Rose and Shane are having their cute little getting to know each other chat. The vibes are good, the conversation is flowing, and Shane hasn't thought about ilya in like ten minutes (thinking about how he's not thinking about Ilya doesn't actually count as thinking about him, right? It's a grey area). The lights are all warm and intimate, and this place is swanky enough that they've clearly got some kind of noise suppression going on so the conversations at the other tables sound all muffled and far away. It's like he and Rose are in their own private bubble.
"This looks cozy."
Once, Shane had to have a bucket of ice water poured over his head. It was for some charity thing the league had organised, Shane's fuzzy on the details now, but he knows there's a video out there somewhere of him soaked and spluttering, still shocked by the cold, even when he'd been braced for it.
Hearing Ilya's voice, cutting clear through the warm atmosphere, feels like that: like a sheet of ice water that Shane wasn't braced for.
Ilya's smile is all white teeth. "Hollander, you are not going to introduce me? I am hurt."
Shane feels paralyzed. Ilya's presence at his side feels gargantuan, impossible to ignore, like the suffuse heat radiating off a brick wall. But he can't turn his neck to look at him.
Distantly, Shane hears Rose introduce herself.
"Rose Landry, yes. I've seen your movie, the ah one with all the explosions. Ilya Rozanov."
"Oh, I know who you are."
Ilya has placed a casual hand on the back of Shane's seat. He's not touching him, but the small hairs on the back of Shane's neck stand up anyway. Shane becomes newly aware of his breathing, chest expanding in out in out. "Ah, I see. Hollander has already told you all about me. Only good things, yes?"
Rose's laughter is light. "No, I'm from a hockey town. Your name is anathema in my household."
Ilya cocks his head - Shane can just make out the movement in his peripherals. "But not Shane Hollander's? This is surprising, Rose - you do not look like a woman with bad taste. Hollander," and Shane almost jumps at being addressed, instinctively, stupidly turns to look up at Ilya who - who's getting closer, "move over, I need to ahh... Plead my case."
And suddenly Shane is in a booth, sitting across from a beautiful woman who he actually enjoys talking to, with Ilya Rozanov's body pressed up against his side, a constant burning brand; pretending to follow along with the conversation while his whole body is slowly being corroded by acid.
"So the rivalry thing," Rose says, because of course she'd bring it up of course. "You guys just play it up for the cameras, right?"
When Ilya speaks, sotto voiced and conspiratorial, Shane can feel his words reverberating through his body into his own. "Ahh, We give the press their sound bites, mess around on the ice sometimes, but it's all in good fun. Besides," and then Ilya is turning to look at Shane, and his eyes are burning burning burning, like he's on fire too, "I know Hollander loves me."
You know how Dick becomes Robin because Bruce can't keep this ball of fury from scaping home to try and take revenge on his parents murderer? So he decides is better to let him go out as Robin so he can at least supervise him while doing dangerous shit and let him canalize his anger?
Well, enter Danny. Bruce decide to try his luck with a Nanny, and hires Danny, a young adult with good reviews who claims to have a lot of experience with runaway kids. Danny manages to keep Dick in the house, and actually helps the kid process his anger and grief. Bruce of course watches Danny like a hawk the first few months, because he personally needs to make sure Danny isn't a danger to Dick.
Long story short. Robin was never formed. Somehow someway Bruce still gets all his kids, and Danny helps take care of each and everyone of them, and none of them enter the vigilantism lifestyle. Maybe would be good for a Spirit Halloween ship? Of course at some point Danny has to find out about Batman, and maybe the kids find out as well.
I think it would be funny if when sidekicks start appearing left and right, Bruce is part of the few that doesn't have one despite the sheer amount of kids he cares for. I think he still wouldn't exactly judge, he was about to give up before Danny came. It would be hilarious if he learned somehow that in every other universe where he didn't get Danny, all his kids became vigilantes.
pairing: mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader
category: mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, slight violence, quick scene of SH (nothing graphic!), foul language
word count: 6K
dividers: enchanthings
a/n: im starting a new series because i have a serious problem :3 im gonna be honest, im not the biggest fan of pink and the ultrafemme aesthetic just because my personal taste is def more androgynous goth, but after seeing these coquette images on pinterest (sponsor me pls) I just had a mental vomit for this fic series with my love Jason todd. i hope yall like it, enjoy reading <3
˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚/Next Chapter
The shop smells like oil and metal and something that might’ve died in the vents weeks ago. The neon RED LINE AUTO sign outside flickers like it’s having a nervous breakdown. Roy Harper sits on an upside-down bucket, waving a pink-glitter résumé in the air like he just found a treasure map.
“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”
Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”
Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”
Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.
-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink.
What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.
Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”
“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”
“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”
Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”
Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”
Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”
Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.
You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.
“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”
Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”
Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.
You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”
“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”
You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”
You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”
Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”
Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”
“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”
Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”
A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.
When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.
You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”
The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.
As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”
Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.
He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”
Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.
Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.
The door chime jingles.
He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”
You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.
“—late,” he finishes flatly.
“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”
Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.
Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”
“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”
He groans. “No.”
“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.
Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”
Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.
You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.
He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”
“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.
In neat cursive, you start filling columns—
Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs—
all in rose-colored ink.
Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”
“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”
Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.
Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.
Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”
“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.
Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.
Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”
“For ambience,” you say.
“It’s a garage.”
“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”
Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”
Roy perks up. “Beer?”
“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”
Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”
“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”
Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”
Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.
“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”
“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.
“That’s because it’s ugly.”
Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.
After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.
An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.
You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.
He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.
“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.
Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.
Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.
A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.
Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”
The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.
“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”
You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”
The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.
Roy mutters, “Here we go.”
You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom.
“I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”
You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart—
SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.
“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.
The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.
Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.
Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.
“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”
You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.
Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.
The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.
Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.
Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”
Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing.
The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”
Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.
And then the jocks show up.
The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.
You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”
One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”
You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”
They laugh—exactly the response you wanted.
You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”
Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.
As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”
You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.”
They swagger out, laughing.
The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.
Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.
“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.
You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”
He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”
“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.
You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”
Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”
You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.
Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”
Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”
You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.
Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”
Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”
Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”
“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”
Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”
You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”
Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”
Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.
You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”
He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.
“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”
That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.
Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.
“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”
You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.
He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”
“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”
Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.
Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.
Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”
Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”
“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”
Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.
You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.
Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”
“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.
“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”
Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”
Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”
Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”
For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.
Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.
“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.
He blinks once. “Yeah.”
“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”
He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”
You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”
Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.
The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The day feels longer than it should.
It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”
When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.
Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”
Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”
You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”
Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”
Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.
When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”
Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”
“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”
Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”
You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”
Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”
You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”
You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.
The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”
Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”
Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”
“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.
“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”
Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”
Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”
“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”
They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.
The bathroom door creaks open.
You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.
Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”
Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.
You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”
Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”
Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”
You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.
You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.
You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.
Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”
Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”
Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”
He’s not convinced.
You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.
Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.
When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.
He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”
You blink, confused. “Venturi?”
“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”
A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”
You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”
You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.
“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.
You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”
Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”
You tilt your head. “You?”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”
You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.
“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”
He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”
You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”
He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.
Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”
You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”
Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.
He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”
You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.
Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.
But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time.
He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.
He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.
You’re not alone.
Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.
Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.
He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance.
Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.
And then you move first.
You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.
He blinks. “What?”
Pssst.
The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.
Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”
He’s half-blind, reaching for you.
Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.
He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.
“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”
The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.
Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.
You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”
Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.
Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”
Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”
Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”
The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.
A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.
You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”
Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
You arch a brow. “On the bike?”
“On the bike.”
You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”
He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.
The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.
He’s in trouble. He knows it
༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･
When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.
You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”
Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”
That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.
“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”
He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.
“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”
You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.
Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.
Jason Todd: That I’ll never be good enough for anyone.
Tim Drake: Everyone hates me and talks about me behind my back.
Dick Grayson: Vampires.
Jason Todd: ...
Tim Drake: ...
Dick Grayson: I got turned into one once and nearly killed peoples. It's a bloodlust, you never know when you'll be fully quenched and every non-vampire is a succulent vessel... But I'm not a vampire anymore and that is in my past.
Summary: James Moriarty x fe!Reader -> When you first meet James Moriarty, you're not a fan. Until Sherlock goes missing and things begin to simmer between you both.
Disclaimer: dislike to lovers, slight canon divergence from the show, reader works for the Holmes family, platonic!Sherlock, discussions of marriage, wounds, blood. Hurt/comfort, found family, flirting, language of flowers, probably a lot of historical inaccuracy, light swearing, kinda a long fic.
It was quite clear to anyone who had functioning eyesight, as well as hearing, that you did not like Sherlock Holmes’ new friend; James Moriarty.
You didn’t know why. Whenever Sherlock asked, you would simply shrug and say, “I have my reasons.”
Neither one of you would point out that you didn’t have anything concrete. Only just a feeling.
But that didn’t stop you from seeing the good he brought into Sherlock’s life.
He challenged him. Pushed him. And, held him back when necessary.
Things you were thankful for.
You just wished it wasn’t him.
“Now,” you recognised his Irish drawl. “What did that loaf of bread ever do to you?”
You’d been standing in the kitchen of the Holmes’ residence for just over three hours. Sherlock was on a case until six hours previous when you received word from his brother that Sherlock was, in fact, missing.
Unable to do anything to find him, you turned to the one thing you knew always seemed to calm you when almost nothing else worked; you baked.
Cakes, scones, cookies, bread; anything to help you with your frustration and fear.
When you didn’t answer, James spoke again.
“You’re beating the thing as if it owes you money.”
“Why are you here?” You asked, without looking up.
Not that you had to, to know how he was standing. Leaning against the frame of the open door, one foot crossed over the other with his hands crossed in front of him.
James paused for a slight second. “I was hungry and smelled a fresh loaf in the oven. Came to see if there was any available.”
You sighed. “By the counter.”
He nodded his head, pushing himself from the doorframe. “Thanking you kindly.”
You were that tense and wired, you couldn’t feel his eyes fixed on you as he walked across the kitchen. Nor could you see the way he was studying you – analysing you. The way you stood, the way you moved, the fact you weren’t yelling at him was his biggest worry.
Instead, you just kept kneading the bread over, and over, and over again.
Crossing the room once more, James stood beside you and laid a hand on your arm. You hesitated, but you stopped working the bread for a moment.
And a moment was all he needed.
“He’ll be okay.”
“How?” You asked, not tearing your eyes from the wooden counter top. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I know him.”
You sighed, closing your eyes.
“Knowing Sherlock,” James said. “He’s probably halfway to the docks to ask some poor, unsuspecting stranger a random question. Without context. And get him caught in a two hour lecture about…bees.”
That got a chuckle out of you, but rather than it being coarse and dry – like the usual sound of your laughter when you ‘laughed’ at something he said. Your laugh was…wet. Held together by the tears you were too stubborn to shred.
“He’ll be okay.”
“You should be out looking for him.” You said, your voice unarmed for the first time in his presence. “What if he’s hurt?”
“There’s nothing I haven’t taught him, that I already know. He’s prepared.” James nodded, before adding. “I just hope he listened.”
You nodded, trying to believe it yourself. But from the way you’d gone from pummelling the unbaked bread, to using whatever energy you had left to try and kneed, told James more than he needed to know.
For a second, he hesitated. “I-I’m gonna do something, now, but I need your word that you won’t try and stab with your bread knife.”
Swiping your hand across your cheek, quickly, you tried to steady your voice. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to hug you.”
Looking at James, the memory of your first meeting flipped through your mind as quickly as it took a few seconds to pass.
It had been around the time when Sherlock had thought of the bright idea to help his mother escape her asylum. Although you didn’t like her being in there in the first place, you would have thought he might have written to you to tell you before he came barreling into his home, sounding alarm bells in your head.
As Sherlock and James had searched a couple of the rooms, James had entered the one you were standing in. Rather than announce himself, however, he opted to lay a hand on your shoulder and proceeded to get flipped over you, his arm twisted and a bruise in his shoulder that was an identical match to the bottom of your heel.
Rather than flip him in the kitchen, you accepted the hug.
And when Sherlock came strolling in through the back door, the next afternoon, and found you and James Moriarty not only alone together in a room, but that room was also standing; it was safe to say he was more than shocked.
“Sherlock!”
Laying the hot try down on the counter, you ran over and hugged him as tight as you could.
“I see you’re alive,” James said, taking in the muddy image of his best friend.
“I can see you are, too.” Sherlock replied. “You bake?”
“My mother taught me,” James smiled, leaning on a tea towel and crossing one boot over the other. “Not to say Y/n hasn’t taught me a thing or two in the last day or so.”
Standing back from the hug, you hit Sherlock as hard as you could in the arm. “Where the hell were you?! What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”
He rubbed his arm, a little offended that it hurt him so much. “Ow!”
“I’d answer her if I were you, Sherlock.” James chimed in.
In the last twenty four hours alone, Sherlock had been kidnapped, made friends with his kidnappers, helped them solve their case, cash in on their favour for him, solved the majority of his current case and picked up a new one.
And out of it all, seeing you and James be…friendly? Was that really the best term? It was the strangest thing to happen to him.
“Forgive me,” Sherlock said, leaning across the table hours after his explanation of his day. “But…are you two friends? I go missing for several hours and you two decide to-”
“Decide to…move on quite quickly and find a new best friend?” James asked before nodding proudly. “Yes, I believe so.”
Then you hit his shoulder, hard.
“Ow.” Mostly, he laughed.
“We’re civil,” you corrected, before laying a tray of biscuits in front of Sherlock. “Eat up. There’s plenty more.”
Looking across the kitchen, Sherlock made a mental tally of the baked goods. More than likely, you’d be wrapping them up and handing them out to the people in the village.
“I’m sorry I worried you so much,” Sherlock said, sincerely. He wasn’t always the best at apologies, but looking around, he had no choice but to give you one.
You nodded. “Next time, send a telegram. Better yet, take James with you.”
Sherlock and James looked at each other with slightly knowing smiles. “I’ll be sure to do that,” Sherlock said just as James said, “He can survive without me.”
You didn’t notice, but a look crossed between the boys as you turned away. Sherlock knew what it meant and James wasn’t one bit embarrassed to be caught in his crush.
*~*~*~*~*
“Tell me something,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice quiet.
You’d fallen asleep on the sofa just over an hour into the whiskey filled conversation between the boys. James was sitting beside you, letting your feet rest against his thigh, whilst his hand absentmindedly fell to your ankle and traced against the soft skin.
“Do you like her because she’s the first woman to not flirt back? Or because you actually…like her?”
James looked at his friend, a tired smile on his face. “Can’t be giving away all my secrets, now.”
Sherlock’s face didn’t change. “She’s my friend, James. I won’t see her get hurt.”
“I think she can take care of herself, don’t you?”
“The sentiment still stands.”
James watched Sherlock for a quiet moment, but Sherlock was unwavering as usual.
“A bit of both,” James answered, honestly. “She’s beautiful, and smart. She can keep me on my toes, that’s for sure. I suppose she intrigued me…when she didn’t flirt back.”
“You mean when she told you to fuck off?”
James chuckled. “Yeah. That.”
During your first meeting, after asking who he was, he’d tried flirting with you a little just before Sherlock walked in and properly introduced you both. With his arm still twisted, you’d rolled your eyes at the fact the guy you were physically standing on still had the gall to try and flirt.
That had been when you’d told him to fuck off.
“But, truthfully, I can’t deny that having her argue with me…well,” James smiled. “It’s certainly a highlight of my day.”
Sherlock smiled, briefly, too. But watched as James’ eyes fell onto your sleeping frame. His friend didn’t have to ask his question out loud.
Sitting forward in his chair and laying down his empty glass, Sherlock let out a small breath. “It’ll take time. But- and this is only if you’re serious about your feelings for her. I suspect that somewhere behind all those walls that I’ve seen her build…she’s willing to lower them. For the right person.”
Sherlock bid his friend goodnight before leaving you in James’ hands, which became the physical embodiment of the truth.
After downing the rest of this drink, James stood and gently pulled the blanket from your frame.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”
It took him a try or two, to try and get his arms around and under you without jostling you too much and waking you up. But he succeeded and lifted you from the sofa, before carrying you up the main staircase and towards the general servants area of the house.
Mostly, it was out-of-date guest bedrooms that Cordelia had told you to stay in when she returned with Sherlock since she didn’t like the idea of the cold and dreary room you’d been sleeping in since she’d hired your parents to work in the kitchens and on the grounds.
“Sleep tight,” James told you, though he suspected you couldn’t hear him since you were lost in a dream.
Either way, once he’d closed your door with a soft click, he couldn’t help but hope that his friend was right. Would you be willing to lower your emotional barricades? Would you be willing to lower them for him?
It took six months, eight days and fourteen hours for James Moriarty to get his answer.
All because some stuffy, upper class gentleman who had been a long-time friend of the family’s decided to stick his nose into business where he wasn’t wanted.
He’d arrived one afternoon with Mycroft.
Considering he had nothing else to do that afternoon, a simple carriage ride out with his friend to see the people he cared for sounded like a lovely idea.
“Michael,” you had smiled, almost friendly, before accepting his hug.
“Oh, him you’ll hug,” James said, quietly, as you stood back again and stood just in front of him a little.
“Shush.”
As Mycroft introduced James to Michael, he got an uneasy feeling. Though he couldn’t be too sure it wasn’t because you’d hugged him, rather than flipped him and nearly broken his arm.
“Mrs Holmes,” Michael smiled, gracing the lady of the house.
She blushed, just a little. “Michael, darling. How are you? When Mycroft told me you were coming I was almost certain it was a practical joke! I thought you’d forgotten all about us.”
“Oh, I couldn’t forget about you Mrs Holmes.”
“Cordelia, please.”
He nodded, politely. “Cordelia.”
Raising your chin just a little, you cleared your throat. “Tea, Mrs Holmes?”
“That sounds delightful,” she smiled, warmly at you, before she took Michael by the arm.
“You will be joining us, won’t you, Y/n?” Michael asked.
Cordelia jumped in quickly, nodding her head. “Oh, yes, darling do!”
You smiled and nodded your head. “I’ll be right out.”
“Fantastic.”
Meanwhile, as you went to fetch the tea tray, Michael was led outside by Cordelia. But, rather than follow them, James followed you.
“Oh, Michael,” he said, mimicking your accent. “Michael, how much I have missed you.”
“Shut up,” you told him, hitting him in his diaphragm.
James just laughed. “Is he seriously the kind you’re mooning over? I thought you didn’t like the guy?”
You didn’t look at him. “What gave you that impression?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” James pretended to think. “The tight lipped smile you gave Cordelia when she told you he was coming, the way you stand back in the hallway rather than beside Sherlock like usual. Or how about-”
“Yes,” you said, clipped. “James. I think I get it.”
“So?” James asked, leaning against the counter in front of you.
“So…what?”
“Is it that sort you like?”
You looked at him longer than you usually did before tearing your gaze away and picking up the tray. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
James watched you as you walked away and for the first time…something didn’t make sense to him.
Outside in the garden, Sherlock could practically feel the heat radiating from his friend as he sat down beside him. And it all made sense once he started listening to the rather boring conversation that was taking place between his brother, mother, friend and Michael.
It was the most words, in a calm tone, that either Sherlock or James had heard you utter. And then came the inevitable question of romantic relationships.
Cordelia pressed Michael, against Mycroft’s wishes. Apparently he was yet to find a suitable woman whom he could love. But he was certainly on the market.
James watched as, within a split second, all the attention around the garden table turned to you.
And you hated it.
Surprisingly, you managed to sit incredibly still. James (and even Sherlock) were expecting you to at least fidget with your hands as you spoke. Well, rambled.
“Well, I–”
That was the second surprising thing. You were lost for words.
The third and final surprising thing was where you looked. Rather, who you looked at.
It was just a split second. Nothing more than that. But James saw the look in your eyes. And Sherlock saw the exchange.
“Darling, I was just speaking to your mother,” Cordelia smiled. “She was saying you’d only just spoken to her about this?”
If your eyebrows could have hit the sunshade above you, they would have. Awkwardly, you barked out a laugh. “Oh, um, well, yes!”
God, you wanted to die.
“You’re looking for a husband?” Michael asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Sherlock and James looked at one another rather quickly. They both knew how you felt about getting married so young.
“I’m not against it.”
“You’re just not for it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Is it marrying me? Is that the idea you’re not fond of?”
You groaned. “For the last time, we’re not getting married! And–” You groaned. “Neither of you would understand what being married actually means! It means giving up the very little part of me that isn’t owned by anyone else! Marriage, for centuries, has been nothing more than a business contract between families. Men have the ability to do as they see fit, even in marriage. But not women.”
“But I’m not asking you to give that up.” Sherlock clarified. “I’m just asking you to pose as a couple getting married. You don’t actually have to go through with it.”
The context of the conversation was something different, but even after Sherlock's case of The Missing Wedding Dresses, he’d asked you to expand on your views on marriage.
“Uh, well-”
“Well, I’m certain you are,” Michael announced. “Isn’t it what every young lady dreams of?”
“Not always, Michael,” Cordelia jumped in. “But it can be a rather big adventure. With the right person.”
With the right person.
As James cleared his throat, rubbing his temple and you stood up quickly. “How about some fresh tea?”
James watched your every movement. The lack of eye contact, the speed at which you cleared away the cups and saucers.
And the slight tremble in your hand as you did so.
Plastering on a fake smile, you excused yourself and started making your way back over towards the house.
Finally able to place the tray down and start a fresh pot of tea, James came carefully bounding through the backdoor.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded. “I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stop them when-”
You looked at him for the slightest moment, before looking away again. “You didn’t have to.”
“I should have. We both know you hate the spotlight being on you.”
“It’s fine, James.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Slamming down the teapot in the sink, you closed your eyes. “Please just-” You took a breath. “I’m fine. You should get back out there.”
Only, he didn’t.
Instead, he remained fixed in place between the table and the door, his gaze doing nothing but analysing you.
“Would you stop that?” You asked, noticing him. “What? What is it?”
“Women have confused me…for a long time,” he said. “But you…you are…”
“I am what?”
You continued moving around the kitchen. Pulling biscuits out of the oven, boiling the water, setting the tray back up – all of it done within a fraction of the time it normally took you.
“Utterly confounding.”
“Why, thank you,” you replied, dryly.
