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@ftb-writes
IF YOU DON’T REBLOG THIS WTF
Everyone
Every. Single. One
Oh, several for sure. @cryoverkiltmilk, who I’ve known for over a decade and pre-tumblr, is top of the list.
🤝
@thefingerfuckingfemalefury is a not-small component of my desire to visit England
prev is a
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toph beifong embarks on the quest of a lifetime - to become the universe's first ever uraniumbender
"These rocks are spicy!"
Saw someone on twitter say how this scene looked like Wade was introducing his boyfriend to his mom for the first time, and I want to say, what do mean “looked like.” This was Wade introducing his boyfriend to his mom.
And its such a mom way of greeting the boyfriend, too. "This is... This is Logan."
"Nice to meet you, Logan," in an 'I'm a sweet old lady who wasn't just complaining to her son about being out of drugs' way.
Hey guys! I need one more week with this one!
It's been a bit of a weird one to write. I keep feeling like I'm coming up a bit short in one spot or another, lol.
Alrighty, everyone! I'm taking an extra week with this prompt!
Here it is!!!
It's been a few years since I wrote the original post (it is tagged now, for easy finding). The next prompt is a fun idea:
"I've considered your offer."
Zevhel glances up from the map table where points of interest -- and potential marks -- are inventoried with various-shaped wooden totems. Two of his men flank Kas, and the bedraggled serf has a determined fire in his eyes.
Zevhel turns back to the map. "Leave us," he orders, feigning indifference, and his men nod and duck out of the small alcove. Giants most of the local men, Kas included.
Kas himself approaches the table, stooping slightly to fit. He's cautious, no doubt nervous of being left alone with the head of an assassin ring he'd tried to kill not even a fortnight ago. Kas stands almost a head-and-a-half taller than Zevhel, but it is obvious to any who might see that the smaller man is in charge.
Zevhel motions to the map. "Where are you from, Kas?"
Kas eyes the map spread across the thick oak table and swallows before pointing to an unmarked spot south of a group of totems. The map shows a road there, but nothing else. "The village is called Mudpakt."
Zevhel barely avoids pulling a face. "How quaint," he mutters. "Anything interesting in Mudpakt?"
Kas shrugs. "A few people. A few farms. More dirt and pests than anything else. There's the tax-collector's office, but it's usually locked up tight. He's by for the crops we give for taxes once a moon or so."
Zevhel selects a totem and sets it in place. It is of a little money-bag. "I take it he was the one you got the orders through?"
"No," Kas explains. "Since I was the last of my family, I was moved to the lord's main holding at Ovchark, so the hovel could be used for a new family. Lord Brond apparently saw me working the land from his manor and was impressed with my strength for being a half-starved serf."
Zevhel hums. He remembers the fight Kas put up when he'd been caught, and the feeling of those hands grabbing at him. Kas hadn't been at full health then, but with a little care and training, Zevhel could turn this man into a formidable opponent. And a wonderful opportunity for Zevhel's group.
"Lord Brond was the one who sold your sister to the knight?" Zevhel remembers.
"Yes. Or, really, she was 'payment' for the knight clearing out a few bears." Kas looks forlorn at the mention of his sister. Since his arrival, Zevhel had learned from him that the girl's name had been Ava, and that she had been two years his senior. Kas is only just barely a man now. To lose his only family, and while still just a child…
"Did you ever find out what city the knight was from," Zevhel asks, and curses quietly when Kas shakes his head. "That will put a bit of a strain on the plan."
"Do you have paper and pigments around," Kas asks.
"Yes," Zevhel admits, poking his head out to call for some to be brought. "What were his colors?"
"Blue and yellow," Kas replies, "but I can do better than just heraldry. I saw his crest when he came to take Ava." He points to the road, following it east with his finger. "He took the highway this direction from town."
Zevhel considers the map for a moment before nodding. "This information will do a lot of good in our search for him. However -- and I mean this in the nicest way -- you must have been really poor if you think that's a highway."
"Fifth generation serfdom," Kas grunts. "We were about as poor as serfs can get before outright slavery." He is tracing the lettering on the map, frowning over Zevhel's chicken-scrawl.
Zevhel chuckles at the young man's curiosity. "I doubt a serf would have been taught letters, but I prefer my people to be literate. I'll have you taught reading and writing so you will be able to help properly on this mission of yours. After all, you should be able to tell the difference between a letter telling you where someone will be and a letter to a far-off mistress." The assassin casts about for a bit of charcoal and scribbles three letters onto the edge of the map. "There we are. You can start with that. Everyone should know the shape of their name, wouldn't you agree?"
"Oh, I'm not important enough --" Kas starts to argue, but frowns when Zevhel snorts. "What?"
"I think you're just scared you'll be shit at it," Zevhel sniffs, and turns away to receive the pigments and paper. Kas can't see the smirk Zevhel has when he hears the charcoal start scratching.
"Gilalen and her boys found him in Estwich," the messenger is explaining as a knight is brought before Zevhel, forced to his knees and de-helmeted. Kas stands proud by Zevhel's side, an imposing figure now after several months of eating well.
"And he just… let you take him hostage?" Kas and Zevhel share a confused glance.
"He's supposedly turned to drink, according to the locals."
The knight, black hair and grungy, raises his head to solemnly regard the pair. "Assassin Zevhel. I have heard rumors of you. Many of my countrymen have found their ends on your blade. I wondered when we would meet. You… I know you." The knight fixes his hazel eyes on Kas. "You were Ava's brother."
"Before you killed her," Kas spits.
The knight flinches like Kas had struck a physical blow. "I hadn't meant for her to die," he whimpers. "Please, sir, if you believe nothing else, believe that. I meant Ava no harm. I wanted her to at least grow to accept me, even if she could not outright love me. Marrying me would have gotten both of you away from that life, and she had at least seemed interested in that. She'd been the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen when I rode through your little village, and I knew right then I had to save her from that squalor. That is why I offered Brond my services."
Zevhel leans closer, drops his voice low so only Kas would hear. "Up to you if you'll accept that version of things, but I've trained to see through lies. He believes himself to be telling the truth. And if she had given the knight a child, it would have elevated her standing as well as any family's standing with her. That much is fact."
Kas at least gives pause, turning the information over in his mind. "How did my sister die?"
The knight begins silently weeping. "She got sick. I don't know -- When I sent for the doctor, he didn't think a lowly serf was worth his time, even one who was to marry a knight. It was my fault. I should have pressed him harder, offered more. I --"
"From what I understand," the messenger cuts in, "Sir Rodrik's family had fallen on hard times. His father squandered the fortune over a gambling table. The little money he had left after taxes would have likely only barely paid for himself and your sister to eat, and maybe room at Estwich's lowest-rated tavern."
