mm. what if, hear me out, the 141 were gods. and obviously, gods of war. and what if, hear me out, people try to give them a sacrifice?
masterlist
cw: some gore, violence, kyle might be unhinged
Her pleads were drowned by chanting. Hands grabbed at her body, free from her dress since the morning when she had been dragged from her bed.
Her mother cried, hunched over the strong arm of her father as they watched her fight against the hands of the village elders’ sons. They knew it was coming, had been warned two nights prior that she had been chosen by the gods. The Gods. Her mother wailed but her father only tightened his grip as she plead for her life.
The dirt was wet, almost mud, and caked her legs, feet, and arms. Every time she slipped from one man’s grip, another would tackle her to the ground then hoist her into the air. Her screams echoed through the village, drawing out the folk so they could watch.
She had no idea when her dress had been torn from her, only that it was freezing and anyone within reach was touching any part of her they could. Some whispered words of prayer at her. As if the gods hadn’t spoken for her life.
Rope wound around her wrists and she begged. The man in front of her, the son of Elder Torsten, kept his eyes anywhere but on hers. His hair was caked in mud, having just tackled her to the ground, and his hands were bloody. Had she done that?
As the rope tightened, she pulled at it, causing him to step forward. She pleaded again, but he never lifted his eyes from her wrists.
She remembered him. They had been friends in their youth, exploring the woods around the village with the other children. She recalled the first time he kissed another boy and had hidden in her house for a week after his father found out.
A sharp command came from behind him, Tage she finally remembered, and he was ripped away so she could stare up at the son of Elder Asmo. The oldest elder. The one who’s word was final. Jarmo was his name.
His face was twisted in a sick grin and his hands gripped her biceps.
“Are you ready to die for your village?”
The other elders’ sons stepped away to reveal their fathers. All of them wore a look of pity, shame at having condemned her to death by proxy. All but Asmo. His face was hard and he had no pity for her. He had sacrificed his own daughter ten years ago to the same gods and never flinched as she screamed over the flames. They had survived the battle by the skin of their teeth. And the blood of their sons.
“You have been chosen,” Asmo boomed, “you will save your people, child.”
Her mother screamed again but it was shuddered by a hand over her mouth.
“We,” Asmo turned to face the gathered village, “are at war. Lost many sons, fathers, brothers,” he threw his arms out and spun slowly, “but we have heard the gods’ will.”
A young girl stepped forward, her face pinched and her mouth open. An older woman put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back with a shake of her head.
“The gods need a tribute.” Asmo’s arms dropped to his side as he turned to look at her. Quieter, just to her, he spoke, “you are their tribute.”
“Please,” she whispered, tears leaving clean paths of skin down her cheeks, “please, don’t.”
“It is not my choice, child,” his hand cupped her cheek, rubbing at the tears and smearing dirt across the skin again. His skin was rough, calloused and gross. She could see the glimmer of joy in his eyes. “The gods have decreed it.”
His voice boomed again, spooking her and earning a grunt from the elders and their sons.
Tage and Jarmo stepped forward again. Tage still never looked up at her. They took her arms and forced her to walk. Rocks cut into her feet, blood dripping onto the dirt as she stumbled to keep up with them. Forward motion kept her from digging her heels into the dirt to stop them.
Other elders’ sons were laying kindling delicately on the pyre she would burn on. One who was the youngest of the sons, Svend, glanced up at her. His eyes lingered on her breasts before flicking to her bare cunt. He was too young to have laid with one of the village girls. How lucky for him to get to leer at her as she was led to her death.
Jarmo hissed at him as he lingered too long and Svend scurried back to lay more kindling down.
She recalled that Jarmo had lead his own sister to the pyre ten years ago. Said nothing as she had her forearms cut to the bone and the fire was lit under her. Watched as she burned. Listened while she screamed.
The icy winds shifted. Kindling flew off the pyre and brushed against her legs. It comforted her.
Svend rushed after it, tripping over his own feet as he struggled to catch the bundle.
A sharp gasp came from the gathered villagers. Tage and Jarmo froze and she stumbled forward, out of their grasp. Her bound hands offered her no help as she fell to the ground.
