it made my head spin more than anythin’. I didn’t know what I did wrong.”

The confession strummed a somber chord within you, twisting your expression grimly. You stepped out of the present, back into the years, while Gideon emerged from the cover of the woods and picked his way onto a pale ribbon of trail that wriggled ahead like a snake. A sign post at the fork heralded the one mile marker to the main road into town, painted white and chipping.

“We were so young. We were children, Gideon. It wasn’t love.”

It struck you that, at the age you spoke of, you did not know how to say no—the word not being something girls were taught. What you knew of women’s’ relationships with men was the expected role they fulfilled: giving. Giving affection, pleasure, children, companionship. In theory the rationale was not so terrible. Love was a dream. To be in love was everything. But your tryst with Gideon acquainted you with a breed of men who were used to taking what women were expected to give. Your kiss, your touch, your embrace and your body, these were all special to you; a gift to be bestowed, the chance to do so reveled. Not things you were expected to surrender to the first boy who looked at you lustfully, unconcerned with your true, inner value. You wished you knew that then.

The train of thought led you, for a glimmer of a second, to believe you could have stopped the worse act inflicted upon you by the hands of the Sheriff. As quick as it came it died. He would have found a way to get what he wanted, regardless of pleas, or strength, or precognition. You were not to blame. Bad people would always exist in the world and take advantage of others, and it was no fault of yours.

Gideon shook his head, sighed, and muttered to himself. Pivoting, he looked down on you with a pinched mouth, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well. We still knew what we were doing.” The cutting edge of his words dismissed you and he spurred his horse into a faster trot.

I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it. A ghost whispered. The soft choke of his death rattle gripped your memory and you flinched from it.

The hardheaded hold Gideon held on his grievances made your teeth clench. If only the perfect string of words existed to compel him to release them, you would draw the strands from the air, thread them together into a net, and cast their influence over his mind to pluck his heartstrings and make him remember the boy he once was; the one who looked upon you so fondly. But the notion came to a halt at that, for was he ever a boy capable of thinking beyond his own wishes, considering the thoughts of others?

“You’re so selfish. You’ll never change,” you found yourself saying without thinking. But he did not catch your words, and you spoke up as your despisal surged anew. “Maybe you knew what you were doing when you groped me, and ground yourself against me, and kissed me slovenly, but I didn’t. Because maybe you’ve forgotten, but I just sat there. You only ever cared about making yourself happy.”

He scoffed. “As much as I know you’d like to think it is, this isn’t about what happened between us. I stopped thinking about you in that way a long time ago, along with asking myself why. What you offered—” Gideon cut a withering look to your frame and grunted. “Wasn’t that special. There’s plenty of other girls out there. I’m just glad I didn’t end up in a goddamn carpet.”

Further and further away your hope slipped. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, making it throb and ache as you hung over the horse’s side and your feet grew numb. Inevitably, water pricked your eyes. A chill breeze brushed past your nose and snot began to dribble from the end of it while your vision blurred and your voice broke.

“There is no getting through to you, is there?”

In reply, Gideon only spurred his horse to trudge an incline in the road and leaned back in the saddle, steering away from the deeper patches of snow. A knot formed in your throat as you choked down useless tears. He owed you nothing. His nature was not understanding, or reflective, or critical of himself. It was self-righteous and vindictive. The conviction rested in his eyes as unyielding as the laws of justice. An ounce of sympathy from him was as likely as drawing blood from a stone.

Bitterly, your head fell, and you sucked your quivering, gashed lip. One last time, you tried to implore him. One last time, you sought your freedom, because it was the only thing you had left to lose.

“You can let me go. I’ll never come back here! Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t have to–”

And he slapped you across the face to shut you up.

The strike stung like nettles and your ears rang. Shrinking away, your mind blanking with static and noise and blinding white despair, fresh blood spilled from your lips from the slap and your trembling body remembered how cold your dip in the river had been. Worse was the wind, billowing down from across the distant mountain peaks, and the shivers set in deep. The trot of the horse went on, up a hill and off the trail through the terrain once more.

In silence, in anguish, in defeat, you wept. Over the side of a horse, bound, slapped, and subdued, you wept and embraced the taste of salt. For your lost girlhood. For the grandmother who raised you and the mother who did not have the chance. For your life, for the ruination of your dreams, from the unfairness of it all. Was this the harvest of all that had been planted for you? Bone-weary, you slumped against the animal’s hide and let yourself rock with each step. If only sleep could take you. You were ready for all of this to be over, to be a dream you could wake from in a sweat and try your best to forget. Bleeding and shivering, you longingly ached for something to fetch you out of your present existence, and lead you upwards and onwards, but you had no heart left for anything.