"I would have sold my armor to pay," the knight cries.
"I… I need to think about this," Kas murmurs to Zevhel. "Is there somewhere you can stick him for now? Get all the information you want from him."
"I'll have my best interrogators talk with him," Zevhel agrees. "We'll talk later."
Later ends up being well after dusk. "Are you alright?" Zevhel steps into Kas's room and eases the door shut behind him. "We've worked toward this for months now for you, but--"
"And I'm grateful," Kas interjects. "You've taught me so much, skills I can use to make a decent living for myself, when you could have just killed me and been done with it. But now that I've met him face-to-face, Sir Rodrik… isn't what I'd imagined him to be."
"We are multifaceted beings," Zevhel murmurs sagely as he leans against the desk. "Rarely is every conflict black-and-white. Ultimately, he is your prisoner, Kas, and his fate rests in your hands."
"And what about you, Zevhel," Kas challenges. "When I've made my decision, what will you want from me? Just to keep me here as an assassin? Or am I free to leave after all is said and done?"
The questions are valid ones, and Zevhel respects Kas enough to be honest. "I'd be sad to see you go, but I will not stop you if you leave. Brond may have you thrown in prison for failing to kill me, and you should know that before you decide, but your path is your own to choose. If you do stay, I would see you become a proper assassin worthy of the title, and I'd like it if you were a friend and confidant. I've enjoyed getting your input these past few months. Your personality is… calming, to me. This profession tends to attract a certain type, and you've been a welcome change from the norm. I've… grown fond of you, while you've been here."
Kas is quiet for a time, mulling this all over. "You've given me even more to think about," he finally says. "But I appreciate the honesty, and everything you've done for me, Zevhel. But what of Sir Rodrik?"
"Disgraced, from what we can gather. He turned to drinking away his sorrows when your sister passed, apparently, and is a laughing stock among the other knights around the area for going and falling in love with a serf. Why do you ask?"
"He's realized he's just as much a victim of the system as the serfs, now," Kas whispers, almost as if he's afraid that if he voices the thought, the knight locked up on the other side of the hideout will vanish. "If… I decide not to take his life, he would be a valuable asset."
Zevhel looks at Kas for a long moment before chuckling softly. "In a few short months you've learned what it takes some of us years to."
"What is that?"
Zevhel thinks back to when he first became an assassin. This lesson was one he'd taken longer to learn than he is proud of.
Zevhel sets a hand on Kas's shoulder and squeezes slightly. "The best assassins are measured by their kills. But the truly great ones know when to stay their blades. If you forget everything else you've learned here, never forget that."
The head assassin steps out into the hall and leaves Kas to think.
Efit: And I just found out that the post I scheduled yesterday to tell you all about the next prompt and the fancy new post kind I'm doing never actually posted itself....
Hey everyone! So, like I mentioned last week, there's a special post this week. I've posted little gaming bits on my YouTube channel (FameTwinBrotherPlays) but this week, I posted my first reading! It was a pre-existing post this first time, just to make sure that everything was working for the actual post and not just as tests. In future, I'm going to be posting new fills as readings, maybe once a month, though I'll probably be posting some casual let's plays in between to the channel.
The next prompt is going to be a continuation of another prompt! Im keeping it secret for now, but i will be putting tags on that post and the new continuation so you can find them both!
And here's the fill! I have more of it, to eventually continue it to, because Ganymede's one of my favorite Dragonborns I've made. As for the next post, I have a bit of a surprise one. I'll explain next Sunday when its ready!
Ganymede comes too in a pile of filth.
He did not know why he was regaining consciousness in such disgusting places these days, but he had a feeling it was just a natural occurrence for the occupants of Skyrim. It had only begun happening to him after coming to the new country (thanks, General Tullius) and the Nords here never bat an eye when they all pass out drunk in the cowpens, so perhaps there is some strange spatial anomaly going on. He should bring it up to Tolfdir.
"You alright there, friend?" A dark elf leans over him. Ganymede thinks he recognizes him from that corner club here in Windhelm -- the proprietor, he thinks, or was the other man the proprietor? The man's name eludes him at the moment, especially with the rapidly developing pounding in his skull. Something with an 'A'?
The man is beginning to give Ganymede an odd look, and it occurs to Ganymede that the elf is perhaps checking he has not received brain damage of some kind.
"Yes," he rasps, gazing up at the snow falling toward him. "This one is just waiting for the ringing to stop."
The elf chuckles humorlessly. "Looks like you lost a fight with the guards, Khajiit. Don't mind them. They like to rough us non-nords up, sure, but that's about all they're really good for. Have you come alone to Windhelm?"
Ganymede sits up (with immediate regrets at moving) to take the elf's offered hand. "Ah, no, friend," he explains with a wince, "this one came to Windhelm with a… business partner. He went and got lost in this maze of a city while this one wasn't looking. And that's when the guards showed up."
"What's he look like? I'll send someone out to find him while we get some healing potions in you." The elf carefully helps Ganymede across the snowy road, and looks up, back over his shoulder. The Khajiit had been hurled from the parapets above, a nearly three-story fall, and was walking away. Just who is this cat?
"This one thanks you," Ganymede assures, "but it will not be needed. He will find us, it just may take a bit."
Ambarys and Malthyr are behind the counter of the corner club, discussing the strange Khajiit they have boarding upstairs, when a Nord with bright red hair and a black and red jester's outfit bursts through the door, waving a paper frantically at them.
"Have you seen the Listener, Cicero's lost him, Cicero needs him back, poor Mother needs the Listener, she's going to be so angry with poor Cicero, please tell Cicero he's here, Cicero has been all over the city looking for him!" He says all this very fast, practically in the same breath. Like a whirlwind, he spins on his heels to take in the dining room and then turns back to them, a crazed desperation in his eyes.
"I--" Ambarys starts to ask, reeling, before the Nord slaps the paper (a rather bad drawing of the Khajiit upstairs) onto the counter loudly.
"He's a cat and he's very friendly, but not too friendly in that perfect just-the-right-amount-of-friendly kind of way, which is why he makes such a good Listener, and he's got gray fur and black eye spots and he's got a big scar on his nose from a bear, and it's very important Cicero brings him home in one piece, please tell poor Cicero you've seen him." The Nord (Cicero, Ambarys supposes) is almost crying, pulling anxiously at his hat's points.