“Wot’s this?”
Her head snapped up and the breath left her lungs.
Standing atop the pyre, one hand resting almost playfully on the hilt of a broadsword and the other leaning a forearm against the stake she was to be tied to, stood a man.
His chest was bare, though covered in scars and intricate tattoos. Low on his hips was a tartan kilt, something like the Northern men would wear. It was bright; orange red and blue mixing together to mimic the fire she was to burn in. At his hip hung a broadsword, hilt covered with a gilded cage.
Her eyes had barely made it to his face when he spoke again.
“Ahm no’ speakin’ another language, aye?”
She shook her head and took in the final pieces of his features. A proud stripe of hair centered his head, though it didn’t appear that he’d maintained it in a long while. His eyes reminded her of the sky right before a storm rolled in; dark but vibrant with the possibility of destruction. On his lips was a lopsided, dark grin and she could recognize her god when she saw him.
“Then wot is this?”
Casting a look around her, every head was bowed but hers. Even Asmo had collapsed to his knees and buried his face in the dirt.
“Looks like a tribute.”
Her head whipped to the left.
Atop a thatched roof stood another man. What little skin she could see was dark and his eyes were trained on Asmo. He wore leather plated armour and a hammer at each hip. From the distance, she couldn’t make out any of the details on the weapons or armour. But she could recognize her god when she saw him.
“Nah,” the Northern man shook his head, “tributes a’ taken on the battlefield. No’ at home.”
“Dunno, Soap,” her eyes snapped back to the rogue, “looks like one to me.”
A quiet hum came from behind her, but she dared not turn away from the two gods in front of her.
“Somethin’ tae say, elder?”
“F—for you, great warriors,” Asmo’s voice shook when he spoke but the intent was clear.
“I remember this place,” the rogue was suddenly beside her despite her never blinking, “more disgusting than last time I was here.”
The rogue crouched down to her, “well, most of it.”
“Oi, focus,” Soap snapped from atop the pyre. The rogue smirked, shooting the look to Soap, before standing back up.
“Tributes are warriors,” a new voice shook the earth as it rumbled, “they die in battle.”
Beside Soap stood a berserker. He was clad in a wolf skin, his shoulders almost too big to be covered by the flattened legs. A set of steel pauldrons capped his shoulders and leather crossed his chest to keep them in place. Some of his chest was bared and scarred as Soap’s was. On his back hung a shield with a greatsword at his side, a red gem resting in the hilt. His face was obscured. Though the wolf pelt hung on top of his head, a human skull was pressed to his face. She could make out the scar that ran from his neck, through his lips, and into the skull.
“And yet, I see no war.”
A hand brushed against her back and she let out a cry.
“I mean you no harm, little one,” he said.
The final man stepped around her and yanked a dagger from his side. One stroke had the ropes falling to shreds and he offered her his free hand.
He looked like a knight. Armour thick and clinking with each shift of his body and the wind. It was silver with delicate gold filigree carved into it. The armour reminded her of the king’s guard, though the current king favoured red and black and no one had seen a silver and gold knight for over three hundred years. For there was only one.
A pelt was draped over her frame as she took his hand and was guided to her feet. The rogue had removed his gloves and was tightening the pelt around her shoulders.
“Did we not make ourselves clear ten years ago?” The knight sheathed his dagger and the scabbard vanished into thin air. “Did the graves filled with the bodies of fresh men not heed you? Are you simply,” the knight stomped to Asmo’s form and pulled him to his feet by his hair, “stupid?” The elder screamed but the noise was cut short.
“Do you think you know better than the gods?”
“N—no! No, great warrior!” Asmo’s hands grabbed at his scalp and the knight’s armoured hand. The knight merely slapped them away and dropped the elder to the ground.
“Are you alright, dove?” The rogue pulled the hood of the pelt, a cat of some kind from the snout that fell over her head, up and smoothed the skin over her shoulders.
She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady in his presence. In any of their presence.