“I can’t tell if you like the fella, or if you want to see him dead.” James said. “All I know is that you’re holding something back. And since you didn’t know your mother spoke with Cordelia…there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
James nodded, moving around the kitchen towards you. “Fair point, you don’t. But I can read you.”
For the first time, you stopped moving and turned to look at him, placing one fist on your hip as you gripped the tea towel in your hand.
“You can read me?” You almost rolled your eyes. “Now I know you’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock.”
James nodded. “Probably, but it’s true. And I’m trying to work out if that’s because I’ve known you longer than I expected to. Longer than you expected to, I imagine.”
You nodded without feeling guilty.
“Or if it’s because…”
“Because of what?”
James, again, studied you before standing tall and keeping his hands in his pockets. “Or because you want me to. See, I’ve known you for, what? Almost a year? And in all of that time, you haven’t shown anything to anyone you haven’t wanted to. You don’t talk about things, and you’re hyper-aware of your actions.”
You nodded, just a little. “Well, I grew up with Sherlock. He could be quite the taddle-tale, if you weren’t careful with your secrets.”
“How come I know yours then?”
For a brief moment, you paused. You could admit the truth that had been growing inside of you – developing over the last few months you’d gotten to know James Moriarty. But you still weren’t convinced your answer to that question was correct.
Not yet at least.
So, rather than tell him (and probably satisfy his ego), you shook your head just a little.
“I don’t know.”
From the look in your eyes, James saw your truth; it wasn’t ready yet. You were still working it out. But something was clear.
You didn’t know. Not really.
“Darling, it’s starting to rain,” Cordelia said as she entered, followed by Mycroft who was carrying the sunshade. “So we’re going to take tea in the living room. Is there anything I can bring in to help?”
Before you could answer and tell her you had it handled, James turned around with his cheeky but charismatic smile. “It’s alright, Mrs Holmes. She’s already ordering me about.”
On instinct, you hit the back of your hand into James’ diaphragm. But he surprised you and caught it. And once the others had left and passed through the kitchen to the other door, he turned to you.
Lifting your hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to your palm.
“When you figure it out,” he said. “Tell me.”
You had a feeling by the time you figured it out, he’d already know.
Another few months passed and before you knew it, Sherlock was raising a toast to the year anniversary he and James had met and become friends.
Meanwhile, you were helping Cordelia set up a charity centre that would help children in and around Oxford and London an education, the ability to find apprenticeships easier, and hone their crafts.
“Knock, knock.” You heard the Irish tone say before the English followed.
“We’ve come to make sure you haven’t died.”
“I am very much alive,” you called out with a tired smile before seeing the pair open the door and walk inside. “I was just going over your mother’s diary. She’s got a busy week ahead of her.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Sherlock nodded before he took a tour around your office. “Mycroft told me you had been granted your own office.”
“Your point?”
“He wants to know how his brother knew before he did.”
“Ah,” you nodded, peeling your eyes from James to Sherlock. “Well, if you’d answered the telegraph your mother had sent you, you would have seen whose office it came from.”
Sherlock turned to you. “You know I never check my mail.”
“You should at least check it from your mother, Sherlock.” James told him.
He just hummed, continuing to pace and take in every inch of your new office. Meanwhile, James took a seat on your desk and started rifling through your notes.
“What are you doing?”
“Just checking.”
“What?”
James hummed. “Secret love notes, cipher keys to your beloved. The usual.”
“Ah, and who would this beloved be?”
“Well, I was hoping it would be me.”
You hummed, narrowing your gaze at him playfully, letting him continue. “But since I hear you’re such an independent woman these days– ah ha!”
“Ah ha?” Sherlock asked.
“There is a lover!”
Despite wanting to throttle the pair of them for prying, you couldn’t help but laugh as James took a turn around the room, reading out the supposed love letter.
James feigned a gasp. “Y/n, this is practically a scandal sheet! Oh- he wants to do what?”
“Who is this man? I must defend your honour!” Sherlock played along.
James turned around, laying a hand on his chest and shaking his head. “Not with your fighting skills, dear.”
“Ah, I suppose you're right. How about you, then?”
James shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
You chuckled. “Are you two quite finished?”
“We must make a plan.”
“Yes, a plan!”
Groaning a little, but hiding your laughter, you held your head in your hands but continued to watch the Shakespeare worthy performance in front of you.
As the pair discussed their ‘plan’ to send a fake letter to your lover, then move under the cover of darkness-
“How well does he know the court yard?”
“At the university?”
They both nodded.
“Like the back of his hand.”
“Drats.”
“Change of plan?”
“Perhaps we can blindfold him.”
When they’d finally finished their plan, you had tidied up your desk, put your coat on (with James’ help as he continued to plan with Sherlock), managed to get both of the boys out of the building and locked the building up behind you all.
“There’s just one solution left,” Sherlock said.
“We must take you away.”
“Away?”
They both nodded, letting you loop your arms around theirs as you walked between them both. “Somewhere far away. Far enough to help you and this Barnabus character forget all about each other.”
“Barnabus?”
Sherlock nodded. “We’ve renamed him.”
“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”
“If you think so,” you chuckled.
The story continued all the way back to Cordelia’s London home where it was recounted to Mrs Holmes in full detail over a warm meal and some tea.
“Come on, sleepyhead. I’m practically falling asleep watching you,” James said before he scooped you up in his arms.
You called his name but he barely flinched.
“Put me down! Where the hell are you taking me?”
He paused in the doorway, still holding you in a bridal carry. “To bed.”
From the grin on his face, his words landed exactly how he wanted them to. So, rolling your eyes, you hit his shoulder.
“You’re pathetic.”
“Only for you, dear.” Then he started walking again.
“I can walk by myself, you know.”
“And let you twist your ankle on the stairs? Or fall from being unable to lift your weary limbs.”
By the time he was finished listing the amount of unlikely accidents to happen, he dropped you down on your bed and bid you goodnight in a less gentle manner than he had done the first time he’d carried you to bed.
“Well, here we are.” Then he hummed. “I suppose you're right.”
“That’s a first, coming from you.”
And, despite the laughter from behind the door that had you rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel the faint burn against your palm.
A sensation that only seemed to happen when you were around James Moriarty.
*~*~*~*~*
“Do you ever plan on staying still?!”
Through the darkness of the discontinued factory, you looked at James as he finally joined you behind one of the barrels.
“They were shooting at us! What the hell did you want me to do?”
“Sherlock told me to look after you!”
“I don’t need looking after!”
Another bang from a gun sounded somewhere behind you both before a forgotten barrel on a shelf exploded.
“At least they’re a shit shot.”
“Doesn’t matter how bad they are if they’re close enough!”
Running again, James groaned and ran after you. No doubt Sherlock would scold him if he didn’t – not that he planned on leaving you behind. If he was being honest, he was rather hurt Sherlock thought he had to remind him.
Until he told him the reason why.
You both ran as quickly as your legs could carry you, through the building and out of the back, narrowly missing the flying bullets. But, aside from your lives remaining intact, all that mattered was that you were holding the evidence to prove a boss’ misdeeds against his employees who, no doubt, were probably in the same pickle with Sherlock.
They were just in the town square rather than by the docks.
Taking as many back streets as you both could, eventually you both made it to a street with a carriage. Hailing it down, you handed over the address and made sure the curtains were closed as the horses began trotting in the same direction you’d both ran from.
The men with the guns ran past the carriage, none the wiser.
Meanwhile, inside the carriage, you were still trying to catch your breath.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m…I’m-”
“You can’t breathe.”
“I just need a minute.”
In that moment, James fully understood what Sherlock had meant when he said it scared him.
In recent weeks, you’d begun to suffer with breathing difficulties. Mostly, they stemmed from anxiety or panic attacks.
Only, rather than fall down and back yourself into a corner, you worked through them. Rather, rammed through them. It was bad enough not having your own body know what it was going through; but the thought to have to sit with that feeling?
It churned your stomach.
“C’mere.”
A little panicked at where James was reaching, you stopped him. “What are you-”
“You need to breathe. That corset can’t be helping any.”
You were still struggling to catch your breath and, although you knew he was right, something in the back of your mind was panicking for a whole other reason.
You trusted him. You didn’t think he’d take advantage of you, or use your vulnerable moment against you.
But it was still a vulnerable moment.
“Turn around,” he told you, his voice calm.
You found yourself complying whilst he fiddled with the hooks on the back of your skirt, pulled up your blouse from the back and started pulling at the strings holding your corset together.
“Always thought these things were like torture chambers.”
You hummed. “They’re usually not so bad.”
“Better?”
For the first time, you managed to let out a full breath. “Yes. Thank you.”
You could feel his hand gently pressing against your back. “Just try and take some deep breaths, yeah?”
You nodded, bracing your hands against the frame of the carriage as it rattled over the potholes in the street. Meanwhile, you tried to focus on James’ calming voice as he focused on keeping your breathing.
“How long have you been like this?”
“A while,” you admitted as you finally caught your breath and he helped tie everything back up again, though not as tight. “I don’t know what started them.”
“Stress of the job?”
You shook your head. “It’s the only time I can feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what they are. They just…come out of nowhere.”
“Have you consulted a doctor?”
You laughed. “What? Just so they can tell me I’m being hysterical?”
“Fair point. Maybe you are.”
You hit him in his diaphragm.
“Joking. Joking. I’m just messing with you.”
“Better be.”
James nodded before continuing to hypothesise what could be causing your sudden inability to breathe at random moments. Though neither of you had much longer to talk since the carriage was coming to a stop.
“Not a word about this to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
And, to his credit, he didn’t. He didn’t tell anyone…who didn’t already know.
“How was she?” Sherlock asked as you headed to bed on Sherlock’s orders.
“Exactly as you said,” James replied. “Breathless. Constricted.”
“Constricted? I never said constricted.”
Rather than panic, he remained calm.
“What do you mean constricted?”
James let out a controlled breath. “She needed help. I helped her.”
“I’m aware you care for her, James. But you really need to be careful-”
“Sherlock, nothing untoward happened. You have my word on that.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” James nodded, his voice firm. “Have I really given you a reason to doubt me now?”
Sherlock studied him for a long time. “No. I suppose not.”
James nodded with a little thanks. “I’m gonna go check on her.”
“No, let her be.”
“Why?”
“She needs rest.” Sherlock said. “She’s been swept off her feet since coming to London. I highly doubt she’s had the same rest to balance it out.”
James sighed, pausing by the door. And, for the first time, Sherlock truly saw his friend in a vulnerable state. “I’m worried about her.”
“I know,” Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “So am I. But she’ll only get agitated if we hover.”
James knew his friend was right. He didn’t like that he was right. But he was right nonetheless.
Though it didn’t stop him from worrying about you.
Or checking on you when he woke up in need of a glass of water.
Your bedroom door was wide open, but you weren’t inside.
James found you sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, and far away in your own head.
“Are you alri-”
You nearly jumped out of your own skin. “James.”
He held up his hands as he stood by the door. “Sorry. How long have you been awake?”
“Oh,” your gaze narrowed on the mantle clock. “I don’t actually know.”
James looked around. “Want some company?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
Walking inside and taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, he shook his head.
“Too much excitement from the day.”
You let out a small chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”
For a while, James and yourself talked. He tried to keep the conversation away from the case or anything that would get your brain fully tuning in and working.
And, after a solid hour, it worked.
“Rest now,” he said, softly, running his hand through your hair as you laid your head down against his thigh.
And somewhere between the feeling of his hands running through your hair and the soft hum of his voice, you fell into the first deep sleep you’d had in weeks.
James woke up to a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. “James, darling.”
“Mrs Holmes,” he said, a little shocked. “Is everything-”
“Oh, yes, yes. Everything’s fine. A telegram has come for you, from Sherlock.” Cordelia held it out to him, keeping his voice in a hushed whisper. “It seems rather important.”
“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”
“Would you like me to wake her?”
James almost forgot what she was talking about until he looked down and saw you still fast asleep, his hand on your arm.
“Oh,” he shook his head. “No. Let her sleep.”
Cordelia smiled. “I thought that would be the answer. I just wanted to make sure. You go ahead. I’ll stay with her.”
James nodded, carefully moving you without waking you. And, just as Cordelia took his place, she turned to him as he stood at the door.
“James, dear.”
“Yes, Mrs Holmes?”
“Thank you for helping her sleep,” she said, her tone soft. “I knew she hadn't been resting as much, so this was a delightful sight to see.”
Laying a hand over his heart, he bowed a little. “It was my pleasure.”
You woke up a little over an hour later. At first, you were a little embarrassed. And then worried. But the reassuring smile and hug from Cordelia calmed you.
Your job wasn’t in jeopardy, and neither was your standing within her home.
By the time the boys returned, with Mycroft in tow, they were bleeding.
“Jesus,” you breathed, standing quickly from your place at the kitchen dining table. “What happened?”
“Sherlock! Oh, my- James!” Cordelia called out as she took in the sight of them both.
Mycroft was the only one unharmed.
As you were gathering spare, clean rags and some warm water, Mycroft and his mother helped the boys into their seats.
Apparently one of their suspects didn’t like the idea of getting followed. But, at the very least, they knew they were on the right track.
“Look at me,” you instructed as you turned James’ head to look at you. Not that you needed to force him all that much.
“You look well rested,” he told you.
You nodded, quickly. “And you look like you’ve just lost your first fight.”
“I’ll have you know, I won this one, actually.”
Sherlock nodded, trying to escape his brother’s attempts at cleaning his wounds. “He actually did. Saved my bacon, too.”
“Thank you, James.” Cordelia said, reaching over and squeezing his hand, briefly.
“At least someone has thanked me.”
“I had it under control.”
From the back of his head, Sherlock felt you hit him.
“Ow.”
“Thank him. God only knows you’re terrible at fighting.”
Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I do owe you thanks, James. So…thank you.”
“That’ll do.”
Holding Sherlock still, you placed a separate cloth against his wounds before handing him back to his brother. Meanwhile, you returned to James.
And you tried to ignore the way he was gently holding his hand against your thigh.
“And you should know,” James told you. “I lost my first fight ages ago.”
You hummed. “Really? When?”
“Against you.” He smiled. “Don’t you remember?”
“I just remember you being an arse.”
“Seems the only time I’ve actually lost a fight has been against you. Sadly, multiple times.”
“You don’t sound so beat up over that,” you said, because he didn’t.
He seemed happy. Amused, even.
Then you finally looked him in his eyes, and not at his wounds. And he was practically beaming.
“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”
Thankfully, Mycroft broke the tension that was growing quicker than usual between both yourself and James Moriarty.
“Would you stay still?”
With a heavy sigh, you rounded behind James and shoved Sherlock back into his seat.
“It hurts!”
“James?” You asked, looking at him.
He just nodded, placing both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring him into his seat. “Stay still.”
“I regret ever going missing now,” Sherlock announced. “If I hadn’t, you two wouldn’t have become friends.”
“Don’t feel too bad, Sherlock. I’m sure I’d still be holding you down to help her if we weren’t friends.”
“Did anyone ever tell you- Ow!”
You smiled, briefly, holding up the shard of glass that had lodged itself in Sherlock’s arm. “It’s out.”
“Now I’m bleeding.”
James leaned down. “You were already bleeding.”
“But, now, I’m bleeding more.”
“Stop complaining,” you told him.
James smiled. “Listen to the woman, Sherlock.”
“Are you well, James?”
“I’m less beat up than you – I’d say so. Why?”
Sherlock lifted his head to look at his friend. “Because you never agree with Y/n.”
You didn’t look at either of them as you cleaned out the bleeding wound. “He’s open to learning, unlike some people I know.”
“If you mean me, I am open to learning.”
James leaned down, again. “Ah, but do you listen? You might find you learn more, that way.”
“If us being friends bothers you so much, Sherlock,” you sighed. “Maybe you should have sent a wire to tell us where you were.”
“You still haven’t forgiven me about that?”
James stood tall, crossing one boot over the other. “Didn’t you know her grudges have an excellent shelf-life?”
“All done,” you announced.
James smiled, lifting his hands from his friends shoulders. “See! It wasn't so bad.”
“Ah, I believe it’s your turn, James.”
Sherlock stood, with a proud smile. Though James didn’t need any help being held down to stay still. He was rather pleased that, despite the pain, he got to stay within your vicinity – even if you did take to scolding him every once in a while.
“Don’t they give you a headache, mother?” Mycroft asked, leaning over.
“No more than you boys did growing up,” Cordelia smiled. “Besides, it reminds me of being at home. There’s never a quiet moment. I can’t stand the quiet anymore.”
Mycroft gave her a reassuring smile, taking her hand in his.
In the meantime, Sherlock ran over everything that had happened whilst working the case and you cleaned the cuts across James’ face, arms and hands.
That case was cleared up within the week.
Though it wasn’t long before Sherlock was sticking his nose in somebody else's business and dragging James with him. And, by proxy, yourself and eventually Mycroft.
*~*~*~*~*
“I’m home, dear!”
Without looking up, you continued writing out your letters that would be sent to every wealthy friend who couldn’t say ‘no’ to Cordelia Holmes.
“Is there a reason you’re bothering me in the middle of the day?”
“I thought I might check in on you,” James said, looking around your office, though his eyesight always landed back on you without fail. “Make sure you aren't overworking yourself.”
“As you can see I am perfectly fine,” you smiled, still not looking up. “But still rather busy.”
“Do you ever actually leave your office?”
“Yes,” you told him. “In fact, I’m due to meet Mrs Holmes at the Charity House. We have another shipment of sheets and general medical equipment coming in.”
You could hear the smile in his voice. “A baker, a maid, a secretary and now…a nurse?”
You chuckled. “Sherlock and yourself aren’t my only patients.”
“Don’t you have to be medically trained to help?”
“That’s why Mrs Holmes has hired a resident doctor,” you said. “We all help out where we can. Anything major gets an appointment at the hospital. You might think about volunteering at some point.”
“Oh, I might?”
You nodded, looking at him. “You might. It would keep you and Sherlock out of trouble.”
“Do you really think you can keep me and Sherlock out of trouble?” He asked, leaning forward against your desk.
You hummed. “Probably not. I figure by now it’s soaked into your bones.”
James hummed, too. “Souls, you might say.”
“That would figure you were born into it, would it not?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
You kept your gaze fixed on his. And whilst his eyes searched yours, a smirk started to develop on his face.
His voice dropped a little lower. “D’you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you like me,” James said, rather confidently, though quietly. “And I also think you want to see more of me.”
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “Yes, I believe it is.”
“So…going ahead with your theory…if I asked you to come with me to the House and help out…what would you say?”
He smiled, his eyes landing on the small vase of flowers by your desk. A small vase of cornflowers and baby’s breath.
Hope in Love. Purity and Innocence.
“I’d say…” James leaned over, plucking a single stem of baby’s breath and a simple bloom of cornflower, before leaning closer to you and tucking the small bunch behind your ear. “Anything for you, my dear.”
In the two afternoons a week he spent volunteering at the Charity House with you, helping entertain the children with stories, and helping hold patients steady as the doctor helped clean their wounds; you got to see his vulnerable moments.
And he got to see yours.
Whilst he simply collected visual evidence of something he already knew, you caught passing glimpses of his softer side.
“You’re good at this,” you smiled as yourself and James walked down the street and towards the carriage.
“Good at what?” He asked.
“Entertaining,” you clarified. “Teaching. Keeping people calm.”
“Ah,” he chuckled, lowering his gaze to his feet. “The art of distraction.”
“Call it what you want,” you said. “It works. Do you have siblings? I’ve never heard you mention any but the way you are with the kids…you’ve got a natural talent.”
James scratched the back of his head. “Just a brother. But my ma tended to a couple of the local families in the village. Believe me, I’ve cleaned more scraped knees and stopped fights than you could count.”
“And I suppose, taught them how to properly defend themselves, too?”
James chuckled. “I suppose. But if my mother ever asks, you don’t know that.”
You nodded. “Duly noted.”
Helping you into the carriage, quickly followed by Cordelia who had finally said goodnight to the doctor, James sat beside you.
And when the carriage shook from the pothole in the road, and James held out his arm to steady you, you weren’t quick to throw him away from your reach.
*~*~*~*~*
Later that evening, as Sherlock balanced the needle of the gramophone to his mother’s favourite song collection, James held his hand out to Mrs Holmes before leading her to the make-shift dance floor in the middle of the living room.
Somewhere between the laughter and slightly out of time dancing, as Sherlock tried his best to avoid stepping on your toes, Mrs Holmes whispered something to her own dance partner.
“I believe someone’s feet are in need of saving.”
It didn’t take much for James to catch on to what Cordelia was telling him. Stepping across, Cordelia pulled her son away and into her arms, laughing about how he used to dance as a boy.
Meanwhile, James held out his hand and, despite the pull you felt in your gut – that awkward, yet excited feeling that usually would have had you pulling your hand away and politely saying no – you went with it.
Taking his hand in yours, over the next thirty seconds, you came to realise just how much James Moriarty had been keeping from you.
Because he was rather an excellent dancer, despite the context. He didn’t step on your feet, led you rather than you leading him; all whilst being light on his own feet.
And you had never known.
But it was a relatively nice surprise.
“I shall bid you goodnight, my darlings,” Cordelia's soft voice smiled before she kissed each of you on the top of your heads.
The dancing had long been put to rest, but the conversation had followed far into the evening.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she told you. “And do try to stay out of trouble.”
“Of course, mother.”
Sherlock soon followed his mother, James saying he wouldn’t be long behind him. But, finally being left in silence together, yourself and James cleared away the glasses and half empty decanters.
“I have a question I’d like to ask you.” James said, breaking the silence.
“Should I be worried?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to him, finding him already looking at you.
“Maybe,” he answered with a grin. “Probably.”
“Then I await your question in trepidation.”
James chuckled, feeling the warmth of the dying fire. “There’s actually a few questions I’d like to ask you, but I’ll stick to one for now.”
You looked at him, and nodded. “Okay then.”
“Have you been sleeping? Well, I mean.”
Taking the short stroll from the window to the mantel, you nodded again, placing your hands behind you. “I have, if you must know.”
“Good.”
“I believe the reason for that is…down to you.”
“Down to me?”
You nodded. Again, you felt that pull inside of you. But rather than excusing yourself and locking yourself in your room for the rest of the evening, you decided to follow it.