"Up the stairs, third bed on the left," Malthyr cuts in before the newcomer can get going again. The Nord tosses a handful of gold onto the counter hastily and bolts through the backdoor and up the stairs. They can hear him cross the second floor in a flurry of footsteps.
"Oh Listener, thank Sithis," they hear the Nord gasp, followed by a thump and creak from the bed and a soft laugh from the Khajiit.
"What took you so long, my Cicero? This one was beginning to worry."
"You? You? What about Cicero?! Cicero thought the Listener was dead, Cicero couldn't find the Listener anywhere, and then that damned guard said he'd beat you, and Cicero saw red. Cicero's only just escaped that rat's nest of a jail."
There is a very pregnant pause, and then the Khajiit and the Nord begin chuckling together. "Oh, my Cicero," the Khajiit says, "never change."
Ganymede wakes again to a finger poking him in the arm.
"Mister Ganymede," Malthyr whispers, setting a candle on the table by the bed. "There's a member of the Thieves' Guild here looking for you two. And he's also ginger."
Ganymede can hear the hidden laughter in Malthyr's voice, and rolls his eyes. "So, this one has a type," he grumbles. "It's probably Brynjolf. Let him up."
Cicero mumbles something incoherent in his sleep and curls closer as Malthyr leaves, chasing the warmth trapped in Ganymede's fur. The jester cracks an eye open when they hear boots on the stairs. "Cicero is cold," he complains quiet.
"Well, lad," Brynjolf's voice, smooth as honey, comes from the doorway. "Best get you warmed up."
"Brynie," Cicero mumbles happily, reaching over Ganymede to wiggle his fingers into the gloom. The light through the cracks in the walls is faint, and it is silent as a grave outside. Ganymede realizes it must be very late, and that Brynjolf would have ridden into the night to get here now.
The thief himself steps into the candlelight, grinning, and scoops Cicero out of bed to settle next to Ganymede, depositing the very sleepy jester into the small space between them.
"Cicero, Brynjolf murmurs, "I hear you got arrested, naughty little thing. Stop causing so much trouble for us, attacking guards."
"He said he hurt the Listener," Cicero whines. "Brynjolf, you'd have punched him too if you heard what that bastard said about Listener."
"If you two wouldn't mind, could we discuss this later?" Ganymede wraps an arm over the two Nords beside him and yawns. "It's just, this one just got the headache to stop."
"We'll talk about this tomorrow," Brynjolf orders.
"Yes, Brynie," Cicero grumbles, before cuddling into him and falling right back to sleep.
Nords, Ganymede sighs to himself.
Markarth is a sprawling city of roughly a hundred, and Ganymede knows from experience that the phrase, 'blood and silver flow through Markarth' is terrifyingly true.
"Are you alright, lad?" Brynjolf and Cicero flank him as he gazes up at the front gates of the city. The thief had insisted on coming after the Windhelm incident to help keep Cicero better behaved.
"Listener has been awfully quiet," Cicero agrees, leaning into Ganymede's space to blink owlishly at him.
"This one," Ganymede starts, but the words stick in his throat. He swallows, and starts again. "This one did not think he would ever be back here."
"I've heard Cidna Mine is the worst prison in all of Skyrim," Brynjolf murmurs. "And you spent nearly a month there, right?" The Nords loop protective arms through the Khajiit's, ready as always to support Ganymede in all his endeavors, but they are surprised when Ganymede smiles and shakes his head.
"This one had it pretty easy in the Mine," he chuckles. "Had a few associates on the inside who helped this one. It's something else." Ganymede's smile fades. "Something worse."
"Champion," a gruff voice interrupts from behind them and the trio turn to see Markarth's resident dog breeder, who is smiling genially at Ganymede.
"Oh, Banning," Ganymede nervously returns. "How's everything been?"
"Business is good, but the table has been lonely without you," Banning grunts, not unkindly. "You'll be coming to dinner tonight, won't you? Our Lady would be happy to have you, and I'm sure your friends here would enjoy the meal." The smiles he directs between Cicero and Brynjolf are slightly less friendly and more unnerving, and both the Nords are shocked when they feel goosebumps rising along their skin. Something is distinctly off about this man, though he clearly means no harm to Ganymede.
"Ah, sorry, Banning," Ganymede is saying, and they watch Banning's face fall. "This one is on urgent business. For, ah, for our Lady, really, so she understands already!" The Khajiit has a shaky smile on his face, obviously uncomfortable but with no easy way of backing out of this conversation. "You understand, old friend?"
"Of course, Champion," the dog breeder mumbles. "Our Lady's dinner comes first."
As he walks back to the stable, the redheads beside Ganymede hurry Ganymede into Markarth and into an abandoned building Ganymede motions to. The Khajiit almost collapses, knees giving way beneath him, and the cat sinks into a dusty chair and begins loosing rattling breaths.
"You are part of the Coven of Namira, Listener," Cicero asks gently, setting a cautious hand on Ganymede's knee.
"It just sort of happened, all too fast," Ganymede murmurs, eyes far away. "This one didn't realize what was really happening until it was too late to stop."
"I've heard whispers," Brynjolf says. "What is it, exactly? I've never seen our dragonborn so shaken, Cicero."
"A coven of cannibals," Ganymede breathes, suddenly hoarse. He won't look at either of them, instead turning his gaze between the floorboards and a ring he pulls from his pocket. It's got a magical green tint to the gold metal.
"This one ate a man's heart for this," he whispers, closing his fingers around it. For a moment, his fist reels back, like he wants to throw it further into the abandoned house. He doesn't, tucking it away again with a sigh. "Namira speaks to this one through it. This one… wishes to be rid of the thing, but everytime, this one remembers--"
Ganymede abruptly stands. "We should go," he mumbles. "Let's get our business over with and get out of this cursed city."
Brynjolf and Cicero follow him out, and silently agree to not pry any further.
Alright, everyone! I've got to get up early for work tomorrow, and the editing is still not quite done on this week's fill, so the post will be coming tomorrow!
It is time!! Come get you some words!!!
The next prompt is Skyrim.
Link makes their way across the bridge to the ruins of Hyrule's coliseum, rain pelting them and making their hair run into their eyes. The storm had arrived sooner than expected, and they silently thank Hylia that Zelda is in Gerudo Town meeting with Riju and not here, stuck in the downpour on Hyrule Field.
Lucky princess.
Still, link does have one ace up their sleeve, and they duck under one of the walkways as they enter the coliseum, dripping. They look around and spot the Lynel lounging at the back of the ruins, watching the puddles form. Link starts to step toward it, grinning, when it stands.
Something is wrong. The Lynel's pelt -- did it always have that many stripes?