“I remember you,” the knight scoffed, “I remember the cries of your wife. The look on your face. Do you remember what happened after the girl died?”
“Y-yes, sir, yes, great warri—” the berserker backhanded him to the ground again.
“What’d we tell ya?”
Asmo cowered under the skull’s hollow eyes, “it must be—”
“Battle.” The berserker stabbed his sword into the ground. Straight through Asmo’s thigh. “We don’t take innocent souls.”
“An’ tha’ makes her a warrior?” Soap stabbed his sword through Asmo’s bicep. “Fought a battle, she did, but nae the kind like us.”
The rogue bundled the pelt around her tighter, almost as if he was trying to stop himself from leaving her side. Up close, she could see the iridescent filigree in his leather and the shimmering of the onyx hammers at his sides. They twinkled with power and she reached for his hand.
Gaz’s head snapped to look at her. His deep, brown eyes froze her entire body.
“Don’t tell me you feel pity for him,” he whispered, “don’t show him mercy.”
Her hand loosened in his grip and the hammers glitched blue.
A sharp, instant scream tore through the silence and the rogue pressed a wet hand to her cheek. Blood covered his armour, skin, and face. His hammers dripped with it.
Asmo lie, what little was left of him, on the dirt. Blood spilled from his neck into the crater where his head once was. Brain matter splattered over those close enough to watch the savagery and the rogue brushed some away before it fell onto her hand.
“Gaz.” The knight bellowed, but cut himself off before he’d begun.
“A sacrifice has been taken. See to your wounded,” the knight commanded, “we will be taking what is ours.”
She could not even find it in herself to fear the words he said.
Ooo this is such an Everlark prompt. I tried my best with dipping my toes back into creative writing for this one so hopefully I didn't miss the mark and land directly on my face!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Hopefully it'll at least spark a little smile if nothing else!
Getting out of the base was always a welcome treat for Secret Freedom, even if that meant charging foolishly headfirst into their next mission. The work was dangerous and exhausting, and though the escape was nice, it typically ended with bruises, dents and a few days of laying low to recover. So to say that an excuse to get out that didn't involve risking their lives had a whole different type of appeal would be a severe understatement.
Larry and Shard were persistent, obviously having meticulously planned their tag teaming demands to have the day off to romp around above ground, eventually wearing on everyone else's nerves to finally give in. Though Charles vocally disagreed, Director Who had inevitably chuckled in good nature and waved the group of youngsters off, promising to keep them posted- just in case. The whole team agreed to tag along, a little less than comfortable with sending their fugitive Metal Sonic and super jinx out on their own to play in the snow. They were, afterall, still in hiding. And nothing attracted attention more than a bad luck magnet and a killer robot.
Elias was initally hesitant with the whole ordeal, naturally concerned with their cover, but was eventually convinced of the merit of a team building excercise that didn't involve trust falls(which Silver adamantly voiced his disdain for after Shard was 'kind enough' to demonstrate) or field work. And admittedly, the slight pause from the chaos was a welcome distraction.
At least, it was welcome under the promise that their locations would be out of the city's immediate line of sight and decently forested.
Larry was ecstatic, the snow hailing in the cold weather and biting wind- every lynx's dream. He tried to keep up with Shard as best he could, the Metal storming ahead with a fervor that had been absent from him for quite some time, and laughed unendingly every time the robot managed to snag a passing branch or kick up a patch of snow just big enough to cover his smaller companion from ear tufts to paws. The Twins were slightly more reserved, but chattered to themselves happily about the chance for some fresh air and open space that (most likely) wasn't going to end in chasing a suspect or finding themselves buried. Silver was largely and uncharacteristically quiet, and when Elias finally expressed concern, the time traveler brushed it off with a simple admission of 'I didn't know this was what snow looked like'. The thoughts that simple musing left him with sent a different kind of chills down the chipmunk's spine, but he said nothing else, finding a perhaps new outlook on something he'd thought so simple.
Elias appreciated that about his team- they forced him to rethink what he was certain he already knew. They'd opened his eyes in incredible ways- ways he could never thank them properly for.