“Whenever I can’t sleep…I think of you.”
“Oh…right.”
“Not in that way.”
James chuckled, a little nervous. “Right. No, I suppose not.”
“But certainly the memory of you,” you told him. “That night…in here…it was the first time I felt…” You took a breath, unable to break your gaze away from his. “Safe. At ease.”
James took a small step closer towards you. “That’s a lot…coming from you.”
“I suppose so.”
“What was it that you called me, when we first met?” James looked away and down at your waist before looking back to your eyes once more.
“A half-wit?”
“No.”
“A reckless one?”
“Closer.”
James took another small step towards you.
Then it hit you. “Ah, a reckless idiot?”
James nodded. “Actually, I think your specific words were ‘reckless, untrustworthy, idiot’. Have to say – you were pretty spot on with that insult.”
You bobbed your head. “Well, you did think the best course of action was to sneak up on a woman.”
“Well, I did learn my lesson.”
You chuckled. “You did.”
“What…what I’m trying to ask you…” Never in his life had he been this nervous to talk to a woman.
“Do you still believe that?”
“That you’re reckless? Or untrustworthy? Or an idiot?” You asked, quickly, with a confident tilt of your head. “Because I have a different answer for each.”
The feeling of James’ heart sinking in his chest when you asked him the specifics of his question, came to a grounding halt when you finished your sentence.
This time, you took a step closer towards him. Instinctively, his hand came to your waist, trying not to hold onto you for dear life but also trying to keep you tethered to him so he had at least one memory of holding you close; in case everything blew up in his face.
“I do think that you’re still reckless,” you told him. “But only when you have to be. I still do worry about you and Sherlock from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if one morning I’ll find your names printed in bold in the paper.”
Your hands pressed gently against his waistcoat and the sleeve of his shirt.
“In terms of you being an idiot, well, for as long as I live both you and Sherlock will both be idiots to me. Stupid? No. Well, unless we’re counting the time you two thought it was wise to pose as policemen to break into a jail.”
James chuckled a little. “Even I have to admit, it wasn’t exactly our brightest moment.”
You smiled gently, before making sure he looked you in the eye for what you were about to tell him.
“But if you’re asking if I think you’re untrustworthy?” You took a breath and shook your head. “No. I don’t think you’re untrustworthy. Not anymore. I’ve seen you with your friends, and with the people closest to you. I’ve seen how you’ve treated strangers in their lowest moments, and in their highest.”
Gently resting your palm against his cheek, you continued talking.
“But most of all…I have seen how you’ve treated the moments I’ve shared with you. I don’t trust easily, James. But rather than judge me for that…you listened. And you learned. And you…you made a safe space for me to be…me. Without judgement and without fear.”
“There have been plenty of times where you could have used something against me,” you continued. “Sadly, I’ve known people who would have. But you didn’t.”
“I’d never. Not for anyone I care for. Especially you.”
With his hands anchored at your hips, he pulled you closer to him before he lowered his head against yours.
“I know,” you smiled. “I know. And that is why I trust you, James.”
Closing his eyes, James breathed you in, solidifying a memory of you both that in his darkest moments, he would use as a lantern to guide him home.
You could feel his straining resistance as he tried not to ruin the moment. One of his hands anchored themselves at the base of your skull, under your hair; either to pull you in and kiss you, or to keep you away from him in case the reality of kissing you was more than his existence could handle.
But you trusted him.
Gently, you swiped your thumb back and forth against his cheek.
“I trust you, James,” you said, your voice soft and calm. “I trust you.”
Looking at you, his gaze flickered over yours, searching for a physical answer. So, you nodded a little and repeated yourself.
“I trust you.”
Finally, he kissed you.
He kissed you like it was the last thing he would ever be able to do in life. As if he was begging with God Almighty to let him live just a moment longer, just so he could kiss you.
Your hand circled to the back of his neck, in order to pull him down closer to you.
By the time morning rolled around, neither of you spoke about what had occurred the night before. You knew you would, eventually, when the room was safe from prying eyes and ears.
Ultimately, when the time did come for people to find out, the only one who didn’t seem surprised was Cordelia.
After all, she knew what it looked like when two people who had grown to love and care for each other. Even if you didn’t have the most conventional start with one another.
A Shattered Illusion- A TFC x Ringmaster’s Child Reader Oneshot!
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≫ An idea I had at like 3 in the morning. This Reader/MC is portrayed as the lone child of the old circus ringmaster, one who learns the true nature behind the performances after spending too much time in the dark.
≫ This takes place an unspecified amount of time before the in-game events, but I wanted this to feel like it takes place in a distant past. How distant that past is, though, I’ll leave up to you.
≫ CWs include: Depictions of death, starvation, cannibalism, violence/cruelty/abuse in many forms, sexual harassment, manipulation, religious allusions relating to Christianity (use of bible verses), and themes of blasphemy/heresy/apostasy/moral corruption.
≫ Word Count: 29.8k words. I got carried away… (ᵕ—ᴗ—) This is also crossposted on my Ao3 of the same name!
≫ Mild emetophobia warning! Brief mentions of v* and nausea. Stay safe and happy reading!
Your father always told you about monsters when you were small. Terrible and godless creatures that hid in the shadows and fissures beyond human society. Beasts sent from hottest hell to test mankind with their words and their deception.
They are not of this world, you’d hear him say. They use dark and wicked means to prey on the weaknesses of men, women, children, it didn’t matter. They crudely mimic human faces, hide amongst neighbors. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light, he’d recite.
Those stories scared you, made you hide under your covers at night. Your father would chuckle at your childish fear, and then warmly reassure you while readjusting your blankets that such beasts didn’t actually exist. They were stories made by the generations before you to warn against much more deceptive dangers—your fellow humans.
And you believed him. Why wouldn’t you? Your father was a smart man. He knew many things that others did not, and was right about many things. He knew how to work around people, knew how to keep himself and his lone child afloat after the death of your mother.
Whenever you’d try to make your own childish impulsive and stubborn decisions, he was always there, waiting for you to come back to him and admit that he was right, your gaze averted and words mumbled. He’d just smile knowingly at your (sometimes painfully) learned lesson. So you learned quite early on to trust in his judgements and decisions.
You had no reason to doubt him. And so you didn’t.
He raised you to be diligent and honest in all you did, but always warned you that the rest of the world was filled with sin and deception, and it would swiftly and unapologetically eat any unsuspecting person alive for one wrong move, one wrong decision. He raised you alone in the home you shared, always brushing off any ideas of you going out and doing things like exploring the world or meeting new people.
Such things are trivial, he said. Inconsequential distractions. Your duty was to your home, to your only remaining family, to him. Besides, the rest of the world was filled with all sorts of danger for such a good and naive soul like yourself. Be alert and of sober mind, he’d always tell you. Your enemy the Devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.
You weren’t trapped, and your father was never once cruel to you, but he made it clear that he expected certain things from you. And you obeyed. For the most part. You couldn’t help but daydream of more throughout your life, a habit your father said you inherited from him. You didn’t understand that at first.
When he came home to you one day with a grand and wondrous idea, a circus meant not only to inspire awe and excitement but also meant to incite renewed faith, you were amazed. What would that look like? What would it be like? How could those two things combine to create something unique?
You wouldn’t know, because your father kept it very hidden from all, including you. He’d sit all day in his study to do unknown things, and then sometimes go out for days or even weeks at a time on “business trips,” leaving you to care for yourself alone. All you knew was that one day, he came back from a work trip with strange ideas and even stranger new plans for his circus.
“With this circus, I’ll reveal the true nature of the creatures of the night. All will come, all will wish to see the shows unlike any other. They’ll be afraid. But I’ll show them that nothing is immune to being bent by human will. By God’s will.”
You didn’t understand what your father meant at all. Creatures of the night? Like the ones in little children’s stories and nursery rhymes? What did he mean? When you asked, he only gave a cryptic response that barely passed as an explanation.
People would travel far and wide to learn the meaning of faith and fear, he’d tell you. Fear is one of the things that leeches from a person’s heart and reveals their true nature. It could make warriors into cowards and criminals into saints. But faith is a thing just as strong and just as powerful if one knew to refine and test it properly. That’s what the circus would be for.
Your father held your shoulder with a determined look in his eyes while explaining his plans to you. He would use his circus to make the world a better place, and to bring you and him good and happy lives. It seemed he was quite adamant on making his ambition a reality.
You were hesitant. Your usually calm and collected father was sounding like a mad man. But he told you to trust him, to stay with him to help make his circus a success. And you agreed. (What else could you do?) The two of you packed your things and left your hometown behind to establish the troupe in another place.
The circus itself started out small, just a humble few tents on the outskirts of the town the two of you moved to. Your father oversaw the careful preparation and operation of the entire place, guiding you through your new life with words of reassurance. And you believed in his words, however doubtful you may have initially been. He had never failed you before, why would he fail in his endeavors now?
You were the one who stayed at the circus threshold, welcoming people in and bidding them goodbye on their way out and handing out flyers during the day. You were too young to see and fully understand the shows, your father told you. You trusted in his judgement, though not without light complaint. He just smiled and told you that you’d one day understand.
Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.
But you’d hear people come and go, hear their whispers of what they saw in the tents. Beasts unlike any seen before. Fearsome creatures born not of any God. You couldn’t even sneak a peek at the performances if you wanted to—hired men stood at every entrance to keep secrets in and non-paying strays out. Even you, much to your dismay.
Time passed. You were young, nearly on the cusp of adulthood when the circus first formed. But now you were grown, and so was the circus. The shows and performances proved to be irresistible and entertaining, unlike anything any person had ever seen before. Your father flourished in this new life.
And yet, you hadn’t caught even a glimpse of the shows your father oversaw. You saw the people he hired, saw handlers and other troupe members who managed smaller things, but you never saw even a single second of the actual shows that drew people in. You were horrifically curious.
He always seemed to know when you tried to sneak past the curtains to maybe just see a glance, as he would always be waiting, gentle chastisement already prepared no matter what time it was.
“I ask that you trust me, child. You are not yet ready for what waits behind the curtains. I will show you one day, but that day is not today.”
Father’s scoldings and chiding always made you scoff in frustration. You weren’t his tiny child scared of beasts hiding under your bed anymore. He asked you to trust him, but why didn’t he trust you? You desperately wanted to know the secrets behind the circus. Was it all just people in costumes? Was it a series of frightening stories being told? How did he manage to frighten visitors so thoroughly through his shows?
He never told you. Your father was a very closed-off man, one who acted as though the entire world were his stage to put on a show for. He never spoke of your mother after she died, never spoke of his own emotions, and yet he also never remarried. Sometimes you wondered if you knew the real version of him at all.
So many questions. So few answers, even after all this time.
Such questions lingered in your mind one night while trying to sleep after the shows had long since finished. You and your father both shared a private living space, but he was away doing who knows what so often that it was basically solely your space at this point. He slept in his private closed-off office area more often than not.
You didn’t resent that your father was often away for long periods of time, away and busy with the circus and keeping it orderly and running smoothly. This place, this circus, it was his dream to bring truth to light for many people. Except you, it seemed.
Well. Maybe you resented your father’s absence just a little.
That resentment wasn’t quelled by his warnings and promises of the future. Instead, it only festered and grew with time. It made you want to go against the strict rules surrounding the performances. Why did father have to keep secrets from you about the circus the two of you worked to maintain? Keeping show business secrets from the public was one thing, but his own child?
It was strange. After all this time, you couldn’t find a reason why he wouldn’t let you watch any of the shows, or why he wouldn’t even let you get a glimpse of what hid behind the scenes after the curtains fell.
Father tried to buy your understanding and complacency with things he knew you liked. He tried to keep you sated with the money he gained from the performances, gifting you books on topics he knew you liked or supplies for whatever craft you indulged in or expensive things in general that, while given with good intentions, had an underlying emptiness beneath them.
You couldn’t explain that feeling. But it felt as though he tried distracting you with the very worldly possessions he once warned you about in his teachings of sin and indulgences. You asked for nothing, only occasionally getting small and useful things for yourself with your own allowance.
But Father had changed. That much was clear. But you never said anything about it. He was happier now. He enjoyed being the ringmaster of his circus. Wasn’t that a good thing? Why weren’t you completely happy?
Of course, you didn’t want to seem ungrateful or spoiled, so you thanked your father and refrained from asking so much about the shows for as long as possible, suppressing that aching curiosity as best you could. But you could still hear the performances and the crowds from across the entire circus, and even caught brief snippets of the horrors within them from the whispers of guests as they arrived and left.
All signs pointed to beasts and creatures that you hadn’t thought of since childhood. Your father always told you that those old tales were metaphors, warnings about plain things like speaking to strangers at night or remaining wary of the dangers in many other things. But could the performances really just be stories? What was it that visitors spoke of so often?
Something wasn’t right. Or at the very least, your father wasn’t being fair in keeping you from knowing about the nature of the shows for so long. You had been obedient and dutiful your whole life, surely you were owed just this one answer.
You sat up in your bed that night, thoroughly unable to sleep with all of your questions and aching curiosity. Father couldn’t keep you in the dark your whole life. He couldn’t keep you caged like this for the rest of your days. If he wanted you to be loyal to him and the circus, then you at least wanted to know the ins and outs of it.
The longer you thought about it, the more ridiculous it became. Not only did your father keep you in the dark about his circus that you worked at, but he did that for years! Keeping showtime secrets was one thing, but it was all just a series of acts at the end of the day. A series of acts that you had no idea about even after all this time.
For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open.
Your mind was made up. You were going to find out just what made this circus so secretive, even from its own workers. It was highly unlikely the hired men who guarded the tents even knew what they protected. Just how important was this secret? You had to know.
Father wasn’t watching you now.
Tiptoeing past your private area and towards the main tent with a thin blanket draped over your shoulders to protect you from the night’s chill, you waited and watched from a hiding spot for the men guarding the entrance to switch their shifts. Surely they couldn’t stand outside the opening forever.
Lo and behold, you were right. The two men both walked off to meet their replacements and switch their shifts, and you quickly dashed inside the large tent as quietly as you could, grabbing the ends of your blanket to prevent any sort of excess sound or creating a tripping hazard.
The inside of the tent itself was obviously dark, rows upon rows of empty seats filling the large space. It felt incredibly eerie to see the stark difference between a place you usually heard so loud and crowded be so vacant. You walked around past the seats and towards the center, not entirely sure what you were looking for.
The cold and unwelcoming quiet was starting to get to you. Shadows moved in ways they shouldn’t and the emptiness seemed eager to swallow you whole if you stayed still for too long. You clutched your blanket tighter, yet you still felt unbearably cold. You bit back a shiver to reduce as much noise as possible, even if there was technically nobody present to hear you.
That was what you assumed until you heard a sound of scratching against metal, and hushed low voices accompanying it. Your first instinct was to hide from anyone who could potentially discover you here, but the way the voices sounded made you take a few steps towards the source.
At the rear of the center performance ring was an opening to a smaller area that you assumed would be for showtime props and equipment, but that smaller area was where the voices were coming from. The voices were quiet and weak, and you could detect a handful of distinct ones. But what really intrigued you were the sounds of lightly scraping metal and…chains?
“How long has it been now…?” A light series of taps against metal accompanied a hoarse voice.
“Too many moons to count.” Another voice, this one less hoarse but much more hushed.
“How much longer? Until it ends?” That voice was gravelly, almost tearful sounding.
“I don’t know.” The first voice again.
Your curiosity was almost painful now. What was happening with these strange sounding people? Why did all of their voices sound strained, raspy, or otherwise pained? Were these people in need of help?
Your unquenched thirst for answers was a sinfully tempting and dangerous thing, you knew that. But never before had you remembered that harsh lesson so vividly than when you pushed the curtains aside to investigate the voices behind the stage.
The first thing you noticed was how thick and stale the air was. Even in the near pitch-blackness you could tell that the room was squalid and stifled with filth. And then your eyes adjusted.
There, in the dark, inside a series of tall metal cages, were five pairs of unnaturally glowing eyes, each of them a different color. There was a golden yellow pair on the left, then violet, then green, then cyan, and then a mismatched white and blue pair. In the center of the dark room—uncaged—was a pair of light pink eyes.
Every single one of those eyes stayed glued on your own.
Your heart stopped. Theirs did too, evidenced by the way the entire world seemed to go silent and reduce to just that single room, that single moment. Your lungs halted, breath still caught in your throat at what you were seeing.
These people, these…things, they weren’t natural. You watched as the creatures remained still as statues, watching you with bright eyes and huddled forms, though you could tell just from a glance that they were far, far larger and taller than you, than any human for that matter. There was no way these were where those voices were coming from. Those voices sounded like people’s voices.
But these things could only be described as monsters. Unholy abominations. The things that go bump in the night.
Even in the darkness, you could just barely make out the outlines of their unnatural forms, horns and claws and other animalistic features that made your heart sink down to your stomach with every second you remained paralyzed there.
A shuffling sound in front of you made you finally snap out of your terrified daze, and you saw that the smallest beast—the most human-looking one—had inched away from you on the floor. It was feminine in initial appearance, but a glance down at its furred cloven hooves for legs proved a harsh reminder of the truth.
And yet, even with its apparent beastly form that was surely taller than you, it seemed to cower at your presence. It slowly backed away from you on the ground, chained wrists making just the slightest amount of noise in the dead silence. It was shivering, though whether from the cold or fear, you couldn’t tell.
Pink eyes stayed fixed on yours, awaiting movement from you. But you didn't move, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe or even think. This was all just too much to process. You were only able to take a single silent step back.
And then you suddenly rushed out of that back room behind the circus stage, unable to get the feeling of those eyes watching you out of your head. You just stayed there in the darkened performance area, unable to comprehend what you saw.
Monsters. Monsters were real. Your father knew the whole time. And he kept several of them chained and in cages as forms of show business. How did he manage to even procure such beasts? Why would he keep such creatures? Didn’t he say they were horrible and godless and hell spawned?
You clutched a hand on the fabric of your shirt over your heart, trying to calm it in any way you could. Your father told you that monsters were wicked and twisted beasts. Just from looking at their unnatural eyes, you saw hunger. Hunger and simmering anger waiting to boil over.
But you could have sworn you also saw fear in those eyes…
Their hushed words from before you went into that darkness were scared and full of sorrow. It couldn’t have been a trick, they didn’t know you were listening…did they?
None of this made sense. You had to get another look, had to make sure you that you weren’t seeing things or being deceived by some twisted trick.
All things are wearisome, more than one can say. The eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing.
You slowly turned back to that curtain, and held your breath as you pushed it apart once more. Those bright eyes all bore into your own again, and you felt chills crawl across your nape. You tried not to look at any of them for too long, but it was the beast with pink eyes that drew your attention the most.
The beast, it…she seemed the most visibly afraid of them all. Unlike the others, she wasn’t behind iron bars. If someone else were to come in here, she would be the most vulnerable. The easiest to hurt.
You looked down at her shivering form, seeing how she tightly squeezed her legs together and curled into herself as if to cover and protect as much of her body as possible. Subtle, almost silent whimpers came from her throat. She looked and sounded afraid in a way you were sure couldn’t be faked. She looked terrified of being approached, of being touched, of being…
Your heart sank to your stomach.
Without a word, you knelt down to the cold floor, a series of chills traveling up from where your knee touched it. A low rumbling growl was heard from your left, and you turned slightly to see that the large golden-eyed beast was glaring at you, almost daring you to approach the monstress in front of you any closer.
Even though the creature was behind thick metal bars, you still felt like one wrong move would get you killed. Any stupidity here would swiftly be rewarded with a sobering set of deep gashes from long and brittle claws, or perhaps a brutal bite from sharp fangs. The possibilities were seemingly endless with these creatures, but you didn’t want to find out if that observation was accurate.
You slowed your movements, carefully and silently peeling the blanket around your shoulders off and placing it on the ground in front of the pink-eyed beast. You lightly pushed it towards her. She continued to look at you with fear in her eyes, so you didn’t move any further. Just raised your hands up in a universal harmless gesture that you hoped she understood.
You stood up slowly and carefully then, palms still facing the beasts to show that you meant no harm. Step by step, you walked backwards out of that pitch black room until you pulled those curtains shut. It was understood—or at least you hoped it was—that this would not be spoken of to anyone.
And just like that, those twelve eyes were piercing into you no more. You were alone in that dark performing tent, head buzzing with adrenaline and now shivering from the night’s chill without your blanket around your shoulders.
You couldn’t begin to imagine how cold it must have been on that dirty floor for that girl…beast…lady? You weren’t entirely sure.
A shiver went down your spine as you snuck back out of the large tent through a smaller hidden exit you barely managed to notice due to the moonlight shining through it. You rushed back to your private sleeping area, trying to forget what you saw in that darkness. Monsters. Creatures most foul and unseen by god.
Their eyes reflected nothing but hunger.
But you also couldn’t forget that look in those eyes. That look of primal fear. That look of frightened dread. Especially in that pink-eyed beast…There was no way that look in their eyes was mimicked or a simple trick. That fear was real. But so was that hunger.
An ache in your head and your heart made itself known that night. It made you toss and turn in your bed, unable to get rid of that feeling of being watched. Was it a twisted trick by those creatures? Was it your own mind and heart being affected by what you saw? You didn’t know.
All you knew was that you couldn’t tell anyone else about your late night venture into that secluded room. Not the other circus workers. Not any visitor. Especially not your father. You didn’t even want to think about what your father would do if he found out you saw the secret behind the curtains.
It was all just too much. It was too unreal. You knew that you wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if your mind was too clouded with the thoughts of those beasts. An idea came to your mind then, and you sat up in your bed again while fumbling around to find one of the journals your father gifted you a while back.
You found a pen as well, and with only the light of the full moon shining into your room, you began to write. You wrote down everything you saw, everything you felt. You even doodled what little you could see in that darkness in the margins of the pages.
You drew those creaking iron bars. Piercing sharp eyes that shone even without a light source. Claws and curved horns and pronounced bones beneath thinned flesh and skin clinging to them, evidence of starvation. Or were they naturally so grotesque looking? You didn’t know.
Your writings and drawings were messy and rushed, and you hadn’t realized just how hurriedly those thoughts spilled out of you. You took one last look at the scrawled words and pictures before shutting the journal and shoving it and your pen beneath your pillow.