The Lionel growls, loud enough link can hear it across the open space; the hero's blood runs cold as they back out of the ruins. Where is their friend, and why has it left its territory to be usurped?
"Hero," a high croak calls down.
Link jumps and looks upward. A Lizalfos is watching them from the top of the ruins, tilting its head this way and that.
"Lynel gone," it croaks. "Chased out."
"Did you see which way it went?" Link doesn't want to think about the implications of the Lizalfos talking too.
The Lizalfos points out toward the dark castle in the distance. "Went to find Hero."
Link nods. "Thanks," they call up to the Lizalfos. "Sorry we kept killing you."
The Lizalfos scoffs and hurls a spear at them. Link dodges it and shakes their head in confusion as they pull out the slate.
The Sheikah Slate drops Link off at the Saas Ko'Sah Shrine, and the Hylian begins making their way through the castle quickly and quietly. Despite ending the Calamity, there are still packs of roving monsters and a few rogue Guardians left patrolling the old castle. Link's on edge the entire way through the twisting corridors.
It's a surprise to see both the Lynels Link knows live in the castle in the respective gatehouses. If their friend didn't depose one of these, then where is it?
At the very least, the Sanctum's ruins provide some shelter from the storm, if not much. Link wrings their hair out as they skirt the hole in the floor.
"Chsh -- Champion," a familiar voice calls from below.
"Lynel!" Link glides down, into the dark, and they shiver at the wreckage of Guardian bits scattered around the room. The remains of the Calamity's corporeal form litter the space under the sanctum.
Their friend is curled on the wrung-out corpse of Calamity Ganon. "Champion. Calamity gone. Wanted to see."
Link approaches carefully, not enjoying the sticky ooze their boots have to slog over to get to the Lynel's side. It appears unfazed by the mess its pelt has become. "I stopped by the coliseum. There's a new Lynel. I was worried."
The Lynel licks Link's cheek, rumbling. "The others… thought Calamity was strongest. Champion proved them wrong, knew Champion could. Others not happy to be wrong."
"So you've been ostracized. Because of me." Link leans into the Lynel's side and frowns.
"They doubted Champion was strong. Jealous."
The Hero of the Wild laughs. "Well. If you still choose me over your former Master, I won't complain. I like you more than the others."
It is the Lynel's turn to laugh, though it sounds sad. "Without calamity, no one to revive Lynels now. Will maybe leave soon. Will maybe leave long time. But will leave."
Like feel something warm in them squash itself. "I'm sorry."
The Lynel shrugs. "Old. Not fight like before. Want to be here when."
"Okay," Link murmurs. "I'll stay with you."
"No," the Lynel sighs. "Want, but no. Champion go with Princess. Be okay. Champion strong."
"I'll miss you," Link admits. "But I'll pray to Hylia and the Goddesses we'll meet again."
The Lynel chuckles. "Will. No need pray. Gannon call Lynels back, long time. Champion see Lynel then."
The words worry Link, because that can only mean one thing. Gannon is not really dead. But… "if I get to see you again, I suppose I can fight another blight," they decide.
The Lynel looks up, into the darkness above them, where the rain is coming from. "Should go. Princess weight. Goodbye, Champion. Hero. F -- Friend." The Lynel draws its spear and bow, and presses them both into Link's hands. "Fight good. Friend strong. Will be okay."
"Goodbye, Lynel," Link whispers in the deepening twilight.
It is time!!!!
The next piece will be another fan work, a Breath of the Wild one. Also, fun fact about a name in this one! Kyryap is a Russian word for a panther!
Pokee had, for all intents and purposes, settled into life on the strange new planet well. The Exiled rather liked the hunting prospects here -- he'd have to tell the Elders about this place once he was allowed back into the tribe.
Pokee-Stick sets his weapons to the side for now and shakes his head at the sheer irony of the situation he had stumbled into -- as a Young Blood on his first hunt.
He and his hunting party had discovered a new colony of Xenomorphs. The Elite who had been leading the excursion had decided this was a bit too much of a challenge, and had called for backup to assist the Young Bloods-- during the retreat, however, Pokee had stepped wrong, and the soil under him had collapsed into an underground cavern.
The Yautja had found himself face-to-face with the Queen, and several very angry Praetorians blocking the exit. The only thing nearby was a fallen branch, which Pokee had picked up and brandished like a sword.
Oh, but the Queen had laughed. A silly, tiny, armor-clad thing, his shoulder pads were much too big, his only defense was a bit of wood. Pokee, in desperation, drove the stick into her head. And somehow, blindly, he had found a weak spot. A scar perhaps, some soft point from a previous injury. But the Queen lay oozing brains at his feet, and the Praetorians had scattered, leaderless and wild.
Pokee had earned his scar, a burn from the acidic blood that had splashed onto him as the Queen fell, and his Name. And Pokee had felt very much alive.
It was on the way back to the transport, the other young bloods congratulating Pokee on such a difficult kill, that fate would intervene. They had looked like a Prowler, the rogue Xenomorph, red markings and feline grace, a long, whip-like tail clearing the brush behind them. They had scented the dead Queen on Pokee, and a simple mistake was blown far out of proportion. Because the Xenomorph had thought that Pokee was their Queen.
Upon returning to the clan, the Elders had told Pokee he was exiled until he could kill Kyryap; but Kyryap hasn't raised a claw against Pokee so far. Not to mention, Pokee sincerely doubted that Kyryap would even attempt to defend themselves from 'the Queen'. It simply wouldn't be an honorable kill.
Which puts Pokee in a bit of a predicament. This whole mess is Kyryap's fault, but it isn't like they intended for this all to happen. The Xeno had just been following their instincts, and has even been helping Pokee hunt prey big enough for the both of them to thrive, and drive off predators that could threaten the small homestead they'd somehow built together.
That is the other dilemma -- Pokee couldn't even explain to Kyryap that they were mortal enemies; the two have made frustratingly little progress on the language barrier. Xenomorph communication is largely non-syllabic, based on gurgles, body language, and pheromones. Pokee wishes he could understand, only to know why Kyryap stayed.
A year ago, yes, he'd smelt like a Queen. But now, Kyryap had to know that he wasn't. It feels like living a lie -- a misunderstanding left uncorrected. Pokee hates himself, that Kyryap is so trusting. When the Xeno had curled close, during the first cold, dark months here, Pokee had felt guilt. Now, he's just confused.
Kyryap comes in, now, rain sluicing off their exoskeleton, and gurgles as they drip on the woven floor mats. The Xenomorph offers up some berries to Pokee.