Nicole had also joined in on their minature expedition, which was a surprise on its own. The artifical lynx usually confined herself to their limited base of operations for fear of running out of power. She was withdrawn from most of them- quiet and polite, but often with a lingering feeling of sadness about her. It made it difficult to interact with her at times, but she still seemed enough at home with this strange band of misfits. But watching her patiently trail after a very energetic, cabin-fever ridden Shard made her reasoning clear enough. Seeing the two apart was rare enough, anyways.
And for all Elias cared, in that moment, they were all happy. And that was the best thing he could ask for.
Even though it was a rather short lived moment of sentimentality.
Shard had made it very clear that he'd always wanted to build a snowman, ranting about how many years he'd spent in lava and explosions to want nothing more than the cold on his fingertips for once instead of heat. Needless to say, the ex-Badnik had a clear objective before they'd even set out.
He was going to build the best Chaos-forsaken snowman he'd ever seen- which had to be saying something.
Considering that he'd seen exactly none.
Regardless, an hour or so into their adventure, Shard proudly sat himself back on his knees, packing loose snow as best he could without damaging the integrity of his creation. "Hey, check this out!" He was calling for Nicole, but his voice was loud enough for them all to hear and turn to his direction. The lynx in question curiously approached, pulled from her silent musings about the large, beautiful pine trees around them. She'd missed this- the wandering and the seeing and the feeling. Despite her numbed heat sensors, her internals- her programming and her emotions and her being- hadn't felt so alive in months. Shard sat with both hands on his snowman, a cheeky smile plastered to his face as he reached around to grab a stick arm and wave it at Nicole. A snowman that looked an awful lot like-- "'Hi, I'm Silver! And I'm a killjoy!'" The ridiculous voice that managed to choke its way out of the robot's vocalizer was enough to send Nicole into a fit of giggles, trying her best to trap them behind her hand and failing.
"Pretty good, am I right?" The robot asked expectantly, his voice laced with amusement. He didn't specify whether he meant the snowman or his impression. "Shard, that's terrible!" Nicole chided teasingly, still finding herself laughing perhaps harder than she should have, "Stop that, or else you might-".
A well placed snowball whipped from the AI's peripheral vision just before it collided with Shard's head. He yelled immediately, more out of surprise than anything, cursing under his breath before instinctively dropping lower and snapping in the direction of the projectile. His artificial green eyes met with Silver's rimmed with blue, and then quickly noted the growing arsenal of icy bullets hovering over the young hedgehog's head.
"Don't think I don't see you over there, you overgrown toaster!" Silver warned, absentmindedly twirling his fingers to spin the snowballs intimidatingly above him.
A wide smile didn't keep itself from Shard's face, the entirety of his body dusted with snow and beginning to speckle and freeze with large patches of frost. He ducked behind his obviously very expertly crafted replica of his assailant and for a moment, Silver expected that he was going to start bellowing and whining about his 'injury' any second now. But when Shard reemerged, he showed no trace of crying for mock mercy. In fact, he stood suddenly so much taller than Silver remembered, wielding his weapon of choice on his adaptive arm. Well, it was sort of like his cannon, anyways. It more resembled a modifed snowball launcher that just happened to look like his cannon--
Snowball launcher.
Silver realized a great threat immediately, suddenly remembering that Shard was the heavy artillery of their team for a reason. A very, very goodreason. "You want a war, Fernhead?" The Robian called, his voice crackling with excitement and energy. "'Cause you got one!"
Larry and the Twins, who'd been peacefully making mini snowmen and rolling around making snow angels were disrupted by a sudden onslaught of pellets raining down over them- caught effectively in the crossfire between the two sides. Shard was loading heap after heap of snow into his arm, ducking behind his snowman for protection and launching the resulting packed spheres across the clearing with expert aim. Silver had the foresight to raise a small bank to use as cover while he too fired and armed himself with more ammunition. Elias made a short sound of surprise as a misfire nailed him in the chest before launching into the fray himself. He was momentarily glad that snowballs were flying in every direction- his aim was severely off, the disadvantage of preferring swords to projectiles. Nicole stood off to the side, momentarily stunned before she willed herself into motion, a genuinely happy smile on her face as she dodged the heavy fire while barking strategic weaknesses at both sides between her uncharacteristically wild laughter. All present were suddenly involved, hasily picking sides and dowsing one another in snow.