Glancing up at the sky, a bank of clouds enveloped the moon. Over wood, over water, the flood of its silver radiance receded, the ensuing darkness weaving a mystery in every drop of dew and creaking branch. An owl hooted, but its mate did not answer. The stars did not have any either as you searched for them.

The tall trees rustled, violently unsure, and the night breeze carried a sickly sweet scent in its passing, as if stirring something hidden under rotting leaves. As Gideon passed beneath them, the ragged shadows cast from the spruces closed in, and in the gloom an old stone rose from the earth like a grave. It may as well have been your own. Darkened by the color of moss and damp, the granite ledge presided over the forest, sundered by some glacial movement from the mountains eons ago while death and rebirth churned in the woods all around.

Unable to face what was to come, you turned your head. But in so doing, you caught sight of Willa trailing you from a short distance, the spot of white on her forehead unmistakable, and your tears subsided. Your heart glowed and lifted; a wobbly smile dimpling your cheeks. Graceful and poised, steadfast and resilient, she trotted in the passing shadows like she was of its fabric, her coat the same shifting shades of moonlight while she moved like a river, the sinews of her forearms and chest a changeful, inky black above her socks of white. Her hooves were too soft to hear in the spongy dirt.

Willa’s softly brown and gleaming eyes held a star in them. Every journey you embarked on, she was beside you. She carried your bushels of burdock root and feverfew and fireweed back to your cottage without complaint, conveying you home through the forests and switchbacks countless times, and in turn you took care of her since the day your grandmother bought her from the livery.

The events which occurred in the past day loosened your foothold on your sense of self. But in that moment, pondering Willa, it came back to you. You remembered who you were, and what you believed you were meant to be. A girl brought up to respect the Earth and revere it, who kept hope in her heart always, and dreamed that she could be loved. With crystalline clarity, your mind broke free from its chains and a wind stirred a flame back to life inside of you.

From a drained well of will, you gathered your strength, braced yourself for another struggle and one last trial of endurance. While you raced to think of a way to cut your binds, Gideon’s head snapped around, and you stopped. His revolver was drawn in a flash and his horse whinnied and raked its hooves. He fixed his eyes on the tree line and you strained for any telltale sound while his gelding started to canter to the side uneasily. Something spooked it.

“What is it?” you hissed. He ignored you.

A twig snapped close by. “Who goes there?” he called out. Not far off, a ribbon of campfire smoke wove up into the night air and you squinted at the shadows.

Gideon tugged the reins hard to the left and clicked his spurs, venturing to investigate and evade the open clearing. Your head joggled with the movement and you grunted. A patch of ground ahead, though sideways from your point of view, appeared odd, misshapen, the thick carpet of pine needles too obvious to be natural. But Gideon was not watching his tread and aimed his horse’s walk right over it.

A dire creak made you freeze.

“Look out!”

It was too late.

A shrieking snap, and next, the wind was in your ear as the earth gave out from beneath. With a cry, the horse stumbled and reared and everything went upside down. Your heart seized during a timeless, weightless, airless second as a lattice of concealed logs collapsed beneath the load of Gideon and his horse, and you all fell in an outcry.

The sap and pine scent of fresh wood rushed up your nose as it cracked all around you. Unable to reach out for anything or protect your face, the sharp edges of branches snagged at your clothes and stabbed at your sides, needles scraping and stinging your skin. When the slamming force of the ground ended it all, a spike of wood tore a scream from you as it impaled your thigh.

The tumult fizzled to a static in your ears. You roiled on the dirt floor of the manmade pit, curling into yourself like a pill bug at the hot, pulsing throbs of pain in your leg surrounding the intrusion. You cried out at the unbearable and debilitating burning shooting throughout your body. Throat raw, vision white, breath sawing raggedly, your senses came clear enough for half a moment to observe Gideon, still astride his hysterical animal, gripping the bridle and urging the horse out of the pit. He kicked it harshly to vault over the rim back to solid ground.

He spared you one glance before riding off, and left you.

Tears stung your eyes and you wailed out your pain freely. Scratching at the rope around your wrists was useless, your nails only drew blood. All over, your body ached with bruises and fatigue, and it depleted all of your strength to focus on your breathing alone. Frustration and pain tangled in your chest like a mass of snakes, warring each other, and all you could to do alleviate the pain was roll onto your uninjured side. Your leg gushed like an oil-well.

Once everything started to fade, time ceased mattering, and you slipped in and out of consciousness. You blearily wondered why you were still fighting. A cold sweat chilled your neck and your chest palpitated unbearably.

Sounds from afar, beyond the pit, invaded your ears. There were hoof beats. The shouts of more riders, pursuing Gideon most likely. He would be rounding up what was left of the Sheriff’s posse, going after this gang that has been troubling this valley the past few days. No doubt this pit was dug by them, a trap for someone who got too close to where they were camped out. The whole town would be in a frenzy, meanwhile you...fading, languishing in the dirt…no one would find you in time…

With a quavering sigh, you began to let go. There was only so much your body could take; it would so much easier to sink into this grave than crawl your way out. To breathe became like listening to a lake lap a shore with its waves, growing fainter, quieter, and more still.