Pokee wishes he could hear someone else speaking to him again, just once, in a way he understands. It has been so lonely here, despite the near-constant companion. The rain drums on the thatch roof above, and Pokee shakes his head sadly.
"I don't know if I can eat those," he clicks, trying vainly to explain that they're so different once more. Kyryap is a Xenomorph, and Pokee is a Yautja, and the two should not be on remotely good terms.
Yet they hunt, together, and Kyryap finds little nooks and crannies in the largely rocky terrain where hardy little plants grow, worming through crags and crevices that Pokee is too broad-chested to fit, climbs the few trees with a quick agility matching Pokee's to scare out groups of smaller prey on the days that the large animals are far off.
Now, Kyryap holds out the little handful of bright green berries again, insistent. Pokee… doesn't know what to do. These little hiccups have been happening more and more frequently, and Pokee has had a recurring, treacherous desire to be a Xenomorph if only to be able to communicate with another lifeform. It is a thought stuffed away deep, not looked at except on the darkest nights, while Kyryap slumbers on the other side of the sleeping room.
But Pokee wants conversation, understanding. He's so lonely.
"I can't," Pokee tries again, tired, but soft with the one being who hasn't abandoned him despite the entire universe silently screaming at them. "You somehow eat more than me, anyway."
Kyryap holds up a berry, and their inner jaws snap out to pluck it from between their fingers almost delicately. As if showing Pokee that it is meant to be eaten. And Kyryap carefully selects a large berry from their hands and offers it up to Pokee, held between two razor-sharp nails.
"Kyryap," Pokee sighs, and the Xeno whines. It is a sound Pokee has never heard them make, and it's… pleading, almost.
Just one shouldn't hurt, Pokee supposes, if it stops Kyryap from fussing. The little green berry has thin, blueish membranes under the skin, and Pokee turns it over curiously before placing it between his teeth. It bursts sweet on his tongue.
He doesn't die, at least not yet. Pokee watches Kyryap watch him chew the gummy berry and swallow.
After a moment, Kyryap offers up another.
Pokee did… enjoy the berry. And it didn't kill him. One more couldn't hurt, and Kyryap shuffles closer as Pokee readily accepts the offered fruit.
He eats eight, each sweeter than the last.
"Alright, they are good," he concedes, after the two of them have eaten the handful together. "My gratitude." Kyryap nods, and tilts their head down and to the side to watch him from one strange eye.
'Do you… hear me now?'
Pokee flinches, so unused to words at this point, and lunges for his weapons, any one. He has a horrible, gut-churning thought that the Elders have decided not to wait any longer, and sent someone to kill Kyryap for him.
Kyryap intercepts him, as if they've done this a million times before, pushing him back to settling on the mats, patting his arms gently.
'Do you… hear me now?'
The voice is whisper soft, a breath on the wind, completely without echo. It is like it is spoken into his ear, only for Pokee to know, and Pokee -- Pokee understands.
"Kyryap," he whimpers, hopeful and terrified in equal measures. Because it can't be.
'That is what you say to know me,' the Xeno replies, smooth. 'The berry allows us to share thoughts.'
"But I'm--" Pokee starts to question, and Kyryap chuckle-hisses and shakes their head fondly.
'Works on all. Had to look all over for them. Silly, scent-deaf Queen.'
The words thrum with reverence, and Pokee feels tears prick his eyes as he kneels on the mat across from Kyryap and the truth tumbles out of him like a secret, "I'm no Queen. Kyryap, I'm not."
'You are a Queen of my choosing,' Kyryap insists. 'But I would apologize, my Queen. Your colony cast you away because of me, or that is what I think happened.' Kyryap shifts forward, close enough to bump his forehead, and nuzzles a comfort. 'But you let me stay. You named me, and you let me stay, even though it's been a bit inconvenient for you, Yautja Queen, and I chose you, have chosen you every day. Rogues need no Queen, yet I evolve again for you. I will be a Praetorian. I will be your colony.'
"I'm a Yautja, you even know it," Pokee laughs wetly. "I can't make more of you. We'll be alone, and I am meant to kill you. Yautja and Xenomorphs are always enemies."
'Then we will be a colony of two, Yautja Queen, and the only such colony ever to exist. You are no enemy of mine, and I hunt only for you. I am your Praetorian, your guard -- your Elite. Other Queens will not understand, but we will fight them together.'
"I don't understand," Pokee whispers. "You follow me to death."
'I will help you to understand, now,' Kyryap breathes, gentle, into his mind. The voice is quieter, as if coming from farther away. 'You claim I follow you to death, my Queen, but you are my life. The last Queen was weak, she did not name us. A Queen through blood, but nothing more. You saved me. My life, and death, are but yours to command.'
"It's not like I'm even infected. You would follow a Queen that shares no blood with you?"
Pokee's question goes unanswered. It seems the ability the berries grant only lasts so long. Kyryap snorts and shakes their head, before moving to encircle Pokee in the curve of their side and tail, head resting upon an armored shoulder. Pokee wants to howl, to scream. It has been so long since there was another voice to keep him company, and it's gone again.
They sit together, Kyryap providing near-silent comfort and a rumbling purr, before the Xeno nudges at Pokee repeatedly, and more insistent. Pokee allows the Rogue -- the Praetorian, if what Kyryap says is true -- to coax him to his feet and lead him out into the rain.
It's almost torrential now. The rainy season of the planet is apparently coming on fast and hard. Sheets of water buffet the unlikely pair as Kyryap winds around rocky ridges and outcrops, into the canyon-laced area the homestead abuts. This is an area rich in mineral ores and game, as prey come down into the shadowed fissures to escape the heat of the usual sunny days. The crevasses provide only moderate shelter from the deluge.
Kyryap examines small nooks and crannies as they pass, searching dutifully. Pokee shivers in the damp chill, and glances up the sides of the deepening canyons, watchful as always of predators following food into here. He almost misses Kyryap sliding, squirming, into a crack in the rocky wall too thin for Pokee to squeeze into.
It's too quiet, now, Pokee so used to Kyryap's presence after this long. He waits, dutiful, as the minutes stretch.
"Kyryap?" He calls after nearly half an hour. Immediately, he hears an echoing trill, further in and down from the sound of it. After another moment, Kyryap wriggles out into Pokee's space, triumphantly brandishing several large vine segments weighed heavy with green berries.
The next harvest is a bountiful one, baskets and baskets of bright green berries for Pokee to eat throughout the day. The homestead has grown to accommodate the small farms and a couple more rooms, carved resolutely into the unwilling rock the planet is made up of. The berries only grow in true shadow, and store best in cool darkness, so the additions are necessary for Pokee's continued communication with his Xenomorph.