Now that you had written out what you had done and how you had reacted to it, you were left with your lingering and conflicting thoughts about those creatures. Were they really as devilish and dangerous as your father and all his stories told you? Were they worse?
They didn’t look cruel or particularly violent, just…hungry. Afraid. Angry. Exhausted. You heard them speaking beforehand, surely they were intelligent. Did they only pretend to feel? Was this all part of some elaborate trap to tug at your heartstrings and lure you in to swallow you whole?
Your mind went back to that one pink-eyed beast. It…she didn’t seem as scary as the others. She surely wasn’t human, but perhaps there was a reason she was the only one who wasn’t behind thick iron bars. Maybe…
Maybe you should go back again and visit? Not tonight, that was far too risky. But maybe you could get some more answers some other night. But what were your questions?
You didn’t know. All you knew was that you couldn’t just move on from that. From them. Those unnatural creatures…Shadowed and sharp and no doubt dangerous in some form, but they still made your heart ache. They certainly felt protection for their own, didn’t they? That golden-eyed one reacted to you getting just a little closer to the pink-eyed one in a protective manner. Perhaps…they felt care?
So many thoughts swimming in your mind. It was a miracle you were able to sleep that night at all.
You dreamed of sharp teeth and piercing eyes. Beastly claws and broken voices and the stench of rusted iron.
————
Two nights had passed since that first encounter, both of them restless and filled with an inner turmoil you had to hide from all those you knew. It was hard to keep things from your father. Not only because you had never lied to him about something like this before, but because he was extraordinarily perceptive. But luckily, he was rather busy these days.
Busy doing what? And what was he doing with those caged beasts? What was he doing to them? Sinners or not, what right did your father have to keep them? How did they end up this way? How many of the other circus workers knew? None of this felt right.
That was why you quietly returned to the hidden room inside the large tent long after the sun had set and the other circus members had gone to retire. The moon’s light had waned, and it was harder to navigate your way into the tent, but you managed to sneak inside without being caught.
So there you stood outside the darkened room again, no less dreading how eerily quiet it was. But you shoved that hesitation down. You couldn’t show fear. Just in case these creatures really did prey on it.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil…
Fingers clasping the curtains that closed off the area, you took a deep breath and parted them like you had done two nights prior. It felt as though a wave of cold air had washed over you as you did that.
There they were. All six pairs of eyes looked into your own again. Gold, purple, green…they were all in the same order of cages as the other night. And the downturned pink eyed girl was still chained to the floor in front of you. Your eyes adjusted a little to the dark to see that the blanket you had given her was not present.
No. It was there. But it was shredded and torn to pieces, frayed scraps littering the ground beneath her. You noticed that there were similarly small remnants of your blanket lining the floors of the other beast’s cages. Your mouth opened slightly upon realizing what they had done.
They had split the cover among themselves and used the pieces to give themselves just echoes of warmth and softness in their cold metal prison.
It was dead silent for what felt like ages. You stared at each of them, just as they all stared at you. A heavy and instinctual fear began to gnaw inside your gut, and you contemplated just leaving. But you swallowed thickly, forcing your mouth to move.
“…You can understand me, can’t you?”
They said and did nothing. Just stayed hunched and cowering in their cages, appearing smaller than they were. But you knew better than to believe they were docile. You decided to try a different approach.
“Please. I want to know what…who you are. I want to know how you ended up like this.”
Still nothing. You looked down to the smallest beast lying on the ground in front of you. She wasn’t cowering as much from your presence, furred legs not squeezing together and trembling nearly as badly. A good sign? You felt your heart ache just a little at her frightened pink gaze, and you knelt down similarly to how you did the other night. You spoke softer this time, just above a whisper.
“I won’t hurt you. I want to understand.”
“Understand this: Go back.”
You nearly gasped at the raspy words spoken from one of the cages, and your head snapped to the direction it came from. It was from one of the cages in front of you, the one that housed the violet-eyed creature. Its eyes were far sharper now, evidently very disturbed at your presence. You were slightly too caught off-guard by the sudden words spoken from the beast that you failed to fully comprehend what it…he had told you.
“So you can speak. I knew you could.”
Your ever-so-slight enthusiasm at getting an actual verbal response was quickly followed by a low chittering hiss from one of the other cages, and you flinched at the unnatural yet vaguely serpentine sound. The green-eyed beast moved closer to its bars, almost as if waiting for a moment to strike if you dared to approach.
“Yes. We can speak. How unfortunate that you cannot listen.”
You frowned. You weren’t sure if they could even see your expressions. But something told you that they could see better in the dark than you ever could in any light. You took another deep breath.
“I’m not here to hurt or study any of you. I just want to know…” You trailed off for a moment. “What are your names? How did you end up here?”
Another low animalistic sound, but it came from the violet-eyed creature’s cage again. He sounded vaguely angered, shining eyes slanted in a way that made it apparent he was even more disturbed with your insolence.
“We already know who we are. Leave us be, wretched thing. And do not return.”
Before you could say anything to try to reason or protest, a deep and distorted trill came from one of the cages to your right. It sounded like a warning, a thinly-veiled threat. It was short, but it rattled in your chest for a long time.
“We can smell your fear. You would be wise to follow it. Do not indulge your curiosity.”
Your brow furrowed at that. But then a sudden and slightly spiteful surge of something dangerously close to confidence fueled you to respond.
“Well…maybe I wouldn’t have any fear if I knew who you are, if I knew your stories. I don’t know what you’ve gone through in this circus, but…”
You knew that your fear wasn’t entirely gone, and you didn’t pretend otherwise. But if you could just-
“Temper that naive thinking. Or we will do it for you.”
You angled your head downward at the blue and white-eyed beast closest to your right knowing what you would think, shame making your heart sink to your stomach. That’s right. These creatures owed you nothing. You were the one who could walk free, and they had no choice in whether or not they were disturbed.
“Forgive me. I just…People speak of demons and monsters and other creatures of the night, but I don’t want to live in that fear of the unknown. I want to learn. From you.”
Surely these beasts couldn’t have committed crimes awful enough to warrant this kind of imprisonment. But even if they did, you wanted to know why your father took it upon himself to cage them. What gave him the right when these beasts seemed to be able to reason?
A low breath came from the first cage from earlier, the one containing the purple-eyed beast. You saw the way his head slightly moved in a way that made his four long horns ever-so-slightly glint with nonexistent light.
“Look upon us. We can’t exactly stop you, can we? So go on. Live out this childish fantasy of yours. Your death waits in these cages. And we have no choice but to hear you.”
Your heart sank even further. Guilt and shame drove you to shift yourself backwards and away from the cages and slightly bow your head down in apology. You involuntarily remembered the way your father would always talk to you as if you were still a child unknowing of the world. Perhaps he was right, even as you defied him.
But now was your chance to prove both him and yourself wrong. Your voice turned low and remorseful as you continued to speak with your head held low.
“No, I’m sorry. You do have a choice here. Tell me to leave and I will. I won’t come back. But…I just want to know the truth. Your truth.”
It was quiet. The only sounds heard within the darkness were the occasional shifts of the metal chains the pink-eyed beast was shackled to on the floor. She had said and did nothing this entire time. Whether she was unwilling or unable to speak, you didn’t know. Pity clung to your heart at the thought of the latter possibility.
The other colored eyes in the darkness shifted slightly, almost as if each of the beasts were trying to gauge your reaction to the stillness just as much as you were trying to gauge theirs. Were they trying to see if you were lying just as much as you were trying to see if they were?
The golden-eyed beast to the left of you then spoke for the first time, and a chill went down your spine at its hoarseness and depth.
“Prove it.”
You couldn’t help but be somewhat confused at that. Prove that you were sorry? Prove that these beasts had a choice? Prove your resolve to learn? You weren’t sure which one he meant exactly.
But then you noticed how the beast clutched a scrap of torn fabric from your blanket beneath its…his claws. Prove that you were serious about what you meant. Prove that you weren’t a liar. Prove yourself by helping them, aiding them. A single blanket given to them meant nothing in this prison when the cold seeped into their very bones. Words meant nothing when actions could be taken. You nodded then, understanding what you had to do.
“I’ll do what I can.”
A frail and painfully naive sense of resolve formed in your heart right then. A resolve to learn about these creatures, these beings. It was your duty to help those less fortunate than yourself, after all. And though the violet-eyed beast made an unsubtle threat to your life earlier, you didn’t want to fully believe that these individuals were as ravenous and violent as they may seem.
And so we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
You slowly stood up, knees beginning to ache from the cold and hard floor. The caged creatures all narrowed their bright-colored eyes at you. Step by careful quiet step, you backed out of that darkened area, fingers eventually brushing against the curtain that separated it from the main large tent.
“You have my word.”
————
At your very next late night visit to the cages, you had stuffed a satchel full with foods you hoped would be able to nourish the beasts. Remembering their claws and sharp teeth gave you something of an idea of what they could eat, but you packed a wide variety just in case. You packed enough for six of each item, enough for each caged beast to get a portion.
When you went back into that darkness, you said nothing, just offered them the items you had gathered with a promise to bring more. It wasn’t much for large creatures like them, you’d be the first to admit, but you’d try to bring more next time. One of the beasts let out a sound similar to a scoff upon hearing that.
“Next time? A bold thing, you are. Or gone mad. You must be, or you wouldn’t have returned.”
You didn’t say anything back, unable to argue with the fact that any sane person would probably run away screaming from this place if they were to steal even a glance at these creatures. You didn’t—couldn’t—deny that they still gave you chills with their paper-thin voices and unfamiliar sharp features.
But you didn’t want to let that fear become a law in which your life was governed by. You were already so isolated from the world by your father’s doing, and in a way—though you’d never dare voice it—you felt somewhat like a caged beast yourself. But at least your cage was gilded, and its bars were not nearly as cold as these ones. Guilt started to gnaw at your stomach.
You realized that you had yet to leave the beasts to their feeding, and you quickly rose to stand from the cold floor, not realizing that you had kneeled down to present the food to them. You asked if there was anything they needed in particular to regain their strength, anything that they strictly couldn’t eat.
It was quiet. You noticed the way their eyes darted to one another through their iron bars. It seemed like they were debating on whether or not to tell you something. Worry and concern flooded your veins. Had you offended them somehow?
Still nothing. It was the pink-eyed beast who had broken the silence, much to your surprise. It was the first time she had ever spoken. No, you did not offend them, she said. But it would take a long time for them to regain any strength. There was, after all, a rather especially nutritious source of food that was not available, one that you wouldn’t be able to procure.
She told you not to worry of it. That crucial means of nourishment wouldn’t be available in a place like this, let alone for one such as you. What she meant by that, you had no idea. But her pink gaze turned to the other colored ones in the cages, almost as if silently telling them something.
You decided not to meddle with their business. Not any more than you already had. You left after that, though not without several questions that you couldn’t bring yourself to ask anyone but yourself as you wrote in your journal like you did after the last two visits.
The next late night excursion into the darkness within the tent was two nights after the last, this time with more food and a small unlit lantern with matchsticks to light it. Your lantern did not go unnoticed, and the beasts questioned, as you realized they tended to do.
“Do you intend to behold us? Are you certain your fragile mind and heart would be able to handle it? Even the most decorated of soldiers have run screaming upon seeing us.”
You hesitated then. Was the green-eyed beast exaggerating? Surely they couldn’t be so frightening as to cause even soldiers to run away in fear. Curiosity was truly such an alluring and terrible thing. It fueled you to open the lantern and prepare to light one of your matchsticks. But before you could scrape one against the hard ground, a low groaning rumble came from one of the other beasts in the cages.
“Do not be so cruel as to grant us a sliver of warmth and then leave with it. Do not bring us light only to snuff it out.”
You were confused for a moment before you realized what the dual-colored eyed beast meant. It was kinder to leave them in cold darkness than to bring only flickers of light, of dangerous hope.
A subtle stinging pang of guilt made itself known in your chest. Not pity—these creatures would probably find insolence in that. Instead, it was a surprisingly familiar feeling of knowing heartache.
You knew what it was like to give up on any chances of freedom. Your father would keep you inside your childhood home, like a bird whose flight feathers had been clipped. Had you always been so agreeable towards your father? Was your curious and adventurous nature outgrown, or simply suppressed in order to please and appease him?
You remembered the moments of when your father would go on those long business trips, leaving you to fend for yourself while you were still a child. You were left all alone to educate yourself, to feed and clothe and clean yourself. You remember looking out your bedroom window and out towards the other children your age in the streets.
It would have been easy to go out and make a secret friend, to even have a secret lover. But you never once left your home. Your father placed his trust in you to be diligent and do what is right for yourself. But looking back, that trust felt more like a burden than a gift. A set of shackles binding you to your home. But even despite those thoughts and feelings, you never did disobey your father.
There was a sense of security, you realized, in staying in an unpleasant routine. It was predictable. Taking a risk and finding brief sparks of hope was terrifying for many reasons. The main reason being that there was a chance those sparks of hope would never become embers or flames, would never become anything more than fleeting reminders of what you could never hope to have. So why bother? Why bother when it would bring only pain?
You felt like you understood the beasts just a little more after that, though you didn’t voice it. Just nodded your head solemnly and put your matchsticks away, putting your lantern to the side. A silent display of understanding, though you weren’t sure if they realized just how much you understood.
Though perhaps you truly didn’t understand a thing about these creatures. They weren’t human, after all. Who’s to say they experienced emotions and feelings the same way you did? And you were always called dreadfully naive by those around you, including your own father.
Despite the thoughts of your own lack of knowledge of how the world and other people really work, you couldn’t help but think that the way the monsters released just the slightest bit of tension in their bodies reminded you of relief. Gratitude, perhaps, that they would not be seen by you. Or that they wouldn’t be given warmth only for it to be taken away.
Maybe this darkness, however cold and suffocating and miserable as it is, is a sort of sanctuary against the light of day for them. You still had no idea what they did during the performances. But you had a sneaking suspicion that the overhead lights of the stage were nothing short of suffocating.
You shouldn’t intrude on whatever chance at solace these beasts have. Not any more than you already have. You left without a word after that, unlit lantern and matchsticks clutched tightly in your hands.
It was probably a good thing that you didn’t light any of the matchsticks, you thought. Someone probably would have seen the light from within the tent, and you would have been caught sneaking into a place you weren’t supposed to know about.
…And you might have seen things you would never be able to forget.
————
The next visits, the fifth and sixth, played out very similarly to the previous ones. You brought food for the caged beasts, watching the thin flesh clinging to their bones fail to fill their skin. But they didn’t wither further away, either. It seemed the pink-eyed beast was right in her words about needing a great amount of time and effort to meaningfully gain any semblance of healthiness.
Internally, to nobody but yourself and your scrawled recounting of your visits in your journal, you had given the beasts names…Of sorts. They were really just titles so your words wouldn’t take up so much room in your diary’s pages.
The one with violet eyes was called the Leader in your diary. He spoke the most, yet he seldom spoke of just himself and his own opinions. He always seemed to speak for the others as well when they had no words to give. An admirable quality, you wrote. But he was also the harshest in his words, something you found yourself not exactly surprised or offended by. You would be far more unsettled if he were welcoming and kind.
The next was the sharp green-eyed one, and you dubbed him the Knave. He had a mischievous look in his verdant eyes, and he seemed the most determined to live up to the descriptions of monsters and night creatures that other people spoke of. He was unpredictable. Barbed in his words and even more pointed in form, though you never saw his full body. Every now and then there seemed to be an extra rope-like limb slithering from his spine...
And then there was the Sentinel. The golden-eyed creature was deeply protective of his fellow beasts, especially the pink-eyed girl perpetually chained to the floor in front of their cages. Though you never once made a move to approach any of the creatures beyond bringing food and leaving it for them to distribute among themselves, you were sure that if you were to try, he would swiftly and violently correct you in either word or claw—whichever was easier.
The girl chained to the floor, the one with downturned pink eyes and cloven hooves in place of feet was who you referred to in your mind as the Lamb. She was smaller and noticeably less imposing than her caged companions. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, it was with a sad and worn voice that reminded you of a young sheep’s soft bleat. The only reason she was chained and not caged was because despite her beastly nature, she was still weaker than the rest of her kin.
The one with mismatched colored eyes and an asymmetrical horn on his head was the one you internally called the Oblique. You could have sworn that he never looked quite the same as whenever you last lay your eyes upon his obscured form. Yet despite that, he remained stalwart in his convictions—which included his distaste for you intruding upon him and his fellow prisoners every couple of nights.
And last was the tallest of them, the one you penned as the Erudite. Though he also rarely spoke, it was always with words and phrases that you had gleaned from your studies. He was observant, never taking his cyan eyes off you whenever you parted the curtains to the darkness in which he and his kind were caged in. He made observations about you that you never would have been willing or able to make yourself.
But just as the beasts never gave you any names to address them, you never gave them your name either. You doubted they would bother to use it if you did. They always called you “human,” or “creature,” or “beast,” or some other term like that. It always reminded you how you were likely just as much of a strange thing to them as they were strange things to you.
Every interaction between you and them was brief and rested upon a gossamer-thin sheet of tension that threatened to tear with every minute thought, word, and deed. Yet still, you didn't look away from their sharp eyes, didn't bristle at their sharper words calling you a foolish naive thing or prey with no regard for your own survival. But they never outright rejected your gestures. Likely because they had no choice.
It was clear as day that they loathed their circumstances. Not just being imprisoned in bitter cold cages and surrounded by darkness and filth, but also having to form a shaky dependency with a human. Sometimes one of them would tell you not to bother trying to help them. Unless you came bringing their key to freedom, they wanted nothing from you or your presence. It was simply in your nature that you would quickly lose interest in bringing them transitory and fleeting balms for their pains. So why keep up the charade?
Your first instinct was to deny their words, affirm that your efforts weren't a charade of consideration or a way for you to feel better about yourself, but you held your tongue. You were here to prove your intentions with your actions, not your words. So you stayed silent most of the time, occasionally offering a couple sentences here and there.
The one word that was never even whispered from your or their mouths was “friend.” You were not so naive as to think of them as such. And you knew better than to dare to think for even a moment that they thought of you as anything but a method of survival.
But you didn’t seek to help them just so you could have a form of company in your lonely life. You didn’t help them in the hopes of becoming some sort of savior or benefactor. You helped them because it was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it? Your father always talked about diligence and duty, about not trusting appearances and helping those less fortunate than yourself.
So, you decided that you wouldn’t trust the appearances of these so-called monsters. And they were in quite a sorry state. If anyone had bothered to learn from them, to try to see who they were instead of what they are, maybe there wouldn’t be a need for living lives like yours—sheltered lives full of fear and uncertainty.
Well, this was the one thing you would be certain of, if nothing else. These creatures were not what they seemed.
————
It had been almost a month after initially meeting the beasts, and on this certain visit, you had brought a small paring knife with you. You decided to do so after catching just a brief glimpse of the beasts struggling to eat what was given to them. Their teeth must be brittle and weak, likely sore from a lack of nutrition and opportunities for hygiene. Perhaps you could cut up their food just to make it a little easier to chew and swallow.
When you explained your reasoning upon being questioned, the Knave had hoarsely scoffed as you began cutting a fruit into pieces, thin rope-like tendrils emerging from behind his shoulders in a display of what you recognized as indignation.
“What next, then? You’ll hand-feed us? Pick between our teeth? Brush our hair and wash our claws?”
You narrowed your eyes at his emerald gaze, slightly frowning at his words, but didn’t stop cutting while looking away. It didn’t take a genius to pick up on what he was implying. He thought you were being foolish in your attempts to aid them.
“No. I’m just offering to help. You asked me to prove my resolve, did you not?”
“Then perhaps you should show your resolve in more helpful ways than cutting up our food like we are children.”
You were going to respond to his insinuation that you weren’t helping, but stopped yourself. He was quite right, actually. You were bringing the beasts food, but there was only so much it did for them. They were rather large creatures, after all, and there was only so much you could carry. Their bones remained visible, their teeth weak, their claws flaked. A sigh escaped your lungs as you began to mutter to yourself, though you knew they could hear you perfectly at this point.
“…I know. I’m sorry. I’m still trying to think of a way to-“
A sudden pain made itself known in one of your fingers, a sharp and stinging sensation that made you immediately hiss and halt your actions. The small knife and the fruit fell from your hands, and you held in a curse as you realized what had happened. You weren’t paying proper attention to the slicing of the fruit’s flesh, and the blade had nicked your own soft flesh just on the tip of your finger.
Small beads of blood had begun to emerge from the tiny gash after a couple seconds, and a couple of droplets had fallen to the cold floor. The only reason you noticed was because it was eerily silent enough for you to hear the tiny patters of the dripping.
From your peripherals, you could see that every pair of eyes was on the cut on your finger. The smell of copper only got more pronounced as you squeezed your palm over the wound, unable to keep yourself fully quiet due to the stinging pain.
It took everything in you not to swear or use the Lord's name in vain. But damn did this hurt.
You weren’t sure why, but this wound was more painful than expected. Perhaps it was because of the chill in the air. You knew that it was rather childish to react so outwardly to a small cut on your hand—a hand that knew almost nothing of being skeletal or scarred or weakened. Your gaze looked back towards the beasts in their cages, and you froze.
Each one of them was staring intensely at your hand, fixated by…what? The blood? The smell? The sounds you made? They were still as statues. It wasn’t out of any sort of real concern for your wellbeing, you knew that your injury was just a minor cut. No, it felt like…
“I…think it best you leave, human.”
That brought you out of your daze. You looked to the Lamb kneeling on the floor in front of you, already holding the small knife out for you to take. Her eyes looked strange, unlike you had ever seen them before. Her pale pupils subtly flickered between being slitted and round, between predator and prey. A tightness coiled in your stomach.
“What? I…I’m sorry, did I do anything-“
“You must tend to yourself. The air here is choked with rust and filth. Your flesh…it will fester quickly.”
Something changed in her voice when she mentioned your flesh…
Did your injury trigger something in them? But what? And how? Did the sight or smell of blood disturb them? Your mind was flooded with all sorts of thoughts when you snuck your way out of that tent and through the night, careful not to make any noise despite the pain you were in.