The moonlight was serene, and the coolness of this cavity of earth was welcome. Tree roots poked from the stratified layers of dirt, worms and centipedes clinging to the moisture therein. Above, a scuff of needles and a snort announced the presence of your most trusted friend.

Willa whickered, eyes finding your curled form in the pit. She paced around the edges. What remained of your hope ached. Through a glaze of tears you tried to speak, to soothe her, but no sound broke from you other than a whimper. But you were not alone. Never alone…in these woods…these mountains…with these familiar stars above…until unknown, male voices dispelled the cloud hovering over your thoughts.

“I’m telling you, I heard something. Someone in pain.”

Footsteps, a pair of them. You fought to stay awake, aware, but your willpower was slipping like the final sands through the waist of an hourglass.

“It’s probably another one of them law boys,” someone grumbled. “Maybe we caught one.”

“As soon as Dutch gets back we need to skip town without kissin’ the mayor goodbye.”

“You’re telling me. We should’ve left after that business last night.”

A haze began to drift over you again, sweeping you under the blessed numbness unconsciousness promised. Your eyelids were so, so heavy.

Willa nickered, the white of her eyes showing as the pair of men presumably approached her.

“Whoa, easy there.” One of the men regarded her, gently shushing and calming her in a matter of moments. In a way only you could—

“Look.”

“It’s a girl. Tied up like a steer.”

A gun being holstered, a thump of feet, and you were no longer alone. A shadow passed over the moonlight on your face. It was too dark to see, to know if you were about to be saved or damned by whoever was crouching over you. Dimly, you hoped you looked too powerless and broken to be mistreated.

“Pl—please,” your weak words tasted of copper. The apricot glow of a lantern warmed your face, and you looked up into a pair of eyes you trusted instinctively.

“What happened here?” The man who asked you this was older, with graying blond hair swept beside his temples. You had never seen him before. He had deep lines beside his shrewd eyes and his mouth was grim, but a kindness of understanding softened his countenance. It had been such a long time since any sincere compassion had looked at you through eyes other than your grandmother’s.

“Deputy—was bringing me in—left me here—“a spasm of pain interrupted your slurred speech. Wincing, you gestured to your thigh with your chin, seeing the pool of red darkening your pant leg for the first time. “Can’t move.”

The older man’s companion joined him in the light of his lantern. He was younger; tall and well-built, with a gun belt slung across his hips replete with ammunition, the brass of his bullets shining. A satchel hung from his side and he unsheathed a hunting knife attached to his belt. The quick gleam of it filled you with uncertainty.

“Easy, miss,” he raised his hands. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just gonna cut you free. Hold still.”

In a few saws of the blade the rope loosened its pitiless hold over your limbs; the relief of clutching your wound with your own hands was enough to make you sob. The men grew quiet, considering your condition. All of the blood was draining from your head, like it was all racing to escape out of your leg. The chunk of wood was buried in it, likely holding back a gushing torrent of crimson like the river miles and hours back. You wanted nothing more than to yank it out. It had not gone all the way through.

“We need to take her to a doctor,” the older man asserted, and his companion made a noise of protest. “I don’t know if Susan and Bessie can patch this up.”

“No—“ you cut him off, as forcefully as you could. “I can’t—I can’t go back there,” your breath began to labor and dizziness crept in as you moved to sit with your back against the packed dirt wall of the pit. “They’re gonna—gonna hang me, for killing that awful man.”

Clutching the wound, the blood oozed out warmly between the webs of your fingers, the dark, iron scent of it pungent in your nostrils. Air hissed out sharply between your teeth.

The two men looked to each other in mute discussion.

It left you in a sad whisper: “You should just leave me here.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?”

“Arthur.”

The fading began in earnest. You were incapable of protesting what came next. A pair of hands grasped your elbows, guiding you to your feet, which only stumbled because there was no strength left in your legs. Boneless, a broad chest caught you, your head lolling in the pillow of an arm, your nose grazing the fur of a jacket, and you burrowed into the scent of smoke and forest with a groan.

“We need to get back.” The lantern flame was doused, and the arms surrounding you lifted you in their hold. Your lashes fluttered to catch a glimpse of him, the man who held you, but his hat cast a shadow over his gaze and the night around him was dark with blue.

“You’ll be safe with Arthur, miss,” a voice said, but you were far away, lost to memories and hollow dreams. They dragged you down deep with pictures of bluebells in a water puddle, of lightning flashes through a curtain, of useless wrists beside you.

Your last awareness was of a sky made of woods and branches, with all of its stars perishing.

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