They have guests, today, four members from the tribe. Pokee welcomes them inside, out of the heat of the daylight, and smiles proudly as the hulking, crested Praetorian brings a whole basketful of berries, woven from the vines the berries grew on. He feels Kyryap settle, huge and intimidating, at his shoulder, watching the guests for any sign of ill-intent.
The guests don't eat right away. They demand answers to the Elders' questions, an Elite Pokee hasn't met and three Blooded, all from the ill-fated hunting party. The Blooded, at least, are polite to him, but the Elite growls at the odd pair and complains about the long-lasting construction that's gone into the homestead. Pokee doesn't need the berries to know Kyryap doesn't like this one.
"It's a sturdy home," one of the Blooded compliments, after most of the Elite's bluster has run its course. "But the Elders are concerned. Clearly, it's still alive, and it appears to us that you have every intention to stay here, Pokee. You could be an Elite, an Elder, given the time and experience. You would throw away your honor for one of these?"
"Have a few," Pokee avoids, motioning to the basket. He pops the berries one at a time every few minutes by now, savoring the additional benefits as long as each berry can provide. "They're really very good. Kyryap found them."
"He's named it," the other two Blooded whisper amongst themselves, and it takes effort for Pokee not to frown at them.
"I will answer your questions, if you give me the time to do so," he sighs, "but you're being very rude about all this, quite frankly, and it has been some time since I've been able to get news from off-planet. Still trying to work out the bugs in the communicator I built."
Pokee gestures behind himself at the beginnings of a basic, long-range communicator, and the guests are disgusted to see a long insect with seemingly infinite legs crawl out of it.
"Literally," Pokee grumbles, and watches as Kyryap reaches over and picks the creature -- about a foot long -- up and slurps it for a snack. "Kyryap, gross, eat over the table, please! You'll get guts on the floor again, and I'm going to be the one cleaning it up!"
He turns back to the four visitors just in time to see one bite into a berry. The Blooded chews, and goes pale. "These are Shaman Berries," he excitedly tells the Elite. "Elder Salanis told me of these! Elite Kanlac said they've become rare back home!"
At this, the other three finally begin picking at the berries, missing the grin on Pokee's face. The former Young Blood had forgone his mask and armor months ago, but he's very careful in schooling his face into expressions slightly more recognizable to Kyryap. They've both done a lot of adjusting, but their abnormal bond has grown stronger for it.
"They let groups of consumers share thoughts when nearby," one Blooded is explaining to his fellows. "This is a kingly gift you welcome us with, Pokee-Stick!"
'A queenly gift, I'd say,' Kyryap interrupts, and chuckle-hisses as the other Yautja all freeze. 'Wouldn't you agree, my Yautja Queen?'
"A queenly gift, indeed," Pokee snickers, popping another berry between his teeth. "Go check on that lovely egg of ours, won't you, Kyryap? After all, we got it through such… unconventional means."
'Stealing eggs,' Kyryap sighs into their minds. 'You're a terrible influence, my Queen.'
Still, the Xenomorph turns and crosses the space to a low archway, opening onto a set of stairs that lead down into the chiseled-out incubation cellar the two had built for just this purpose. The stairs are cool, and shallow pools of water line the floor here. Kyryap brushes a careful finger along the single egg inside this small room, and smiles. Together, they are building a colony with Pokee, in rather odd fashion. Kyryap leads the Queen's tiny force, while Pokee researches ways of communicating with his colony properly.
Upstairs, Pokee turns back to the visitors and rolls his eyes. "I suppose it would be easier if Kyryap infected me and I became a Predalien, as the oomans called them," he grumbles good-naturedly. The Elite looks mortified.
'And as I keep saying,' Kyryap snips from below, thoughts curling tender and safe around Pokee's, 'I will not infect you. It would not be you after that, not really.'
"You could be the Queen, then," Pokee challenges, and smirks at his guests as Kyryap's response comes.
'YOU are my Queen,' the Xeno rumbles through the berries, firm but not harsh -- never harsh with their Queen. 'The Queen of our colony. I. Will. Not.'
"You would make a good Queen," Pokee teases, only half-joking. "I'd follow you."
Kyryap's thoughts go all tangled and jumbled, so even the berries can't help, as they only do when the Xeno is embarrassed at Pokee's warm, honest compliments.
"My Praetorian," Pokee rumbles, proud, and feels through the thoughts they share a swelling of pride from Kyryap's end as well. "Never leave me."
'Never.' Kyryap agrees, unflinching, as they return to their Queen's side, and the two fix unwavering gazes on their guests.
"Well, Elite? I believe this answers your questions."
The Elite shakes his head. "Yet leaves even more. You will not kill it?"
Anger, then, hot as fire, bleeds across the table from Pokee. He's frowning now, and stands, pulling a weapon down from a shelf on the wall. It is the very same branch that earned him his name, sharpened still. "Kyryap has shown time and again that they mean no harm -- to me, at least. They have been an invaluable assistance here, after you all cast me aside, and have been nothing but respectful -- even to you, who come demanding their death. It would be a dishonorable killing, and I will not endanger my Praetorian by bringing them back to the clan with me to prove this before the Elders. I know you all hope my promising skill would someday return to our home planet, but my clan -- my colony -- is here now. The hunting will sustain us, and my colony, small as it may be, will not just survive but flourish on this planet. I will not abandon Kyryap."
"Then you will die here with it," the Elite pronounces, just in time for the Facehugger clinging to the ceiling above him to slap onto his shoulder and worm up under his mask.
"There are three more for you," Pokee warns, as the Elite crashes to the floor, spasming. "If you do as I say, you'll leave this place yourselves."
The three Blooded clump together, terrified for maybe the first time in their lives, staring up at Pokee and the enormous Praetorian shadowing him.
"You will leave this planet untouched, and allow my colony peace to grow. If you do not come after us, we will not come to Yautja Prime." Pokee replaces the weapon and motions to the basket. "I will allow you to take these. Perhaps, with continued good relations such as this, peace will come between Yautja Prime and us. Tell the clan you killed us, if it will help at first, but that the Elite sacrificed himself to bring down Kyryap." Pokee opens his arms, and a Chestburster drops into his embrace to cuddle into his face and brush careful legs against his flesh-braids. They purr as they get comfortable.
"Yes, Yautja Queen," one of the Blooded whispers. Pokee smiles, feral. The three can see now, eyes adjusted to the dark inside the building, that the ceiling is crawling with Facehuggers and Chestbursters, and one solitary Runner perches just above the stairs to the incubation chamber.