You stayed up especially late that night, not fully knowing what had happened once your blood dripped onto the floor in that dark place. A sinking dread pooled in your stomach at the thought of…no, that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Could it?
————
There were several more late-night visits like that, each one beginning with you unpacking your bag and leaving food for the creatures to split among themselves. They never gave you any complaints or suggestions about what to bring—which would be slightly strange if they did, considering they weren’t exactly in a position to do so—so you always brought basic inoffensive things.
You never approached their cages to hand out the food, not even once. It was an unspoken understanding that they would swiftly correct any display of overfamiliarity on your end. And those corrections would not be kind. Not that you expected them to be, nor that you ever tested that silent agreement.
There was only one time when you dared to inch your way closer to one of the cages. It was to inspect the integrity of the bars, and to see if there were any locks that you could do anything about. You found a large lock on the side of one cage and inspected it in your palm, to which the (usually silent) Sentinel had sighed a mournful sound.
“These locks cannot open without the key. They cannot be picked even with claws as sharp as ours. And we are too weak to bend our bars.”
You realized that this was a mere glimpse at just how long these creatures must have been like this for them to know the ins and outs of their prison—and just how inescapable it was. It left a pit in your stomach to think about. How many prisons have they known?
But you didn’t get much more of an opportunity to speak when each of the beasts noticeably perked up in their cages, not in any sort of positive way but in a way that meant they heard something. Something important. Something that made them freeze.
You had little time to question what was happening before you felt large unnaturally thin hands wrap around your shoulders and shove you somewhere, and you realized that the golden-eyed Sentinel had grabbed you and pushed you so that you were behind his cage. Cold and bony fingers were placed over your mouth to suppress any sound of confusion or discomfort you would make, and you initially panicked.
It was impossible to suppress the yelp that came from your throat out of instinct. But that was why the golden-eyed creature had covered your mouth with his large skeletal hand, brittle—and now retracted—claws just ghosting over the edges of your face. Your breathing quickened, eyes widening in anticipation of being torn apart.
But there was no tearing of your flesh, no claws digging into your skin. Instead, you saw the Lamb in front of the Sentinel’s cage place a skeletal finger over her mouth, and then you finally heard it. Footsteps. Heavy and quickly-approaching ones. The beasts must have heard them long before you did.
You looked back to the golden eyes staring into yours, and you nodded. You understood. The Sentinel had grabbed and hidden you behind his cage to prevent you from possibly being seen by this approaching threat. The dark and clawed fingers left your face, and you watched as the beast turned around to face the opening of the room where the footsteps were coming from.
A man’s silhouette appeared. He was tall, and before now, you would have thought a figure like his fairly non-threatening. But why would a man be here, especially this late into the night? He could only have ill intentions.
Your suspicions were confirmed when you saw the way he almost stumbled into the darkened room, body swaying slightly as he scanned over each of the cages until his gaze remained on the pink-eyed Lamb chained to the floor. Your stomach sank, and you could tell hers did as well.
“It’s you. The Damsel. You’re quite a pretty one, aren’t you? Not like the rest of these ugly things.”
He spoke to her in a mock-attentive voice as if she were a dog or other creature incapable of fully understanding what he was saying. Even from your spot behind the cage, you could still see him crouch down in front of her, and the way she curled away from him. You could recognize the stench of alcohol from his clothes. It made your stomach churn uncomfortably. You heard the Sentinel in front of you growl a low sound.
“I paid quite a bit to get an extra little glimpse at you after everyone else left. I saw the way you moved in the show. You know what I thought?”
He leaned towards the Lamb, and she flinched away, whimpering and trembling. Her chains were pulled taut, and she was unable to move any further to escape from his filthy words and hands. A couple of the other caged beasts began to growl low sounds, already able to smell his disgusting licentious intentions. Bile began to bubble at the back of your throat.
“A pretty thing like you…shouldn’t be left so alone at night.”
His filthy fingers went to stroke at the fur on her legs, and the creatures growled even louder, especially the one in front of you. You watched as his digits combed across her trembling leg and started to push the hem of her long dress up…
Your heart started to beat harder than before, hands moving on their own to feel for something to touch, to grab. Some unknown hard and heavy thing was soon gripped in your palm, and your legs moved on their own.
Shifting to silently move away from behind the cage and a few feet behind the man, you gripped the hard and heavy object in your hands. With only a moment of hesitation and a mind screaming to just do something already, you swiftly and harshly brought the object down to the back of the intruder's head, thoroughly rendering him unconscious. Or so you hoped.
It was dead silent for what felt like eons. You stood there, breathing quickened and legs trembling. The adrenaline in your veins had quickly gone, and it was like a veil was lifted from over your face.
It was then that you fully realized what you had done. You had caused deliberate harm to another, possibly even killed a man. Your stomach lurched, twisting itself into knots.
"Oh...Oh God."
It was all you could shakily mumble out, using the Lord's name in vain not even a brief thought in your mind. You glanced down at what you were holding in your hands. It was a brick, one that must have been used to keep the tent's interior in place. There was a dark wet stain upon it now, and you gasped upon noticing it. The only reason you didn't drop it was because it would have made a loud noise.
"Is he...?" Your voice wavered and trembled as you asked the single question you weren't sure you wanted an answer to.
"No. The intruder still breathes."
The Oblique and the Erudite were staring at the fallen man, mismatched and cyan eyes narrowed in what must have been disgust. You breathed a sigh of relief. Though you still caused the filthy man harm, you were at least glad you hadn't made yourself a stained murderer.
But now there was the question of what you would do. You couldn't just leave the intruder here. He may wake up and wrongly accuse the beasts of harming him and exact vengeance. He may harm them. He may get even closer to the Lamb than before...
The black-haired beast in question was staring up at you, downturned pink eyes widened in what must have been shock. She was still trembling, still frightened, but not nearly as much as before now. The building tension in your shoulders had released just the slightest bit. You slowly moved to place the brick in your hands back where you found it, angling it so that the new stain on it wasn't visible.
But the problem of the man was still present. What would you do? What could you possibly hope to do now that you had done what you did? It wasn't like you could just stay still and let him touch the Lamb. She had no way of stopping him, no way of moving away or fighting or pleading without possibly being hurt or worse...
"Go now, creature. Leave him. We will...handle this."
You didn't realize you had begun to pace until you stopped dead in your tracks. What did the Leader mean, "handle this?" They were caged, unable to even reach his unconscious form if they tried. But then you saw that look in their eyes. It was a look of focus, of intent, but of what?
"But what are you going to...?"
"We will ensure you do not take the fall. Go now, and do not return tonight."
The Sentinel’s words weren’t reassuring. You didn't want these creatures to risk themselves. But what choice did you have? What else could you do? Stay here and proclaim yourself a new bestial resident of the seventh circle of Hell?
So you hesitantly left the darkness like you had before, stomach churning and eyes stinging with tears that you didn't dare let fall. You knew that if you let even one escape, you would never cease your subsequent sobs and cries.
What had you become? What would God think, seeing and knowing of you hurting another human to save a monster, a supposed unholy and most foul creature? What would the beasts do to the drunk man? Would someone walk in, see the intruder and assume it was the fault of the monsters?
You didn’t know what to think. Your worldview was white where it was once black, black where it was once white. Your father told you that the world and its creatures were separated between pure and impure beings. It was easy to stain a pure white fabric, but impossible to reverse the process. It was the same for sins, he told you.
You could cover the stain as much as you wished, but you would know that it would always be there. When the Heavenly Father unfurled your life and its sins, those stains would be there for Him to see and judge. The only option left for a ruined white fabric was to discard the whole thing, regardless of how beautiful and pale and spotless the rest of it was. That was how life and vices worked. That was what you had been taught.
But now, you had no idea what to think, what to feel. It wasn’t the fault of the beasts, this you knew. They didn’t ask you to help. But you couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. The Lamb would have…
But you also could have possibly done something, anything else but hurt another being. Why was it your first instinct to harm? Were you born an inherently violent sinner? Was your soul damned before you took your first steps? Did God create you only to cast you away despite your loyalty and diligence before this?
There was no church nearby to go to confession. How many prayers would redeem your soul? How would you have to repent? How could you hope to repent if you didn't truly regret what you did? No matter how much you panicked and feared for your soul, you couldn't change your lack of regret. You could already imagine the boiling rivers of blood and fire that awaited your arrival, the place within the Phlegethon reserved for only violent souls.
Because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.
Your journal entry was blank that night. The fingers on your hands didn’t feel like your own. The hands attached to your body didn’t feel like your own. The body your mind was caged in didn’t feel like your own.
————
You visited the cages again the very next night. It was no surprise that you weren’t able to sleep, and you had spent the whole day afterwards in a daze. You needed to know what happened to that man. You needed to know what happened to the beasts.
You had half a mind to never return again, to forget about the creatures and spend the rest of your life repenting and atoning for your soul’s corruption. But the other half of your mind, that wicked and desperate need for knowledge, it somehow outweighed your fear and dread.
It took everything in you not to rush behind those now familiar curtains, but you stayed as calm as you knew how to be in circumstances like these. But of course, you had never nearly become a murderer before.
Your hand pushed the curtain aside like so many times before…
And there was nothing. No sign of the man. No sign of…anything. It was as if he had never intruded at all. The Lamb sat on the floor as she always did, knees tucked close and chains rattling with her every little move. Dare you even think it, she looked almost relieved at you being present and not some foolish drunk.
But despite that, the silence was tense, almost unbearably so. You hadn’t brought any food like you usually would in your bi-weekly routine, and it was clear that the beasts hadn’t expected you to return only a single night after the last visit. But you paid all of that no mind.
“What happened to him? The intruder?”
Even more silence. The air stayed thick—even despite the biting chill—as you just stood there in front of the cages and the chains. That was, until the Knave spoke up with a rattling chitter that sounded like a forced serpentine laugh.
“Oh, him? He awoke, confused and sick from his drunken stupor, only to see our faces. We scared him off and away, and back to whatever hole he crawled out of, never to return. He’ll think twice before drinking his weight again, no doubt.”
You couldn’t see the Knave’s face, but you could tell there was a sort of smile in his rasped voice. There was a noticeable amount of energy in his words that wasn’t present before. His recounting sounded like a sort of childish fairytale lesson, too unbelievable, too…false. Was he telling the truth? Was this just a story he crafted to avoid explaining what really happened?
And even if that was the truth…it didn’t make you feel any better about causing another person harm, even if you thought he deserved it for his disgusting actions the night prior. You had no authority to hurt him in such a way, had no right to make him bleed like you did.
But did you regret it?
Your intestines twisted into knots, and you wrapped your arms around your abdomen in an attempt to feel secure, to feel like a better person than you are. But no. You did not regret knocking that man unconscious to keep his filthy hands off of the Lamb. Not in the slightest.
It didn’t feel good to cause that pain, to shed blood that wasn’t your own, but you couldn’t just sit there and do nothing while the beast was being touched in a way that made your own stomach churn. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how she felt.
The Leader must have been able to sense your deep disturbance with what had happened the night prior. His low and scratchy voice broke the silence and made you turn your head towards him.
“You worry about what you’ve done.”
You hesitated to meet his gaze with your own. Though you couldn’t see his face, you heard his mild contemplative tone. A shaky nod was all you could reluctantly respond with. You didn’t regret what you did, but you worried for your soul being forever tainted, forever stained. You saw his head tilt at your apparent moral dilemma.
“If it is any consolation…If your God is half as good as your kind claims, then He would likely understand.” He scoffed a rough and ironic sound. “But then again, what would we know of God?”
That made your mind still. His words made you think, made your breaths even out. What did his kind know of God? You hardly considered the fact that they likely didn’t believe in a Heavenly Father, or at least didn’t believe in one in the same way you had been raised to.
The way he said it made it sound like he wasn’t heretical, but simply unfamiliar. It made your moral questioning feel as though it were distant, almost unreal. For a fleeting moment, it even made your beliefs feel like childish stories. It was a strange feeling, one that you weren’t used to.
It somewhat reminded you of your childhood memories of when you would watch people from your bedroom window and sigh, secretly daydreaming of going out and meeting them, of making friends, enemies, it hardly mattered to a sheltered child such as you were. You just wanted connection.
But then your father would always approach in his knowing way and quietly tell you that the people outside your home were heretics and blasphemers, non-believers who relished in sin and indulgences. They didn’t cherish their relationship with the Lord like you and he did. They would only lead you astray.
But you looked down to those people from your window and didn’t see them relishing in their supposed vices. They looked uncaring, perhaps, but they looked happy. Free. What did your father see that you didn’t?
The memory left a bitter feeling in your heart now. Was it being weighed down by your sin and corruption? You didn’t know. You just didn’t know what to think anymore.
You found yourself sitting on that cold floor in front of the monsters, legs tucked to your chest and knees situated beneath your chin, just…thinking. About your father. About God. About the lines that sometimes blurred between the two. A distant yet ever-watching presence, arms encircling around you but never quite touching. It was love, but it was the kind of love only given and received from a distance.
Was it so bad to want raw connection in any form? Passion. Hate. Desire. Companionship. Tragedy. It didn’t matter. Just something that made you feel like you mattered not in the grand scheme of things, but in the moments when you were actually alive and present. Were the beasts any different in their connections?
Thinking about it now, you wouldn’t be surprised if they despised the idea of God. What good would faith and belief do for them in a place like this? If the entire rest of the world was convinced that these beings weren’t made in His divine image, that they deserved to be struck down, why have any reverence for Him?
“What do you believe in?”
The question left your mouth before you could stop yourself. It was invasive and you knew it. You flinched back and pressed a palm over your lips like your mouth had released hot embers instead of uttered syllables.
It was dead silent once again. You likely crossed some sort of boundary. Shame and embarrassment flooded your face in waves as you uttered out a quick apology and started to move to loosen your position and leave the darkened area, prepared to never to speak of the matter again. But a voice just above a whisper made you stop.
“You really do wish to learn…Don’t you?”
The Lamb’s low voice made you freeze in your actions, and your gaze met her pink one. You nodded only once very slowly. You wanted to know what their lives were like, wanted to know if this life—your life—was really your truth. You wanted to know by learning their truth. Did they know of a God? Did they love and hate and suffer and find meaning without one?
“…Your curiosity will only bring your end.”
You couldn’t argue with the Oblique’s hushed words. He was probably right. But you still sat there in front of the cages, cautiously waiting. For what, you weren’t sure. Would they reject your attempts to listen? Would they send you away? Would they only call you a fool like they had so many times before?
You remained quiet and still. You were in no place to be impatient when you were the one who asked the question, after all. Bright and sharp eyes stared into your own, but you didn’t avert your gaze. The air was heavy, but not with tension, and you knew instinctively that the words they were going to share were going to be spoken once and only once—whatever those words would be.
"...Listen. Listen well."
To your slight surprise, the beasts slowly exchanged whispers of their belief in connections, how they maintained their bonds in times of hardship. Their practices were so very different from what you had known. Your faith, your relationship with your father, every last detail of your own life was sterile, bound by learned rules and practices of formality and pretension.
It was shallow, you realized, though you had never dared to even think it until now. You were raised to believe that love was meant to be formal, proper, clean. Transactional. Conditional. It was all you had ever known, and you had very few examples of it outside of your father’s care while raising you.
There were small and fleeting memories of your mother, but they were more impressions than concrete recollections. The smell of linen and skin. Golden sunlight filtered through pale, nearly diaphanous curtains at dawn. A voice that murmured like a trickling river and tickled the shell of your ear as it sang a song you had long forgotten the words to. You missed that bond, that connection. Missed her.
You knew you had something akin to a deep connection once. You knew that you wanted it again. But your father was not your mother. His love was in sparse words and acts. It wouldn't be proper for him to attempt to be your mother, he once told you after you attempted to hold his hand while walking down a street.
An aching emptiness in your chest had made itself known after that.
But the creatures in the cages hoarsely spoke of openness among their own kind. Deep bonds of scent and marks and displays of purest connection rather than mere implications. Your father would probably consider those things licentious, filthy, unholy. But you were fascinated, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but ask a couple of extra questions.
Did their kind have any practices like humans did in the way of ceremonies and rituals? No, you learned. They did not. Not exactly, anyway. Humans had quite a tendency to over complicate things, you were told. You found yourself internally agreeing.
How do beasts keep promises and maintain bonds without contracts or formal agreements? Easily, they answered. Again, your kind felt an insatiable urge to make simple matters endlessly complex only because humans were incapable of implicit trust. It was instinct for beasts to trust each other. There were far fewer of their numbers than humans, after all.
You got a distinct feeling that speaking of their kind’s low numbers was a poor idea. Naive though you were, you were not stupid. Not entirely, anyway. You wanted to ask more, learn more about other things, but you were stopped by a low avian sound that rattled your insides. It wasn’t aggressive, just corrective, and you turned to see that the Erudite was tilting his head towards you, eyes changing colors from cyan to bright red for just a split-second.
“You have asked us enough, creature. Leave us be and return on some other night.”
It didn’t take a genius to know that you had overstayed your welcome. Not that you were welcomed in the first place. But still, the Erudite’s wording made your eyes slightly widen. It was the first time any of them had spoken of any sort of “other night.” A “next time.”
You couldn’t fully hide your eager anticipation to learn more when you nodded and moved to leave. They actually expected you to return. They were willing to share more. The Knave had scoffed a low sound upon catching your expression, but it didn’t sound like it came from a place of being genuinely insulted.
“Have some shame, will you? If that twinkle in your eye were any brighter, we would have no choice but to snuff it out.”
Your face flushed hot with embarrassment at that, unable to refute his words. Goodness, you were getting far, far too familiar with these beasts. You then heard the Lamb release a short huff that sounded dangerously close to a hoarse attempt at a chuckle upon seeing your face.
“Off you go now, creature. You must rest.”
You just nodded again, swiftly and quietly bidding them farewell.
That night, you feverishly wrote inside your diary across several pages. You wrote of the things you learned, the things you still didn’t fully understand. But it wasn’t the beast’s words you didn’t understand—it was your own life’s lessons, the things you had been taught by your father and your society that you no longer fully understood.
You still felt unmeasurable guilt for what you had done to that drunk man who tried to touch the chained girl. But you remembered the Leader’s words, the idea that maybe God would at least understand why you did it. Would He forgive you? You didn’t know. The answer in your heart seemed to shift and change like the moon. But strangely, the thought didn’t strike as much fear in your heart anymore.
You asked not for any consolation from the caged beings, but they offered it to you anyway. Perhaps they pitied you and your—dare you think even just briefly—fantastical beliefs in a God and damnation for your immortal soul. They believed not against God in blasphemy, they simply believed that the tangible bonds made on earth were of more importance. God had no factor in their lives, something that was strange for you to comprehend.
It was fascinating and terrifying to think about in equal measure. Was that why they were considered monsters? Not just for their forms but for their practices? You were guilty of this as well, thinking them to be foul devils at first. But your mind had changed much since first encountering them.
Those caged creatures were beasts, yes, but you no longer believed the whispers that called them depraved fiends. These beings spoke of strength in care, protection, trust. True demons knew nothing of those things, didn’t they? It would be quite hard to fake the nostalgia and longing in their voices, like each of them had lost so much before ending up in this circus.
You wanted to know how your father ever managed to come across such beings. It wasn’t like he simply found them in a street and asked them to perform for his circus. With the way they were imprisoned…
A distinct pit of dread formed in your stomach when you thought about the possible circumstances of how those creatures came to be caged in a circus. But you couldn’t just ask them, heavens no. You weren’t that stupid and mindless. No matter the circumstances that brought them here, they were suffering, and you were determined to aid them however you could.
And even if they had done anything wrong, it was not anyone’s place to bestow punishment and vengeance upon them. Wasn’t it imperative to help those in need? Care shouldn’t be conditional. Maybe it was your naivety, but, sinners or not, humans or beasts, nobody deserved to rot in cold rusted cages and die a slow painful death.
No. You were going to help them. Even if it was the last thing you’ll do.
————
Visit after visit, you brought more things for the creatures. Their forms remained thinned and starved, but at least they weren’t skeletal, meaning that your efforts actually managed to stave off death, however temporarily. You had a suspicion that you were the only one consistently offering food to them. If you weren’t, would they have wasted away by now?
Every now and then, you’d try some new method to pick the locks on their cages or even try to study the integrity of the bars on their cages—or chain links, in the Lamb’s case—to no avail. Whatever metal their bonds were made of, it was nigh impossible to break, bend, or find any exploitable weakness in. For you, anyway. You were a mere human, weak in many ways compared to these starving beasts.
You always left those attempts feeling more and more frustrated, but the beasts never seemed to react much to your failures. They knew their prisons far better than you did, after all. But you never gave up, something that they believed to be both pointless and useless, and they made sure you knew it. Of all the things they’d tell you, that was the one thing you didn’t listen to.
But now, after every failed attempt, before you would leave their darkness, they would start to speak. You never failed to stop to listen to whatever they had to say. Sometimes, it was merely a couple sentences. Other times, they spoke of a shared memory they all had. They very rarely mentioned their separate families and homes.
Rarely, when you were feeling especially curious—or perhaps stupidly brazen—you’d ask them questions. Rarer still they’d ever answer them directly. You didn’t mind that. Their words always made you think, a dangerous thing to do during the day while you worked at the circus.
But there was one thing that ate away at you more than you thought it would. How old were the creatures? They often spoke as if each of them had lived through generations. Did they have a different sense of time? Were they older than they appeared?
It was this line of thought that prompted you to ask them at the next late-night visit, after the Leader had sparsely spoken of things he and the others had seen “some time ago.”
“You live for much longer than us, don’t you?”
His violet eyes turned to gaze fully into yours, and you maintained the contact. His sharp purple eyes didn’t unsettle you nearly as much anymore, and you watched him turn his head as if noticing how your perception had heightened since first meeting the beasts. He hummed a half-animalistic sound, and you could hear a couple of the others do the same.
“We rarely get to do so…but yes. We do. What of it?”
You slightly shrank at the implication of his kind rarely getting to live full lives, but didn’t cower or avert your gaze. Instead you tilted your own head slightly in a respectful gesture of questioning.
“What is it like? Living for so long?”
“What is it like for you to have such a short life?”
You opened your mouth to respond to the Knave, yet the proper words to explain such a concept remained lost to you. This wasn’t something you thought about often enough to easily talk about. How does one explain such a thing to someone who will outlive them? The green-eyed serpentine beast seemed amused by your inability to articulate the concept.
“Not so easy to sum up with words, is it?”
You hesitantly shook your head. A deep and resonant humming came from one of the cages on your right, from the Oblique.
“It’s simply our way of life. Nothing more, nothing less.”
But what was that way of life like? What did they do with such long lifespans? You refrained from asking such questions, recalling the Leader’s earlier words about their kind rarely getting to live full lives, a fact revealed so casually as if it was normalized in their society. It didn’t sit right with you, but you dropped it nonetheless.
It wasn’t all that surprising that creatures like these seldom got to live to become old, now that you thought about it. If any of the rare words about their homeland were true, then this group was lucky to have made it to where they are today without starving or being killed. You could already imagine hunting parties for these beasts, or perhaps even their own kind turning on them out of hunger-driven insanity.
Your stomach sank a little at just the ideas of what these creatures could have gone through. And even away from their home, they were still starving. Perhaps even worse than when they were in their homeland. And on top of that, they were cold and treated like animals now.
The days passed on. It was hard to perform your assigned duties as usual while pretending you had no idea what went on in the shows. The shows your own father oversaw. You didn’t know what actually occurred in them, but if any of the attendees' hushed whispers were anything to go by before and after the shows, it was sickening to say the least.
Every time you handed out a flyer during the day, it felt as though you were maintaining a lie that only resulted in harm to the creatures. It made you sick to your stomach to think about. When nobody was looking, you’d crumple and pocket some of the papers so you wouldn’t have to hand out as many. You even began learning to fold them into smaller shapes to keep them more discreetly, repurposing them to create something else.
One time, you realized that there was even a crumpled flyer tucked away in your sleeping attire while visiting the caged beasts. It seemed you couldn’t escape from the papers, not even at night. Just the sight of them made a foul and bitter taste form on your tongue. But instead of tearing that small poster to pieces, you idly folded it into a different shape while quietly explaining what you did with other flyers.
Your fingers moved on their own to pinch and tuck and fold the paper into a simple flower-like shape, nothing very impressive. But the Sentinel in particular had looked upon your craftsmanship with great curiosity. He said nothing, but you had learned to read the creatures’ eyes just as they had learned to read your body language.
The sight gave you an idea.
During a later visit, you had brought your diary to present to the caged beasts. They initially eyed the journal suspiciously, but when you told them about how you wrote down everything you learned from them, everything that stuck with you and made you think from different angles and perspectives, they didn’t seem to believe it.
It confused you at first, but you later realized that these beasts likely never met a human who bothered to learn about and from them. You showed each of them your sketches of their sharp eyes and obscured silhouettes, to which they only tilted their heads at how your drawings evolved over time.
Your initial drawings were loose yet sharp, pointed and undefined. They were sketches of what you thought were monsters, foul and wicked creatures that go bump in the night. But as the pages of your diary filled with more scrawled notes and stray illustrations over time, the nature of those depictions changed.
The creatures themselves never changed, but your perception of them did. They were still pointed, still dangerous. But the drawn lines now had form and purpose. It was more than fear and dread in the ink behind them. It was now curiosity, respect, a sense of neatness that wasn’t there before that only came from getting to know the drawing subjects better.
The sketches in the present were still only of silhouettes. You hadn’t seen their full forms, hadn’t seen their faces—they were always in deepest darkness, after all. But the figures weren’t exaggerated or overly rooted in your fear anymore. They were simpler, more accurate to what they appeared as. Creatures so similar yet so different from you and your kind.
The Lamb had tilted her head when you held out your journal with a loose impressionistic drawing of her. She seemed almost intrigued by your depiction. Faceless and sharp, but not menacing. Not entirely human-like or soft either. Just…different. A bony and clawless hand trailed against the page.
“We’ve seen so many of your kind now. Your faces blur together, sometimes. Like this.”
A single thin finger pointed to your drawing, to the faceless figure held up for her to see, and you pondered her words. You hadn’t considered just how outnumbered beasts were by humans. How many of your kind existed for every one of theirs? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand?
The Lamb then peered closer at the page in your diary, moving her chained hands to her head as if to compare the details in the drawing to her own features. It was mostly guesswork that made you draw certain things, as you always drew them after your visits—and it was nearly pitch-black and impossible to see their finer details in the first place.
From what little you could make out of the Lamb’s features compared to your drawing of her, her cloven hooves were slightly too small, and her fingertips were just a little too sharp in your rendition. Tiny details like that became more apparent the longer you stared at your inked sketch.
It was then that you realized with horror that you drew a certain crucial detail inaccurately—the Lamb’s horns. You could just barely see how the small horns atop her head curved in a different way than how you drew them initially. What other details did you get right? Which ones were wrong?
You didn’t know. It wasn’t like there was a good light source in their secluded tent area. Still, she appeared almost…pleasantly surprised by your diary’s pages? You couldn’t suppress the confusion in the way you tilted your head at how captivated she was with your drawings.
“This world and the humans in it…they tell us that we are horrid. Wicked things with foul forms and faces that mimic the beauty of their own. But here…”
She pressed her fingertips to the page with the drawing again.
“You make it seem so natural. Make us seem natural.”
She flipped through the pages worn by ink and pressure from scrawled writings, tilting her head at the latest set of your sketches. They were of the others, not in their cages, but simple silhouettes of what little you could make out of their forms. Despite having no color but black ink, it was still obvious which one was which just by their horns and most distinct features.
You obviously would have drawn them far more detailed and accurate if you had any idea what they actually looked like. The skin on the inside of your cheek was lightly chewed in thought, though you didn’t voice any of them for obvious reasons. Still, even your most idle and subtle actions were no match for the beasts’ perception, even in this near pitch-black darkness.
“You’re thinking again.”
A slight wave of embarrassment washed over your face, and you felt your spine go rigid for a moment. Truly, nothing went unnoticed by the Erudite. He was always observing, always studying you as if you were the strange creature and his kind weren’t.
“You wish to see us, don’t you?”
The Sentinel’s words made you avert your gaze downward in slight shame at being caught in your secretive desire. There was no point in pretending your curiosity wasn’t eating away at your soul.
“…Yes.”
You didn’t ask to see them. Just told them the truth. They would have been able to practically smell it anyway.
It was quiet for a few moments, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. It was better described as cautionary, like both you and the beasts were carefully navigating a slippery path. One wrong move and what little semblance of trust between you and them would shatter. But then they seemed to look at each other, almost as if communicating without saying a word. The Leader’s violet eyes narrowed.
“…Very well. If you are sure you won’t regret it…Bring your light once more.”
Your light? Did he mean the matchsticks you had brought that one time months ago? You were so surprised by his response that you almost didn’t comprehend it for a second. But you caught yourself before you looked too much like a fool. You quickly nodded, scooping up your things and making your way out of that darkness like you always had, leaving the beasts alone behind the curtains.
But just before you left, you tore out a few pages of your diary and handed them to the Lamb. She seemed to like your drawings quite a bit, and she appreciated them more than you ever would—especially since you now knew that some details were quite inaccurate. She didn’t mind, though, and gave you a quiet hum of gratitude upon being handed the pages.
For the first time since meeting them, you smiled just ever-so-slightly.
You allowed yourself to wonder that night. What did they really look like? Were they as loathsome and unnatural as the visitor’s whispers claimed? You stared at the pages in your diary, wondering what the dark inked silhouettes really hid.
But another thought came to your mind then. What did the caged creatures really think of you? Did they think of your words and actions the way you thought of theirs? It wasn’t wise to assume anything. Besides, how could a naive human like you hope to understand beings who weren’t human? You couldn’t even understand your own kind.
Your father’s voice appeared in your dreams that night. It was patronizing and condescending, and it lingered in your mind the entire day after you awoke. There was a certain heaviness in your heart that also lasted the entire day, but it was the kind of heaviness that only came from dread. Something wasn’t right. Something was going to happen, but what?
The next late-night visit was one that had a paper-thin layer of tension hanging in the air, like this single interaction rested atop a thin sheet of glass. You said nothing while taking a small handful of matches that had been tucked away in your sleep clothes. The beasts all narrowed their eyes in what you now recognized as them trying to pry into your mind and see your thoughts.
“This is your last chance, creature. Once you learn something, you cannot unlearn it.”
You turned to the Oblique, gaze resting on his. You had already learned of their existence, of at least part of the truth behind your father’s circus. Even if you didn’t see their faces, there was still no going back. And besides, it would be extraordinarily cruel to try to forget about them now after everything you’ve done for them…and everything they’ve done for you.
You kneeled on the cold ground in front of the Lamb, taking a single matchstick and preparing to scrape it on the rough floor. You hesitated for only a fraction of a moment. And then you pressed the match down and sparked it.
It was dead silent save for the crackle and slight hiss of the tiny flame in your hand, and you slowly moved the match in front of you to look upon the Lamb’s unobscured form.
She was…you didn’t quite have the word. Pale grey skin, sunken cheeks, cracked lips in a neutral, almost tense expression. Downturned pink eyes as usual, but now surrounded by long dark eyelashes. Her long and brittle hair was equally dark as night, almost absorbing every bit of light the match produced.
Then you noticed her other features. Pale pupils that became slits when taking in the light, small curved horns atop her head, slightly pointed ears, and then you noticed the…fur? Your eyes traveled downwards to her limbs, seeing that there was grey fur along her arms that darkened and thinned near her clawless hands. Her legs had longer ashen fur that covered her goat-like cloven hooves.
She seemed to shift a little the longer you looked at her limbs, evidently getting slightly uncomfortable with your silence. Wordlessly, your gaze went back to her face. You just stayed like that, staring. Your mouth opened to speak, but then a sharp pain traveled from your fingertips where you held the match in between them, and you quietly hissed. The matchstick had burned down and caught you off guard.
It was dark again, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t light another match, not yet. There was really only one thought on your mind.
“…You look so much like us.”
It was true. The Lamb’s face looked almost uncannily human-like. You obviously knew that the beasts had humanoid forms—five fingered hands, hair and eyes and proportions and senses mostly like your kind’s—but it was somehow strange seeing just how similar yet fundamentally different she looked.
But she was not frightening. Not in the slightest. You would even dare to think her quite lovely by your kind’s standards. No, by your standards. But the Knave evidently took issue with your observation, chittering a slow sound that you recognized as slight annoyance.
“We are nothing like your kind, naive thing. You trust your eyes far too much.”
You turned to meet his sharpened emerald eyes, moving to position yourself to now be in front of his and the Leader’s cages. The Lamb was next to you now, but her chains were not pulled taut, and you gave her plenty of room to move away. She didn’t.
“If I trusted my eyes any more than I already do, I would have run away screaming from this place a long time ago.”
It seems the beasts weren’t entirely expecting your response. You had learned a lot from them these past few months, and that included speaking your mind just a little more. The Knave huffed a little.
“…Perhaps so. You seemed scared enough when you first thought us to be mere shadows.”
Another matchstick was held between your fingers at this point, and you waited for either of the caged creatures in front of you to object to being seen in light. Neither the Knave nor the Leader said anything. So you created your light once more.
Another set of crackles. The shadows of the cage bars danced on the tent walls behind as you stared into the gaps between the iron prisons.
Dark grey skin, darker than the Lamb’s. Absence of fur on their limbs, instead only black limbs that ended with sharp claws. Equally sharp purple and green eyes stared into your own. The Leader had a set of four horns while the Knave only had two. Long and dark violet hair cascading past one face and short black curly hair resting atop another’s.
Their faces were less human-like, but they weren’t exactly frightening, just…different. You couldn’t help but tilt your head at the shapes of their jaw hinges, the way the sharp lines of their faces looked so similar yet so different compared to yours. Without any comparisons, they looked just as much a part of the earth as any other creature.
A longer glance at the green-eyed beast revealed his extra limbs, thin rope-like appendages that sprouted from his spine and pressed against his body. For warmth? Security? You couldn’t quite tell. You saw them writhe sometimes, but it was different to see them in the light now. It made you wonder what he would possibly use them for.
Returning your gaze to the violet-eyed beast gave you a closer look at his impossibly sharp teeth. Lengthened canines and wide pointed molars. Incisors that were longer than your fingertips. Only a few flat teeth for consuming what you assumed would be an omnivorous diet. You didn’t really want to ask the kinds of things they’d had to eat in the past.
It remained quiet as you stared at their faces, and you eventually noticed the vital difference between them and the Lamb’s face. Where the Lamb had an almost perpetually downturned expression, theirs were sharpened. They looked restless, resentful, hardened and embittered. It wasn’t exactly a shock, but it still made some part of your heart ache.
But even still, you didn’t tremble at the thought. You didn’t shy away from the cages, didn’t break your gaze. You just looked back into their bright-colored eyes.
“You’re not so scary.”
It was the truth. You expected worse, honestly. Other people whispered of vicious monsters, beasts seen only in nightmares. These creatures weren’t harmless, obviously, but neither were humans. The four-horned creature in front of you only tilted his head while narrowing his eyes, skeptical of your words.
“We can smell when you lie, beast. Don’t bother.”
The match in your fingers was about to burn down to your hand again, and before you could move to drop it to the floor or lightly wave it to be rid of the flame, the Knave in front of you reached a sharp black hand between his cage bars and simply pinched it between his claws, throughly extinguishing it. You watched it fall to the ground before turning back to that deep purple gaze.
“No, really. Your forms aren’t so frightening. You’re just…angry.”
“Angry. Hungry. Dying. All by the Ringmaster’s design.”
The Sentinel’s thin voice had reached your ears, and you turned to see his slumped form resting on the far side of his cage. Slowly, you walked over to his prison to hear him better, to know him better. Yet another matchstick was clutched in your palm, but again you didn’t immediately move to strike it.
There was a sorrowful look in the creature’s golden eyes. He didn’t move to stop you when you kneeled in front of his cage. The match in your hand was struck, and you couldn’t hide the sorrow in your own eyes upon seeing his form illuminated by the small flame.
He had long ashen white hair, and it fell over part of his face—which you realized had a slightly more pronounced snout compared to the others, almost like a canine’s or some similar creature. Scars littered his dark grey skin, more visibly than the others. He had been hurt in the past. Horribly hurt. They all had been hurt.
You said nothing, but the beast seemed to understand the look in your eyes, and he moved to sit up straighter, dark hands wrapping around a couple of his cage’s bars. You could see the way his black claws retracted, though for his own sake or yours, you didn’t know.
“Wait and hate. Wait and die. That is all we can do in a place like this.”
By design, you recalled from his earlier statement. They had not always been like this. Something led them to end up this way. But what? And how?
The golden-eyed beast didn’t answer, though you were sure he could see the questioning in your eyes. He simply tilted his head down, almost like he was admitting defeat. It was terribly sad to witness, and you released a shaky breath. These creatures were broken.
The match in your fingers fell to the cold floor, burning out after a few moments. It was quiet once more. You saw how the Sentinel slumped in his cage again, like sitting up for you to see had taken what little energy he possessed. You turned around, not wanting to face the sight for too long. It was all just so sad.
You carefully took small steps towards the last two cages, the ones holding the Oblique and the Erudite. Instead of sitting like you had for the others, you stayed standing, matchsticks in hand. You didn’t say anything. Neither did they.
Do not be so cruel as to grant us a sliver of warmth and then leave with it. Do not bring us light only to snuff it out.
You remembered the Oblique’s words as if they were spoken only yesterday. You looked down at the bundle of matchsticks in your palm, then back up into those mismatched white and dark blue eyes. Then you held out the bundle for him to see.
Make your own light, you wordlessly told him. You wouldn’t leave with the matchsticks tonight. Instead, you would give them the chance to bring light for themselves. They deserved warmth. The beast in front of you visibly stiffened. But slowly, he moved his larger palm out for you to pour your matches into, and you did so.
It was so quiet a pin could have been heard dropping to the ground. The only sound heard was you shifting back to allow the creatures some space, and then a faint scrape against one of the rough metal cages. One of the matches held by the Oblique had been lit, and you watched as both his and the Erudite’s features became visible with the tiny glow of the flame.
Dark grey skin just like the others. Sharp teeth and long claws and areas of raised skin where scars had formed. Some were faded and old, but others looked much more recent, still pale against their darker skin. Both of them had shorter hair than the others, which allowed you to see their pointed ears better.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think these beasts to be no different from some of the folkloric creatures you had read about—before your father forbade you from reading of such things. Perhaps that was where such stories came from, you realized. People of the past not understanding what they had seen.
The Erudite had a dark pointed crest descending down his entire face, feather-like quills of varying sizes sprouted and neatly patterned beneath his cyan eyes and below his ears. His hair was a blood red, a striking color against his eyes—which were staring into yours with just as much curiosity. It seemed he was taking advantage of the brief light provided by the matchstick to take in your appearance as well.
“You’re a strange one. Your face is almost…familiar.”
You didn’t quite understand what he meant. The Lamb had mentioned that human faces tended to blur together over time. Did these beasts perhaps perceive faces differently than you thought? Was your face perhaps like a stray cat’s patterning to them, indistinguishable and generic unless learnt and memorized?
The creature in front of you had tilted his feathered head, and you mimicked the action—A testament to how much time you had been spending with these beasts to have subconsciously understood and copied their habits. You could have sworn you saw something like the slightest and briefest twitch of the corner of his mouth in an upwards direction.
You turned back to the Oblique, seeing that he was quite different in appearance. His dark skin was almost completely smooth, almost pliable-looking save for a few small scars here and there. His single dark blue eye reminded you of the night sky just after dusk, and his white eye a pale full moon.
His expression was one of waiting. Maybe scrutiny. But you didn’t quite know what he was waiting for, or what he was watching so carefully for. Of all the others, he appeared to be the most rigid, like he was constantly concerned about something. It was almost jarring how he and the Erudite appeared to be polar opposites in terms of mannerisms.
But, like all the others, you didn’t ask any questions. It was a miracle you had been allowed to see them at all.
The matchstick had burnt out by now, and you instinctively knew that it would be the last. You had seen all of the creatures, all of their features deemed unsightly or monstrous, and you didn’t flinch away, not even once. They weren’t infernal demons. They were quite strange and sharp and different to you, but not inherently evil. Not worthy of any of the whispers they garnered.
It was silent for a long moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not to you. Not anymore.
You opened your mouth to say something, but stopped when you saw the beasts perk up as if hearing something in the distance, just like that night that other intruder came for the Lamb. The blood in your veins turned cold.
A couple of large hands wrapped around your midsection, and you nearly yelped like last time, but managed to clamp one of your own hands over your mouth this time. It was then that you realized that the Erudite and Oblique had each used one of their thinned hands to lightly push you into a gap hidden behind both of their cages, and you quickly nodded to affirm that you would curl up and hide as much as physically possible.
The large bony hands left your form, but you didn’t move your own palm away from your mouth. You stayed completely quiet and still as you tucked yourself even further away from the entrance, even as your curiosity burned. But now wasn’t the time to indulge such feelings. Someone was coming.
You could eventually hear what the beasts could—footsteps. It never ceased to briefly stun you how different the creature’s senses were compared to your own. The footsteps weren’t staggering or heavy, but purposeful. It sounded as though this person wasn’t worried about being caught or seen.
Every last muscle in your body tensed upon seeing a shadowed masculine figure emerge from behind the curtain entrance. Your body only got more tense when the person didn’t say anything for a few moments. It was unbearably quiet.
And then, the man sighed in a way you recognized. Your eyes widened.
“So, beasts, tomorrow is your last chance. Your last chance to prove your worth to me.”
That voice. You knew that voice. It was the voice of fear in your heart. The voice you associated with the Lord and His words.
Your father.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your slovenly performances. The people here have grown tired of your kind. And you have proven to be quite difficult to keep.”
You watched as the beast’s eyes all narrowed, some in barely contained resentment, others in quiet fear and sorrow. It was hard to retain what your father was saying. It was hard to believe those cold and calculating words were in your father’s voice in the first place.
“So, there are two choices for you to make, monsters. Either you prove your worth to me alive, and this circus will relocate. Or…”
The air in your lungs stalled. You couldn’t breathe.
“You will be left here to die a slow and painful death. The choice is yours, beasts. I do hope you make one that you won’t regret.”
And just like that, your father left, footsteps eventually fading away. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Was that really him? How could he be so cruel, so uncaring? There was too much dissonance between who he was in your eyes before and now, it hurt your head to think about.
You briefly wished you had covered your ears instead of your mouth, just so you wouldn’t have had to hear such words in your father’s voice. A shaky breath finally emerged from your mouth, but it brought no relief. Tomorrow…
Tomorrow, if the creatures didn’t do as your father wished, they would be left to die long and miserable deaths. They would rot away in these cold cages in the dark, never knowing of warmth or a sated appetite or comfort. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak.
With trembling legs you forced yourself to stand and move to the center of the darkened room to face all of the imprisoned creatures. They didn’t appear distressed or frightened or even angry, just…exhausted. They didn’t appear nearly as affected as you knew you were. The Leader slowly began to speak in his hoarse voice.
“He torments us. They all do. All for the performances. And their creativity has yet to wane.”
It took every last bit of effort in your body not to allow your eyes to water. The casual admission that your father and the other circus members were cruel torturers made your intestines twist into all sorts of knots. You’re not sure how your voice remained somewhat leveled when you finally spoke.
“I…I didn’t know that. I know the Ringmaster. Or at least…I thought I did. I never would have thought him to be capable of such…”
Malice? Spitefulness? Barbarity? Machiavellian acts? No single word seemed to be enough. A chill started to travel across your sweat-dotted nape at the thought of where those recent scars on the beasts’ bodies came from. Your mouth was dry when you asked the sole question that had gone unanswered since you first met these imprisoned beings.
“How did this happen? How did you end up here?”
Your fingers trembled the longer your question went acknowledged but not answered. This was the only way to get the full story. You didn’t want to hear your father’s version. You wanted to know the truth. Their truth. The Leader’s head tilted downward in defeat, teeth lightly gnashing together. And then you heard his gravelly voice utter low and exhausted words.
“…We were starving in our home. The desolate valley where our kind’s cries went unseen and unheard by any God.”