"Oh, and one more thing," Pokee mumbles, turning to look back at the communicator. "Once I get this up and running, feel free to let us know about any… abandoned eggs you may come across. After all, if you help my colony grow, I'll want to keep you around, yes?" Pokee's feral grin softens as he turns his gaze onto Kyryap. "You and Bryg see them out, please?"
The Praetorian nods once, and they and the Runner flank the three trembling Blooded. "Safe travels," Pokee clicks, turning to examine the Elite's still body.
Hey, guess who's been so busy with moving they've barely written one fill this month? It's me!
So, I'm working on editing the one fill I managed to get through between moving and setting up my new place, and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I've got one (maybe one and a half if I'm extra careful) more load of things to bring over, which is all the 'delicate' stuff like my TV and gaming systems, and the last few bits and bobs (like my cookware, I've been subsisting on chips and microwave soup) and after that it's all stuff I'm donating or selling off or just getting rid of. However, I need one more week to work on the editing, especially since this month has had me completely changing the sleep schedule I've had for the past seven or eight years. My new job has me working the morning prep shift. At 6 am. But hopefully, now that I'm basically settled and I've worked out a good daily routine, I'll be able to get back toy normal posting after this. So, I will see you all next week, and let you see what I've done this month!
Hey everyone! There is news!!!
So, I'm going to take another week for this one, and I'm probably going to take two weeks for the next prompt as well.... I'm packing to move! I've got a place lined up that's going to be my first solo housing situation!!! Which will be very good for the quality of the audio recordings I'm doing for the dramatic readings for all of you! (Of course, I'll still have to contend with a very affectionate, very talkative cat, but we're a package deal.)
Welcome to 2023!!!
It's time to start the writings of the year, and the very first prompt is going to be a fanfic of the Alien franchise. Xenomorphs, Yautja, and Mala'kaks, oh my!
So, for the rest of January, I'll be taking a break to gather some prompts up, and try something new. I want to try recording a video with me reading some of my posts to YouTube!
Beryl looks up from her soup as a stranger sits at her table. He is dressed in the road-worne garb of a ranger, and has a cloak of bear fur. Beryl frowns and turns back to her soup.
"I'm eating," she grunts. "Come back later."
*I'm looking for a local guide," the stranger says. "I was recommended you."
Beryl shoots him a withering glare. "Cool. I'm retired."
"I'd pay well," the man offers.
This catches Beryl's interest, as does the coin purse the man drops onto the table between them.
"What do you know about the ruined city out in the forest?"
Beryl glances between the stranger and the coin purse, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth. "I know not to go there. Only death and destruction await any who walk those cursed paths."
"I've been told you walked the ruins once," the man wheedles, and drops another, larger coin purse beside the first.
Beryl scoffs. "Fine! You want to go to that damned city so bad, I'll show you how to get there. You're on your own in the ruins, though." She scoops up both purses and pockets them. "What's your name, stranger, and what do you want with the ruins of London?"
"My business there is my own," the stranger tells her. "As for my name, you may call me Arthur."
Arthur gazes up at the night sky, tossing a leather ball back and forth between his hands. Beryl pokes him with her foot.
"I'll be leaving you tomorrow," she tells him, and he nods. "Nothing you do could convince me to stay in that city. I've done it once, and learned my lesson."
"London is waiting," Arthur says. "Don't worry, eventually it will calm down and allow everyone to return."
Beryl snorts. "You sound awful confident in that."
"I've known London for some time now," Arthur tells her. "She and I understand each other."
"Ya'know, every time you say shit like that, it makes me even more concerned. Are you, like, mentally stable?"
Arthur laughs and motions her down. "I'm completely stable," he assures. "But you wouldn't believe the truth if I told you. What's the story with all this, anyway? What happened to make the forest swallow London back up?"
"The Green Man came back, from what I understand," Beryl mutters, pulling some jerky from her pack to gnaw on it. "The green man returned to our world, and a lot of the old mythological figures started following him. Merlin and him are in some big wizard battle, or something, at the Tower of London. The world governments put out statements about it, but I didn't really pay much mind. I mean, us smaller folks are the ones getting shafted by this weird magic stuff, right? They can talk about it all they want, but those bigwig government types aren't the ones having to deal with their cities getting taken over by plants. Honestly, I'm not even sure there is a way of fixing this and putting it all back to the way it was, with all the skyscrapers and paved roads. Mother Nature is taking back over after all this magic conflagration bull they call it. Us humans are on the way out. The fanciful mythological figureheads are just delaying the inevitable."
Arthur watches her silently, before sitting up and looking toward the mass of living plant matter crawling along London's walls. Beryl remembers when the major cities of the world all tried to hold back the might of nature when the earth started rebelling. This is what the scientists had been warning them all about, without really understanding themselves. Big walls made everyone hope, but it just delayed things, and made it harder for everyone to escape the cities when the plants started taking back over.
"Maybe," Arthur starts, tilting his head this way and that as he tries to find the best was to take on the task of getting into London. "If things do go back -- not to the way it was but some earlier version -- would you consider going back?"
Beryl frowns up at the stars herself. "No," she says. "Watching your parents get eaten by the green man kinda fucks things up. I don't think I could go back to London, no matter what happened. But I wish you all the best Arthur. I hope you find what you're looking for."
The next morning sees Beryl shaking his hand. "There's nothing I can say to convince you to stay?" He's saying. "I could really use your help figuring out how to put everything to rights."
Beryl snickers. "You're welcome to try," she tells him. "But probably not. Even if you tell me your King Arthur, I wouldn't stay."
Arthur smiles sadly. "I won't try, then. I might come find you later then, if I need any help. Are you gonna stay in the same town I met you in, or do you travel around a lot?"
"I stick around there, even if I don't stay nailed down proper," Beryl explains. "My cousins are all there, and I'm the oldest. I gotta look after them as best as I can."
"I'll see you around then, Beryl," Arthur says, and turns and slips between two huge vines and disappears into the streets of London.
It's like a whole different world in here. Tree branches, far above, block out the sun. Arthur can't help but reach out and brush cautious fingers against the life around him. Returning to life has been disorienting, but here, in his London, surrounded by life, he feels a little bit more like himself somehow.
"Alright, London," he mutters. "Let's go find my wizard."
The trees seem to lean closer as Arthur strides by, purposeful. London has grown a lot since he'd been here last, all those centuries ago, but he follows the path as he remembers best to find the where he knows the Tower to be from the rough map Beryl had shown him earlier. It doesn't take long for him to realize the vegetation is trying to hinder his progress. He goes in a circle, passing a broken window he recognizes, and stops.