The violet-eyed beast’s voice thinned towards the end of his sentence, form slumped and eyes dimmed. He was too exhausted to continue. Or perhaps the memory was too painful. But when his voice faded, the Knave’s suddenly emerged from the dark.
“And one day, a man entered the valley. He found us hungry and sorrowful and desperate. And he saw an opportunity.”
When the Knave’s serpentine chittering came to an end, another voice replaced his. The others came together to weave the whole story of how they ended up in the circus, and your head nearly began to spin from the rasped voices all around you.
“The man told us that he would feed us if we worked for him. A set of shows, he said, to incite fear and curiosity and faith.”
“We were dying. In our desperation, we went to him and agreed. We thought that this would be a chance for us to survive and live together.”
A pause.
“We were wrong.”
“In the beginning, we were given many things. We had warmth. Food. Shelter. We were even allowed to wander within the circus so long as we weren’t seen.”
“The Ringmaster told us that we had to stay hidden. To protect ourselves from those who would fear our nature…or those who would seek to claim it.”
“Funny, then…that when the other humans came to watch us, they wanted us to hurt. They wanted to see our pain. And the Ringmaster was nothing but a slave to the crowd’s desires. And he was a slave to his own ambitions. He wanted more…always more.”
You swallowed a leaden weight down to your stomach, already knowing where this story was leading. You had played a part in it, after all. Unknowingly, but a component in this twisted circus all the same. The back of your throat tightened as though you had downed a mouthful of glass as the beasts continued to speak.
“So he tortured us. Forced us into crude and twisted performances. Beat us. Prodded us like cattle. Tore at our flesh. The crowds found joy in our pain, and the Ringmaster felt nothing but his desire for more.”
“And so he got more. And we were given less. We were forbidden to wander. Then our strength was slowly sapped. Then our warmth was stolen. And then we were forced into cages like animals. And now…we are here.”
“We came to him starving and hopeless and dying. And now, after all this time, he has everything. And we are still starving and hopeless and dying.”
Another pause. This time, you released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. It nearly became a dry heave. An ironic and breathy scoff came from your right.
“Pathetic, is it not?”
You didn’t respond, eyes burning and hands shaking. With short breaths you suddenly moved to grasp one of the Lamb’s chains and pulled as hard as you physically could against their linked bond to the floor, though obviously to no avail. Your efforts were useless and both you and the beasts knew it. Still, you didn’t stop trying.
You then moved towards the Knave’s cage, grasping one of the thin horizontal bars that supported the vertical ones and pulled as hard as your body would allow. Nothing. Not even a budge. It was too dark to see if the iron bars were simply bolted to the cage or welded, but it didn’t matter either way. If the creatures were too weak to make any impact, what hope did you have?
“No use, creature. Do not attempt to control something you know you cannot hope to. Our time grows nearer.”
You stopped your action upon hearing the Leader’s voice again. He sounded exhausted, defeated, utterly devoid of energy. He and the others would just…give up? No, not give up…they simply had nothing left. They were starved and hurt and broken beyond aid. Beyond your aid. Your eyes involuntarily wetted.
“But…but you’ll die.”
“Many of us have. Many of us will.”
The Knave behind the bars in front of you moved closer to your face, and you didn’t back away. Instead you searched his eyes for any shred of ambition, any sort of scrap of will to keep trying, keep living.
“We are no different from the game they hunt or an infestation to be purged. So they will get their extermination. We will get our freedom.”
Your hands remained clenched around the metal bars in front of you despite the Sentinel’s words. This couldn’t be it. Not after all this time, all your efforts. Did all of it mean nothing? Was this only an inevitable outcome? A song that never ends is no song at all, only senseless noise that is destined to fade and break. But this just can’t be how their story ends. This can't be all there is.
“Go on now, human. Leave us to our final performance. Grant us this last dignity.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. Your forehead came in contact with the cold metal bars in front of your face, and you could even feel the sparse warmth from the beast’s body inside it. There has to be something. There has to be another way. Your fingers gripped the iron bars even harder, so hard you were sure you’d get blisters if you held on for too long.
“…No. No. There has to be something I can still do. I can still-“
“Don’t you dare make promises you know you can’t keep, creature. Give us this one chance for peace.”
You should have listened to the Erudite’s warning, you really should have. Especially considering the Knave’s dark face was right in front of yours, emerald eyes sharper than ever before. But something in your heart refused to fizzle out into ash. It fueled you to speak just a little louder than before.
“But you’re not at peace! You want to live, you all do, I know you do! If I can just-“
The Knave suddenly gripped the bars of his cage, large and thin fingers grasped just right above where yours were clinging to the metal. The sudden metallic rattling made you flinch. You had never seen any of the beasts so quick to move. His form towered over yours as he rose up, tendrils along his spine writhing over his broad shoulders with his outburst of energy.
“Of course we wish to live. But there is nothing any of us can do. And there is nothing left for you here.”
Silence. You couldn’t argue with his pointed words. There was really nothing you could do. They would choose to die rather than continue to be hurt over and over again, and you couldn’t blame them. But it just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. They didn’t deserve this.
Your eyes searched and searched for something, anything that could be done. Though your sight was blurred from the water building up in them, they landed on the heavy lock near the top of the cage. Only a key could open it, this you knew and even tested with all sorts of other items.
The key…if anyone would have it, it would be your father. No other circus member was allowed to go near his personal area. But maybe…maybe you could. Maybe you could distract him, or even go into his private space if he wasn’t there.
“The key. I know where to look for it. I can find it. I’ll find it and I’ll-“
A series of hisses and low pitched animalistic noises came from nearly all of the cages, especially the one whose bars you still held onto.
“Have you learned nothing? All this time and you still cannot listen. Don’t you dare give us hope. Not in this place where it’s stamped out and turned to ash right in front of our eyes.”
The tears gathered in your eyes finally slipped down your cheeks. It was unbearably distressing to hear such a profound loss of hope. But what was worse was that you knew these creatures wanted to live so badly, but they didn’t have a choice. The most damning part was that their livelihoods had not been taken from them. The beasts had willingly given them to the circus with the hopes of living better than they had in their valley.
You couldn’t just stand and do nothing, no matter how much the creatures wanted you to. They wanted to live, to stand in the sun once more, to be able to do all of the things they spoke to you about from their lives. Your voice trembled as you just slowly shook your head.
“I’ll try my best to get you out of this place, I can promise you that. I know it isn’t much, but…it isn’t fair what was done to you. It just isn’t right. I’ll do everything I can to make this right.”
“Fair, beast, does not mean equal in this world. It means that one end of the bargain got what they wanted…and the other side can’t complain of it. You would be wise to remember that.”
You continued to quietly let your tears fall. Eventually your knees became too weak to support your body, and you sank to the floor. You recognized the Oblique making a sound that indicated he was going to chastise you in his slightly condescending way.
“If we wanted your pity, we would have asked for it. But this is simply how things are.”
But things are just wrong. Why were they acting so content when they clearly weren’t? It was almost like-
“That’s why you let me see your forms.”
The words left your mouth just as you made the realization, and the Knave in front of you nodded solemnly.
“Indeed. Is it so wrong to wish to be seen not as hell-spawned devils but simply as what we are?”
The Lamb had slowly moved to sit beside you at this point, the chains on her wrists pulled taut. She said nothing as you placed your palms on the floor in front of you helplessly. The Erudite warbled a deep sound.
“For what it’s worth…you have been good to us. Naive and foolish as you are, you proved us wrong. But we are out of time. And so are you.”
You hiccupped slightly, unwilling to accept this. That likely only proved that you were, in fact, naive and foolish. And stupid.
“But I haven’t done anything! I…”
A hand touched your back, and you flinched only to realize it was the Lamb’s. It was the first time any of the beasts had touched you outside of trying to hide you. Her eyes were even more sorrowful and downturned if possible.
“You have done everything you can.”
It certainly didn’t feel like it. These bound beings, these creatures…you dared to think of them as dear to you. They were frightening and sharp at times, but they taught you many things. They were the only bonds you had formed other than with your father. Just as the Erudite said that you were good to them, they were good to you. Not gentle, and certainly not kind, but good.
But what did someone like you know of goodness? You were just a sheltered human who knew nothing of the world, one who never had to starve or be deprived of warmth or loathe your nature simply because it was different from others. Your father made you think that spiritual purity was pivotal, but he was now revealed to be a minister of torture. What did he know of goodness?
You just held your head low, the Lamb’s hand not leaving your spine. But then the Leader spoke to you just above a whisper.
“Go on. Return to the light where you belong. Leave us to our darkness. And do not look back.”
None of the beasts said anything else. You sat there until the Lamb slowly removed her hand from your back, and you recognized that it was time for you to leave. But you wouldn’t just give up. You said that you’d do everything to try to help them, and there was still a way to possibly free them. You needed to find the key. There was no point in wasting time crying and despairing about things you were told couldn’t change. You’d see for yourself if your efforts were wasted.
A tiny bit of strength returned to your body, just enough for you to stand up and walk out of the tent and not look back as you dried your face. You wouldn’t go back until you had the key in your hands, this you swore to yourself. With clenched fists you navigated through the dark with a mere sliver of the moon lit to guide you, but you made your way to your father’s private area.
His study was much like your personal quarters, secluded from the rest of the circus near its outskirts. Now that you actually stood in front of the off-limits area, you hesitated—but only for a moment. You shook your head quickly and entered your father’s personal area.
Papers were strewn everywhere, business reports and contracts and all sorts of documents and whatnot. It overwhelmed you for a moment, but you quickly began to search for the key to the beast’s cages. But where would it be?
Minutes passed with no results, and you began to grow worried. How long until your father inevitably found you? He always seemed to know when you were getting into something you shouldn't be. Luckily, you had an excuse ready. But thoughts and actions were very different things. Sure, it was easy in theory to talk to your father, but...
You nearly jumped out of your skin and froze upon noticing a figure at the entrance. Your father, to be specific. He stood there with an almost...knowing expression. Your heart sank to your stomach. No, your feet.
"Father! I..."
Your words caught in your throat and rotted at the tip of your tongue. The part of your mind that held all of that resolve and desire to act was sidelined, replaced by an unfamiliar fear. Or perhaps it was familiar and you simply didn't recognize it for what it was until now. Father just smiled how he always did ever since you were little, not moving from his spot by the entrance and not acknowledging what you were just doing.
"It's very late. You've been sleepless these past few months, haven't you?"
You swallowed thickly. It felt as though you were just about to walk into a field full of tripwires while blindfolded. Was there a right and wrong answer here? Did it matter? You had to try anyway.
"I...I wanted to talk to you."
"Is that so? About the monsters?"
You stiffened. He couldn't know. How could he possibly know? He had to be testing you somehow. But you couldn't risk revealing that you knew about them, not when it could mean possible consequences for the caged creatures. You made a poor attempt at taking a deep breath.
"Monsters? I don't understand what you mean."
"I think you do."
Your eyes involuntarily widened when you saw something your father took out from an interior coat pocket. It was your journal, the one you shoved beneath your pillow every night. The one you wrote and sketched in after every late-night visit to the beasts. Your chest tightened. What little confidence you had gathered was crushed to dust.
"T...That's for my dreams. I've been having night terrors for months now."
Your father hummed as he idly flipped through the pages and scanned their contents, eventually coming across the series of ripped sections where the pages were torn out. Where the most recent drawings of the creatures had been before you gave them to the Lamb.
"Hm. Is that so?"
You just nodded slowly, unable to look your father in the eyes as you lied right to his face for the very first time. Your stomach churned, and you could only focus on trying not to let your fingers tremble. Father dropped your diary to the floor with a simple tilt of his hand, and you flinched at the loud noise it made when it hit the ground.
"Oh, my child. Hasn't anyone told you that you are a terrible liar?"
He began to step towards you, and you couldn't move. You bit the inside of your lip as you realized that he had no anger in his eyes, no worry or fear or anything like that. Just gentle admonishment as though you were small. That was somehow worse than anything else you could have imagined.
"Did you really think it was just that easy to sneak in, night after night?"
You weren't able to hide your trembling anymore. Father was within arm's distance now, and though it felt almost impossible to think, you realized that you were afraid of what your father might do. It was unsettling to think about just how much power he held over you, the caged creatures, the circus as a whole. Your father sighed a disappointed sound, and you shrunk away from him.
"I planned to let you learn on your own. But it appears that those loathsome things have seeped their influence into your mind. They have made you think that they are deserving of your pity and sympathy."
He brought his hands up, and you flinched away, swiftly turning your head and squeezing your eyes shut. But there was no harsh strike to your face, no painful grip on your chin. Instead you felt his warm palms press against your cheeks as he turned your face to gaze into your eyes. The action alone was enough to completely disarm you. You hadn't received affection like this in a very long time.
"My poor, sweet, naive child. You may be grown, but there is still much for you to learn. It is only natural that those demons would seek to corrupt your goodness."
Your eyes stung. Father was lying. He had to be. Those creatures were beasts, but they weren't demons. They spoke of connection, of love, of...
"You have lied to me. You tried to steal from me. You turn a blind eye to sins, especially your own. I no longer recognize you."
You didn't realize tears had begun to trail down your cheeks until they were gently wiped away by your father's thumbs, and then with a handkerchief you knew he always carried in one of his pockets. The gesture was far more nerve-wracking than if he were to strike your face or shove you to the ground in retribution for deceiving him.
But he was not angry with you. Only disappointed. The thought of it made your entire body shudder with deep dread. Yes, that's right. Despite your hidden resentments, despite his secrets, despite everything...you loved your father. You depended on him. He raised you, guided you, molded you into who you are today. Where would you be without him?
The thought alone made a peach pit-sized lump form in your throat. Your father hummed as if reading your thoughts and continued to speak while wiping your tears.
"Their hearts are black and empty. They know only to eat or be eaten. To hide in their shadows and lure you in to taint your precious light."
But…the creatures weren't like that. Were they? They told you to leave when you first encountered them. They didn't lure or seduce you into the darkness, you walked willingly into it. Father stared into your eyes as though he could see something that you couldn't, like he could tell there were still conflicting ideas within your mind.
“Dearest child. Don’t you see? They pulled on your heartstrings and strung you along to think against what I have taught you.”
You felt impossibly small beneath his gaze. When you were little, you might have considered that feeling to be comforting, knowing that your father was watching you and shielding you from the rest of the world. Like how he would guide you through your nightly prayers to God and His angels to protect you while you slept. But now, it only felt like he would crush you beneath his shoe, like he was looming in the hopes of smothering and suffocating you.
Perhaps that was just how it always felt.
You wiped your eyes with one of your arms, trying to suppress your hiccups and sobs as best you could—and trying to reject his gesture of care. You loved your father, but you had just learned that he was willing to let the beasts you dared to care about die painful and slow deaths. He was a cruel tormentor, but he was also drying your tears and cradling your face in his hands. You just didn’t know what to think anymore.
When you looked back at your father, he was holding something in his palm for you to see. Your gaze traveled downward to see that it was a slip of paper. No, it was a ticket. A front row seat for the grand performance tomorrow evening. A sharp pang of dread pierced through your heart as you realized what he was doing.
“See for yourself what your kindness would have brought upon you. See those beasts for what they truly are. Do that…”
He reached his other hand into a coat pocket, and you heard a light metallic jingle. Your eyes widened upon seeing your father take out a single metal key on a ring.
He knew.
He knew this whole time why you were here. But how? And when did he learn of you visiting the caged beasts? How much of the past few months had occurred only because of your father’s discretion? Had he really known this whole time? Your stomach started to hurt even worse.
“And I will let you decide for yourself whether or not you would wish to see them again.”
————
Everything felt like an awful dream after that. You couldn’t sleep that night, and during the day when tasked with passing out flyers for the grand show in the evening, your father would always watch you from a distance, acting as though nothing had happened the night prior.
It was an unspoken acknowledgment that he knew you had been trying your best not to pass out the papers in the past few months. He knew you hid them, crumpled them, folded them into different shapes to avoid letting people see them. His watchful eyes forever followed your movements, and there were no opportunities to be rid of the flyers now.
You constantly felt like you wanted to spit up the contents of your stomach right then and there in public—not only because there was an aching emptiness in your gut that never once subsided, but also because you wanted any sort of excuse to evade your father’s gaze. But time passed too slowly and too quickly all at once, like a hazy dream forgotten upon waking. The sun had eventually set as it did every day, and you found yourself loathing it. The time for the performance was soon. Too soon.
You watched a long line of people begin to form at the circus’s entrance, all of them eager to see the horrors the tents held. All except for you. You stayed there, frozen at the entrance, unwilling to get into the line with your ticket but also unable to simply refuse. You couldn’t just run off into the horizon and disappear along with the sun.
But you weren’t curious about the very thing you had desperately wanted to see just a few months ago. What happened to that innocent person who knew nothing of monsters outside of childish bedtime stories? What happened to the dutiful and diligent Ringmaster’s child? This circus and its shows were now the sole things you wanted no knowledge of. But this is what you longed for, is it not?
Pins and needles traversed every inch of your body as you took step after heavy step towards the end of the line into the circus, your small ticket held in your hands as though it were a set of iron shackles. The line shortened, and all too soon you were at the front, hands trembling as your ticket was taken and torn, the man—who you knew as one of your father’s friends who helped with the circus—behind the counter wishing you a good time at the show.
You took one last look into the sky as you trudged slowly past the circus threshold. It was a moonless night, and though you had walked this exact path more times than you could count, it felt foreign and unfamiliar with all the people surrounding you, especially the lights inside the tent you approached.
You walked slowly into the main tent, but unlike all those times before, the lights decorating the interior were glowing, providing an atmosphere that would be ideally welcoming and atmospheric but only felt hollow and foreboding to you. Inching your way towards the front row, you spotted a seat that had your name written neatly on a pale card with dark ink. It was in your father’s handwriting. A sour and acrid taste coated the back of your tongue upon reading it.
Reluctantly, you sat down in the spot reserved for you, feet constantly shifting and palms sweating. The world itself seemed to tilt side to side the longer you waited for the show to begin. It was too loud, too bright, too warm—even though you knew everyone else around you thought differently.
Every last muscle in your body tensed as if trying to turn themselves inside out and escape, a fundamental rejection of being here in this place at this time. A heavy weight in your gut kept you seated in your spot as though you had swallowed a mouthful of lead.
But just then, a single spotlight had been turned on, and at the center of the ring was your father. The Ringmaster. He spoke of fear and faith and something else, but his words went in one of your ears and out the other. You were too distracted with sheer anxiety and dread to fully pay attention to what he was saying.
But when he finished speaking in his charismatic cadence, when you and the rest of the audience had leaned forward in your seats with anticipation, he finally motioned to six small pedestals equally spread out behind him.
One by one, he introduced each of the “performers” to the audience by a title, and each one emerged from the darkness behind that familiar curtain shambling in heavy chains on their wrists. One by one, each beast was forced beneath the bright lights and onto the small pedestals. They all wore circus-like attire that clearly wasn’t comfortable nor made for them, colorful markings painted onto their dark faces.
It was strange and almost unsettling how much you could see of their forms in this lighting. The matches from before illuminated just enough, but not too much to where it was invasive. But these bright lights were merciless in making sure every last sharp edge and beastly feature was on full display. They likely felt no different from surgical overhead lights, unforgiving and far too exposing for prying eyes.
Your father briefly explained each of the creatures’ (likely fabricated) origins and their supposedly otherworldly abilities, and you only got more and more angry the longer you watched. The air in your lungs became thicker and harder to breathe in, but you couldn’t look away, not for a second.
The crowd behind you gasped and cried out and made all sorts of reactions upon seeing how “tame” the creatures appeared to be, but you remained completely silent as the show went on. Your eyes stung as you watched your father force the beasts through acts and stunts and routines that clearly strained their already weakened bodies. But the crowd urged for more, and so your father did too.
It was all just too much to take in. But the worst had yet to come.
The worst was when your father narrated how these beasts were children of deepest Hell, creatures of the night that stole the faces of humans and spread sin among proper society. The crowd became ravenous for cruelty, chanting and yelling out for the beasts to be punished and sent back to their infernal realm. Your breathing became shallow then as you finally turned your head around to look at the crowd. Were these people insane?
The man who blatantly lied about the “sins” of these creatures was not your father in your mind. He spoke of the one he called the Damsel—the pink-eyed beast—being a seductress and licentious spreader of lust, and of the one he called the Marionettist—the violet-eyed Leader—being a prideful manipulator of minds. One after the next, he spread lies only to spur the crowd on and make them scream out their desires for violence.
You flinched when the Ringleader and a few other men began to “punish” the beasts by either using nearly medieval methods of torture or forcing them into acts that only granted them further pain when their bony bodies obviously eventually failed them. The crowd couldn’t get enough of it. You felt sick to your stomach.
At some point one of the men had brushed a hand over the Lamb’s shoulder in a way that made you want to retch. When the golden-eyed Sentinel moved to try to protect her, he was harshly stabbed in his shoulders with a blade of some kind. The other beasts noticeably panicked and tried to move over to aid him, but they were stopped with wordless threats of worse punishments.
It wasn’t until you noticed their bright-colored eyes had met yours that you finally began to cry. Their faces were so unfathomably pained, so exhausted and desperate, and when each of them realized that you were in the crowd, their eyes widened briefly before squeezing shut in pain. You put a palm over your mouth to unsuccessfully contain your subsequent sobs. It was all just too much.
“Stop.”
It was just a whisper from your lips. A plea from the very depths of your heart.
“Father, please.”
You knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t hear you. And even then, you knew he wouldn’t listen. The look in his eyes was something you had never seen in him before. Greed. The look of a slave bound to his own desires.
“Please…please, don’t…”
What did your words mean against the entire rest of the crowd’s? What did your experiences and thoughts mean against the hatred shared by the rest of the entire world?
“Leave them alone.”
You had removed your hand from over your mouth, voice gaining just the slightest bit of volume. But it wasn’t enough.
“STOP!”
Your voice, as sob-filled and injustice-driven as it was in that moment, was drowned out. Why wouldn’t it be? What could you hope to achieve with your own voice that had never known speaking above a conversational level? You, who had never once stood up to your father, would now attempt to do so in a circus crowd.
It was pathetic, really.
You were just short of contemplating running directly into the performance ring to force your father to stop the shows, but the torment had finally come to an end. Exhausted and beaten nearly beyond recognition, the beasts were forced back into the darkness, dragged by their chains. Your father bowed and also stepped into the curtained area, into the dark, all while cryptically giving one last speech about deception and faith and whatever other nonsense he claimed to care about.
And just like that, it was over. The crowd seemed to return back to being consisted of normal people instead of crazed lunatics, and every last person quietly made their way out of the tent as if they hadn’t just witnessed horrible abuse. Did they rationalize it? Or did they simply not see anything wrong with it in the first place? Or did they truly believe it all to be fake? How did these people sleep at night knowing what they had chanted and cheered on for?
You were still left sitting there in your seat, heart hammering in your ribcage and lungs struggling to keep up. It took everything in you not to follow your father into that darkness and scream all sorts of profanities and insults at him and his godforsaken performances. Eventually, the idle after show chatter had faded away, and you were the only person left in the seats. But you still didn’t move, head held in your hands in sheer shock at what you had seen.
You weren’t sure how long you sat there. But judging by the way the entire area slowly became quiet, you would guess a couple hours at least. Eventually though, you heard footsteps approaching. You didn’t need to stare at the boots near your feet to know that your father had approached you, no doubt waiting for your admission that he was right all along like when you were young and impressionable.
“So you’ve seen them now. You’ve seen what I promised to one day show you.”
He spoke in that way he always did when he was waiting for you to admit that you were wrong and should have listened to him. Did he really think you to be that stupid? Did he really think that you had gathered that he was the one in the right after the show? After what you saw in his eyes? In his actions?
You began to tremble, but it wasn’t with fear this time. It was with sheer anger. Remembering his question, you nodded only once to answer it, head raising to meet his gaze with eyes unclouded by your previous misplaced trust in him. Yes, you indeed did see those creatures for what they truly are. But more importantly, you saw your father for what he truly is, too.
“Those beasts…they’re hurt creatures who were tricked and forced to perform! You’re the only real monster here! You went to them and you lied!”
Your words started out hissed and nearly mumbled, but they rapidly gained strength and volume as you continued speaking. You stood up from your seat, movement fueled by pure rage at father’s audacity to believe himself untouchable. But your father cut you off before you could continue, which only angered you further.
“I gave them an opportunity. But I realize now that there’s no point in negotiating with unreasonable beasts. They have failed me. Just as you have.”
The veins in your knuckles were white-hot as you clenched your fingers impossibly tight into fists as your father kept speaking. You knew your face had twisted into something ugly and furious because his had done the same upon seeing it.
“I raised you to be diligent, dutiful. Instead you defy me like a shallow sinner and succumb so easily to the temptations of those foul things.”
You were surprised your molars didn’t crack from the pressure you put on them from the anger channeled in your jaws. Pure fury roiled within your chest at what you now realized was just meaningless jargon about God and sins and demons. You pointed a single finger at your hypocrite of a father, and it was clear he never expected such sheer outward expression from you by the way his face reflected shock for just a moment. It was the most unsettled you had ever seen him in your whole life.
Good.
“The only one who succumbed to sin is you with your greed! You know what those creatures are. You always have. They’re not demons or monsters, they’re just different from us! They love, they fear, they hunger! They were starving. They were starving and dying and desperate, and you took advantage of them!”
The air became thick, but you didn’t care. It was a miracle you were able to get all of that out without a single stutter. You panted heavy breaths between clenched teeth, the sides of your head aching just above your temples where your jaw hinged. One of your father’s eyes twitched, another sign of him being completely unsettled by your outburst. He looked at you as though you were a foul fanged beast foaming at the mouth in need of chains.
But then his eyes darkened as he tilted his head upward. He refused to allow his ego to be hurt by his own child, that much was apparent. You briefly wondered if he would finally drop the “pious refined man” act once and for all.
“And that advantage has faded. Even starved and caged and beaten, those filthy creatures are still too troublesome to keep.”
You were confused, and you were sure your face reflected that. What did he mean? There was no way the creatures are of any threat with how thoroughly hurt they are now. Your father narrowed his eyes. He knew something you didn’t. He angled his head in a way that you recognized as condescending, a small smile creeping onto his face.
“You don’t know, do you? The basis of their nature. Their reason for living.”
Father stepped closer to you, but you refused to back down. He seemed to take that as a challenge.
“What do you think allows them to do such things that we can only call black magic or otherworldly? What is it you think beasts of their kind feast on? It isn’t any livestock you can think of.”
Your stubborn resolve was shaken for only a moment, but your father saw it. He always did. You momentarily took your eyes off of his to think. Was he just lying? He had to be. You fed the creatures yourself. Granted, it was meager portions of subpar nutritional value, but it kept them from dying. Your fiery gaze went back to his patronizing one.
“You’re lying. That’s all you do. That’s all you’ve ever done!”
“Am I? Those things, they’re never truly sated, are they? There is only one thing their appetites are satisfied by. You saw it yourself, didn’t you? Their eyes. Their twisted hunger.”
You involuntarily remembered that time you cut your finger in front of the beasts, how they all went silent and fixated on your blood. You could tell father could see the gears turning in your head, and you rapidly shook your head to be rid of the memory. He was just getting into your head, trying to give you reasons to give in to fear. Trying to shatter your resolve. No, you couldn’t let his words seep into the cracks of your mind. You wouldn’t.
Upon seeing your face and your refusal to listen to him, father’s gaze had darkened. It was almost enough to catch you off guard, but you caught yourself first. You didn’t remove your gaze from his face as he reached a hand into one of his costume’s pockets, and you heard that light metallic jingling again. His fingers dangled that single key to the cages in front of your face as if you were nothing but a dog outside a butcher shop.
“Very well. Go on, then. Give those creatures the freedom they seek. Learn for yourself what their truth is.”
He then dropped the key, and you quickly caught it in your palms and held it close to your chest like it would be taken away at any moment. He took one step back, then a few more, then he turned around to walk out of the tent, arms held behind his back as he did so. You stared daggers into the back of his head.
“Just don’t ever say I didn’t warn you. I’ll be waiting.”
You wanted to yell after him, to curse under your breath or even spit at his heels, but you refrained. Somehow. What mattered now was that you had the key that would free the beasts from their dark and cold prisons. That was why you did this, why you went to the show in the first place, why you defied your father at all.
And now, father truly wasn’t watching. Nobody else was here. This was your chance.
Though the walk itself to those curtains was short, it felt especially foreboding on this moonless night, likely because of how much you had done just to get the key. But none of that mattered in this moment. You repeated that over and over again, not letting yourself think too much about the future. You promised to help, and now you would help. That was all that mattered.
You slowly approached and parted the curtain like you had so many times before and stepped into the darkness, being extra careful not to make any sudden movements. The caged creatures must be especially vulnerable after those brutal acts and during the performance. You clutched the metal key in your hand tighter, making sure that it still existed in your grip. You had sworn not to return unless you had it, after all.
But as your eyes adjusted in the dark, and as you utilized the sliver of light from the performance lights behind you, something became overwhelmingly apparent. The imprisoned beings were no longer imprisoned. The green-eyed Knave stood in front of one cage, its iron bars bent in different directions to allow for him to escape.
The sight was so jarring that you simply stood there and blinked for a long moment. But no matter how many times you checked if you were seeing things correctly with eyes adjusted to the shadows, the sight remained the same. The Knave was no longer caged. As a matter of fact, none of the others were caged either. They all stood outside of their bars, having freed themselves.
But…how?
How did they gather the strength and energy to go so far as to bend the bars of their cages? And after such a brutal performance? It just didn’t make sense. How were they all out and about?
Wait. No. Not all of them.
Where is the pink-eyed beast? Where is the Lamb? You saw her get dragged back here just like the others. Your gaze traveled downward to see if she was sitting on the ground, but there was nothing. Nothing but broken chains and pried shackles and…tattered cloth? Torn ribbon and scraps of stained fabric and shiny dark splotches on the floor…
No, you recognized those ribbons, those scraps of cloth, the unmistakably coppery and sickeningly warm smell you only now realized was hanging in the air.
It was then that you also noticed a distinct dripping patter. The source of the sound was revealed to be from the sharpened claws and wetted chins of the beasts, and the liquid was the same dark color as the stains on the floor. They had just eaten something. They had just eaten fresh meat. They had just eaten…
A sudden heavy weight settled just inside your ribs, making the surrounding air feel too thick and too thin at the same time. Either way, it was nearly impossible to pull anything into your lungs. That acrid and bitter taste at the back of your throat returned tenfold, bile threatening to trickle at the very end of your tongue.
You looked back up only to realize that all of the bright and colored eyes were staring directly at you. No, staring directly into you. You didn’t even realize your fingers had begun to shake until the metal key in your palm fell to the ground with a resounding clatter that sounded far too loud and echoed for far too long. Whatever scraps of resolve you had salvaged earlier were nonexistent now. The words that somehow came from your mouth were whimpered at best.
“You…You…”
A couple of them shifted, and you flinched. Why you didn’t move to run or scream or do anything, you had no idea. The Erudite then noticeably tilted his feathered head as if observing something like he used to during your late-night visits. You almost didn't recognize his eyes. They were a bright crimson instead of that usual cyan.
“You are the Ringmaster’s child.”
Your breaths became shallow. The fact that the beasts now knew and acknowledged your connections to the circus leader only made your fear unimaginably worsen. Would they have found out one way or another, their senses more keen than yours ever would be? Did they already know and simply waited for you to admit such important information yourself?
The words you tried to muster up clogged at the back of your throat. But there was a palpable sense of something being fundamentally wrong about the creatures stood within the darkness. Something different.
“How is it that such a cruel man raised and taught one such as you, the opposite?”
It was hard to pay attention to the Knave’s words when he sounded completely out of it. He didn’t sound as if he was all there, like he was in a deluded and dazed state. They all seemed to act like that, actually, forms slightly swaying side to side like they weren’t used to standing upright. It was a deeply disturbing sight.
But just to make sure they wouldn’t misunderstand you for being the child of their tormentor, you tried to reason, tried to tell them that you had no idea about what was happening in the shows. But of course, your mind was too flooded, thoughts and feelings and impressions all swimming together and leaving you hardly capable of stringing up a single coherent sentence.
“I…I didn’t…”
“You didn’t know. You didn’t know until tonight. Your face says it all. And we don’t resent you for it.”
The Leader’s unexpectedly considerate words put you slightly more at ease. But that would prove to be a terrible mistake to make around monsters when you heard what he said next.
“But now you must know that we do not do this out of malice. Not towards you.”
Confusion was written all over your face, and you didn’t bother hiding it. What did they mean? What were they going to…
You tried backing up to regain some level of control over your body, but ended up bumping into a large form behind you. On instinct, you tried to turn around, but one long, beastly arm wrapped around your midsection, and another large pointed hand clamped around your wrists to prevent you from moving. By process of elimination of the beasts in front of the cages, you realized that it was the golden-eyed Sentinel that had snuck up behind you and was now silently holding you still, not reacting in the slightest to your struggling. You started to panic.
“Wha-What are you-“
“We are free, but not safe. We can only hope to survive if we manage to live among your kind. But to do that, we must become human ourselves. And to become human…”
The beasts stepped closer and closer to your struggling form, and you were going to yelp or cry out or just say or do something, but a dark clawed hand had pressed over your mouth. The Knave emerged from your blind spot, having moved closer to you faster than you thought he could. He had a demented look in his emerald eyes that made your eyes water.
“We must know your flesh.”
You attempted to scream, to bite, to struggle, to cry, to reason, anything. It was all useless. The Sentinel noticeably trembled behind you, but his grip didn’t loosen even a little. If anything, it only got tighter. Hushed and rasped whispers came from everywhere and nowhere.
“Quickly. Use your poison. Numb the pain.”
The others had fully approached you now, forming a loose half-circle around you and the golden-eyed fellow beast who held you against your will. Your eyes widened when you fully comprehended what the Oblique had said, and you began struggling as hard as you could when you saw the emerald-eyed creature lean towards you with the claws on his free hand lengthened. You struggled for your life.
But before you knew it, there was a sudden warm and wet trickling on your neck, and then a prickling burning sensation that traveled from the wound directly into your veins. You began sobbing at this point, already knowing what had been done. The Knave’s cold and skeletal hand remained firmly placed over your mouth, though whether for the beast’s sake of not being caught or some attempt to console you, you didn’t know. It didn’t really matter.
The Leader had stepped forward and trailed the claws on one hand against your forehead in a way that reminded you of how a farmer consoled its livestock before being slaughtered. Gentle and mildly considerate, but not remorseful. Especially since you and everyone else knew exactly what was being done to you.
You were being murdered.
It only just now fully hit you. You were going to die. This was it. You were being killed by the very beings you wanted to set free. You were going to be eaten. But worst of all, you were being betrayed. You sobbed even harder if it were possible at that, and the violet-eyed beast in front of you swiped a thumb under one of your eyes in an attempt to cease your endless tears.
“Be still, dear human. We grant this last kindness in her name. She who considered you a friend despite your nature as a human.”
Despite the fact that you knew your lungs hungered for air, no amount of breathing could satisfy that ache. Your heartbeat didn’t quite match the primal panic you knew you felt. Your lungs were impossibly heavy, and it felt as though every last vein in your body from the very top of your head down to the ends of your feet was on fire. But your blood felt cold as ice. Your fingertips started to tingle. A metallic taste started to form on your tongue.
Oh no. No no no no no no no no
“Wait until the light leaves the eyes. Wait until the blood goes still.”
No no no no no no no no this isn’t happening you can’t be dying this can’t be real this has to be a nightmare
“A painless death is one rarely attained by your kind from ours, and our kind from yours. Our gift to you, as you were good to us when the rest of the world wasn’t.”
You’d hardly consider this to be a kindness or painless or a gift. Perhaps a cultural aspect among monsters that had simply gone unmentioned by them in your late-night visits. It became harder to breathe now, and your pulse had slowed even more, forcing you to become dizzy. The room began to spin and blur together as your strength was rapidly depleted in the span of just a couple of minutes. You couldn't feel the ground beneath your feet. Then the paralysis reached your ankles. Then your shins.
The monsters continued to watch you struggle and fight in a way that reminded you of a cat watching its prey struggle beneath its paw. You wanted to ask them why. Why would they do this to you? But you could barely form sobs, let alone words. And you could feel deep within your heart that these creatures wouldn't hear them anyway. There was something present in their eyes that wasn't there before. A veil of insanity draped over their minds that made them hardly right in the head. Hunger-driven lunacy? A psychotic break triggered by the threat of death?
It didn't matter.
“In this way, you will be remembered as you were. You will not have the chance to become cruel and empty as all humans inevitably do.”
Had your knees buckled at some point? You didn’t notice you had lost sensation in them, and the same thing had occurred to your fingers. You didn’t fall to the ground, though, instead the grip on your midsection shifted as you were slowly and gently placed onto the floor as though you were merely about to fall asleep. You struggled to keep your eyelids open despite the fact that your mind screamed at you to stay awake.
“You will stay as you are. Naive. Unknowing. Good. And we will regain our strength from you. Strength enough to take our freedom by force.”
The hand that was held over your mouth wasn’t there anymore. When was it removed? You tried to scream to no avail. You tried to mumble but failed. All you could get out was a strained whimper. You were scared. Despite your deceptively slowed heart rate and shallow breaths, you were terrified. But your body was no longer yours.
You couldn’t move any part of your body. Not even your lungs fully obeyed. They only got slower and slower, as did your heart. The ends of your arms and legs were completely numb. You watched with spotted and blurry vision as your arms were gently held by the other beasts, though the gesture didn’t appear to be comforting. No, it looked like…
Like they were studying and inspecting your flesh. It was no different than a piece of meat at a market for them. You let out another strained whimper, quieter and weaker this time.
The Leader had trailed his clawed fingertips against your hairline this time, the gesture not even vaguely similar to any kind of consolation. He and the others were murdering you, and a quick touch was supposed to be a comfort? It was the equivalent of putting a single suture on a deep and gaping wound. He began to speak again, but to who? The others? Himself? It was impossible to tell at this point.
“We will reclaim our roles. We will form a new life. A new circus. A new home, just as she wished. One built on her sacrifice…and now yours.”
But this wasn’t…
Was he telling himself that this was a sacrifice on your end? Was this genuinely how he viewed it? Was this simply what he saw as the truth in his manic lust for blood and consumption? The way he worded it made you briefly wonder if all this was at least partially your fault.
Was there something you had missed? Was there another way this all could have ended? Were you just too stupid to see it? Too naive to think that there was any other way? Too stubborn and foolish like your father to consider any other option?
Was this life of yours a waste? Were you destined to have such a short and unfulfilled existence? Why did you have to be so dependent on your father? Why did you have to become so involved with these inhuman beasts?
Tears continued to slide down your face, thought the sensation was distant and numbed now. You wanted to laugh an ironic and empty sound at your circumstances. What else was there to do upon reflecting back on your pitiful life with only your father and these creatures as the bonds that gave your life any semblance of meaning?
Thinking about it now, both your father and the imprisoned ones thought you to be naive and foolish, a mere child in the grand scheme of things who had never known profound struggle or a desire so desperate that it split your very soul apart at the seams. But they are both right and wrong. You realized that now.
Within the truths of your father and these creatures, you realized your own. You were unknowing of the world, sheltered, kept locked away your whole life, yes. But you still knew pain. You still knew what it meant to want. You knew struggle not in physical needs but emotional. You desperately wanted to understand and be understood in turn. You wanted to be seen. You wanted to be seen and loved and wanted despite your flaws. Even though you knew you were naive. Even though you were stubborn. Even though you were weak.
You just wanted someone to care for you unconditionally just a fraction of the way you wished to care for others. Like your mother. But she was dead now. And the only person you had left was your father.
But your father’s love, your god’s love…it was conditional. One wrong move, one action deemed wrong or irredeemable, and you were cast out. A pale fabric stained and spotted and thrown away as mere garbage.
What would it be like, you once wondered, for someone to see your stains and spots and imperfections and love you anyway? What would it be like to be able to show your faults and flaws and fears?
You didn’t know. And now you never would.
And yet, even as your heart beat slower and slower, as your hands grew cold and numb, you couldn’t hate the beasts who would do this to you. You just couldn’t bring yourself to harbor any true resentment towards them. In your foolishness, you had let them become dear to you. For it, you were dying. For it, they would consume you. For it, you didn’t have any of the rage or grieving despair you knew you wanted to have.
You really only felt such things towards your father…and yourself.
Why did you and that cruel man have to meddle with things neither of you fully understood? Why did that greed-driven man have to try to contain and control starving beasts that ate humans? Why did you have to go into this tent on that fateful night all those months ago?
Perhaps that is what your father meant all those years ago about your insatiable curiosity and desire for knowledge coming from him.
Perhaps that is what the monsters were hinting at when they spoke of how you wouldn’t have the chance to turn cruel and empty like your father, like all humans.
But even still, you didn’t want to accept any of this, not even now. Just because you didn’t hate these beasts didn’t mean that you were completely fine being killed and eaten by them. And just because these beasts rightfully deserved their revenge after all the injustices they faced doesn’t mean that you wanted to be the catalyst for it.
Your vision was finally starting to fade now. Black spots dotted your vision as you continued your struggle to cling to your life. But there was simply nothing else you could do. Sharp eyes of different colors—now devoid of pink downturned ones—stared down into your own. The last words you would hear would be from the golden-eyed being who you just now realized was cradling your head in his lap, sharp claws slightly digging into the sides of your head.
“Sleep.”
His voice was impossibly distant despite the fact that his face was just above yours. In your delirium you briefly thought it to be the bone-dry hushed voice of Death beckoning you. Or was it the ancient voice of God calling out to you only now when you met your unjust end?
What a cruel Father, you thought as your vision narrowed and the world itself seemed to bend and warp and fade away. If Heaven was where He or your father would be, then you would sooner face both of them head-on and walk backwards into Hell. You decided with the last shreds of your supposedly gifted free will that you had no god. And you no longer had a father.
A deep and slow breath left your lungs and escaped between your lips. It was not followed by a breath in. Your heart faintly thumped in your chest for what would be the last time.
Everything went darker and darker, until there was no light, no warmth, no sound.
Only emptiness.
——————————————
≫ GOD this took forever to write holy shit. I did not expect it to get this long I swear. Would you believe me if I told you this was supposed to be a short list of headcanons??? >.>
≫ There was also an additional scene that I ended up CUTTING, believe it or not. It involved the reader’s father proposing for them to become the new owner and ringleader of the circus, to which they’d be horrified and vehemently reject said offer and go off to meet the monsters in their cages.
≫ I ended up cutting that scene bc I thought it would have been a little slow for what I was going for. Womp womp ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
≫ I also had a tiny scene of what happened after the reader meets their fate. A little epilogue of what happened to their father, the monsters, the circus...lemme know if y'all wanna see that as a little add-on or tiny bonus part!
Edit: The epilogue is now posted! I’ll leave the link here!
≫ Also originally I was gonna have the reader actually come up with the Commedia Dell’arte names for the monsters, but the longer I thought about it…it just didn’t make sense. So I came up with the other nicknames.
≫ The bible verses referenced in this work are, in order: 2 Corinthians 11:14, 1 Peter 5:8, Romans 12:12, Luke 8:17, Ecclesiastes 1:8, Psalm 23:4, 2 Corinthians 4:18, and James 1:20. All in the NIV for consistency!
≫ I am not currently religious (though I was raised catholic) so please forgive me if any of these verses are misused or otherwise quoted in a manner that could be considered poor taste. Religious trauma amirite (may or may not have deconstructed my childhood for this uhhhhh)
≫ Feel free to use this work as a baseline for any of your own AU’s, OC’s, etc! I’ve got a few ideas of my own floating around. Just spitballing here, maybe this Past!MC could be another restless ghost lingering in the circus like Columbina, or maybe the Present!MC is a reincarnation of them or maybe a distant descendant of the Ringmaster…go crazy! I’d love to see it all!
≫ This work was made entirely without the use of AI. I do not consent to any text from this work being scraped to use in any sort of character-based AI or other LLM.
≫ Thank you SO much for reading this, it means a lot! :)