"London," Arthur tells the forest growing around him. "As your King, I command you. Let me pass."
Ringing silence is all that answers him for a moment, before soft giggles reach his ears. "Oh, but you're King of nothing, great warrior, without your sword of watery depths," a handful of soft, breathy voices answer. The fae.
Arthur swallows; he knows how the fae work after knowing Merlin as long as he had. "A sword does not a King make," Arthur declares, "but his spirit, his wisdom, his strength of devotion to his land and it's peoples. Including you, Seelie or Unseelie, Summer or Winter, whichever Court you hail from. As I know myself to be a King, as I know myself to be yours, to defend you as heartily as any mortal subjects, please, let me pass."
There is a tittering from the trees around him, and a louder voice answers now. "Your wizard has taught you well, Arthur, King of Britain. But your people are not so well taught. They drove us out, forgot their promises to us. Our Courts have been trampled and broken, the humans you cherish taking all land for their own and covering it in stone and glass. You must pay recompense."
Arthur winces. "I understand. After my current quest is over, I will pay this toll you have set, you have my word as a Pendragon. But for now, let me pass unhindered. Merlin may be able to assist me in paying whatever toll you set, especially if I am too return your lands for you as I plan as well."
There is a sigh from the branches of the trees, or a grown. The fae believe words spoken, and Arthur speaks no lie. He knows better.
"Very well," the fae answer, then, giggling, "go left up here."
Arthur does as asked, and finds a tree has shifted slightly. He shivers. "Thank you," he says. "I will return here, on my name as a Pendragon." He moves through the new space, and feels leaves brushing his head. After he's passed, he hears a small creak, and turns. The small space has closed once more. Nowhere to go but forward.
Arthur continues along windy paths, cracked pavement expelling bright vines and leaf litter sitting heavy among the cracks. There is almost complete silence around Arthur, only bird calls very faintly echoing above him. A deer watches warily as he passes, unnaturally still save for it's swiveling head. He watches it in return, and after he moves out of line of sight, he hears something huge crashing through the brush. He pauses, like a deer himself, frozen in shock. But if there is something truly dangerous here, he needs to find Merlin. He shakes himself out of his trance and moves on.
The flowers blooming on the plants around him are much larger than any he's ever seen, and multitudes of colors, as the flowers bob slightly at his passing. There is clearly a massive amount of natural energy the plants are feeding off of to become so massive and diverse. It also seems as if time is stuck here, in some strange way. It's chilly winter right now in Britain, but the leaves above are red and orange and yellow, and there are fresh shoots growing from the plants around him. Arthur knows there is something odd growing on here, even by Nature's standards.
He is careful not to tread on the plants, and any of the large insects that crawl across the ground around him. He has a sneaking suspicion that doing so will anger some unseen force. Arthur does pause here and there to touch some of the largest trees, just grounding himself on the mass of life and energy around him. Arthur shivers in the cool winds that blow past him, even with his thick cloak around his shoulders. It seems as if the wind can claw through even thick furs.
He turns a corner, an abandoned bakery next to him, and frowns. Food is considered an offering, or ingredients. He should have thought to bring something, but there was probably nothing left in the bakery. Perhaps some canned evaporated milk, but that may already belong to someone. Arthur searches for something he could use as an offering, other than his words.
After a moment of thought, he takes the soft leather tie in his hair out and sets it up on a massive root. This has been in his hair for some time. It will provide quite a bit of energy to whatever takes it up.
Eventually, Arthur finds the walls of the Tower of London. He can hear wind whistling through the gates, and the wind rips at his cloak as he passes through the gates. The winds are strong enough they almost knock him over. "Merlin," he tries to shout over the rushing air, but he can't even hear himself. "Merlin!"
With a sudden gust of hot air, the winds die. Arthur stumbles, straightening, to find a man standing before him. But Arthur recognizes this is not his oldest friend. This man is dressed in huge leaves and flowers, and his skin is green as the new shoots of trees.
"Where is he?" Arthur demands, but the Green Man only smiles with teeth too sharp and vanishes.
"Merlin," Arthur screams, and he hears a distant cry in response. He starts running, ducking around the walls until he finds a door leading into the fortification.
He searches the rooms he finds, calling for his friends, and Arthur can hear cries in return growing louder, closer. He finds Merlin in a cell at the top of the tower, reaching out to him.
"My King," Merlin cries, overjoyed. "Help me!"
"Merlin, old friend," Arthur replies, relieved to find the wizard relatively unhurt. "Let me find the key…"
"He said he threw it in the Thames, but I had hoped that was a lie," Merlin tells him. "You might be able to break the lock."
The lock does appear old, and Arthur pulls a dagger from his boot to bash at it. It takes a few swings, but the lock does eventually shatter. Merlin embraces Arthur tightly. "Let's get out of here. The Green Man has broken from Lady Gaia, and rampaged around the globe once he had locked me away, unable to stop him. He could have gone anywhere. We must stop him to return things to the way they were."
"Maybe," Arthur starts, thinking of the fae he had encountered. "Gaia means for things to remain changed. The mortals have forgotten they share these lands. The fae are angry with us. Maybe Gaia let this happen. Nature is reclaiming the land."
Merlin smiles sadly. "I taught you well," he murmurs. "Have the fae told you something?"
"Humans have taken their lands," Arthur explains. "The other mortals are driving the fae out. Balance needed restoring, and you and I both know Gaia and Mother Nature do not do things in partials."
Merlin swallows and nods. "Perhaps this is what was meant to happen, then. You propose we just leave things the way they are?"
"I told the fae I would get them their lands back. If we leave London the way it is, all the major cities of the world, the fae can stay in them until we can get their traditional lands back, their Hills and Mounds and Courts."
"Perhaps," Merlin suggests, "the major cities are where they are meant to remain. As reminders."
"So, what? We just go back to our eternal slumber, bring all the others with us? Let the Green Man have his way?" Arthur leads the way back down the Tower, keeping a close eye on his friend. "As if this is Gaia's will, not that we mortals could know it?"
"The Green Man always loved the fae more than us," Merlin reasons. "If he woke briefly and saw the injustice the fae were being put under, he would have been upset. But I don't think we were meant to just return to slumber. I think we are meant to bridge the gap between mortals and fae."
"If that is the way you wish to play this," Arthur says, "we'll need a local guide, won't we?"
"You have someone in mind," Merlin queries.
Arthur smiles. "I do, once we get back out of London."