They'd all hoped for some kind of relief from the war today.
And it turned out, a different kind of war was exactly the excuse that they needed.
All over a stupid snowman.
---
A repost from my DA cause I still like this haha ^^
Klangst Week Day 6: Voltron / Galra
@klangst-week
The mission seemed easy enough, but Things don’t always go as planned.
The team set out to defeat a galra ship but they were not easy to beat.
“Keith! Watch out!” Lance shouted but it was too late, Keith’s lion was already hit with the blast of quintessence, The red lion started to descend to a nearby planet and no one could get in contact with Keith.
Lance plunged down to catch the red lion and bring it back to the ship while the others took out the remaining fleet. After the Galra fleet was defeated and everyone was back onto the ship the entire team ran towards the red lion. Her Jaws opened revealing Keith stumbling to down the platform, Lance rushed ahead and caught him just as he was about to topple over. “I got ya Keith. Are you okay?”
“I-I’m okay, just a little dizzy...” Keith replied.
“we should get Coran to take a look at you...” Shiro spoke up.
“No! I’ll just go back to my room, I’m fine! I promise.” Keith Pushed Lance away and made his way out of the hanger and towards his room.
Everyone exchanged looks of worry and confusion.
The next day Lance was roaming around the castle, he heard heard sounds coming from the hanger where the castles’s ships were. He made his way there and took notice of someone placing items into one of the ships, and from closer inspection he realized that it was Keith, but something was different. Keith had Galra ears.
Lance walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Keith?”
Keith tensed up and quickly turned to look at Lance, Lance gasped at the sight, Keith’s face was half purple with Galra ears and Bright yellow eyes, his expression was pressed into a scowl. “What?”
“What....What are you doing?”
“What does it look like, I’m leaving!” Keith turned back to finished packing up the ship.
“Why? We need you here!” Lance protested.
“No you don’t not anymore.”
“Why are you saying this?! Of course we need you! we need you to form Voltron! We always will!” Lance grabbed Keith’s shoulder and spun him around to face him. This caused Keith to grab Lance’s jacket in a tight grip and glare at him. Lance released Keith’s shoulder and widened his eyes.
“You do not need me anymore! Find someone else for the red lion’s paladin! Hell she won’t even open up for me anymore! I’m leaving Lance! You will never be able to form Voltron if I hang around! Not when I look like a filthy Galra.”
Keith Pushed Lance away again and stepped up into the ship. Lance tried again and again to get Keith to stay but nothing he said worked. Keith ended up leaving and Lance ended up feeling guilty for not being able to stop Keith from getting hit with that shot, Maybe then he would have stayed.
Art (C) @galaxiesandfairies
They were the gods of war. Four pieces that work as one. And they take their tribute in blood. What they don't take is the blood of innocents, despite what their worshipers believe.
Sacrifices are common but only the most desperate attempt to sacrifice the innocent to them. Not that it's ever garnered any favour with the gods.
This time, however, they're able to stop it before she's killed and since her village didn't want her, they'll certainly take her.
also on AO3
Sacrificial
Folklore
Advent
Tea Time
Stables
Cleaning
Alchemy
Guests
Interloper
Sweets
Quiet
Reckoning
Oxhall
Nuptials
Roses
TBD
Pantheon
The Pantheon is comprised of Gods and Goddess that don’t always see eye to eye. Most of them are friendly enough that war isn’t imminent. There are 11 known Gods at the moment. Each plays a vital role in the lives of those who worship them and those who do not. The Gods are bound by the mortals that worship them to ensure they do right by their title. Mortals may not understand it, but they are the key to a God’s mortality.
Godhood is given by the Universe. It is a being that none have ever met, nor wish to. It has no body, no voice, but all the power.
cw: illusions to abuse, mild to moderate gore and descriptions of murder
masterlist
“John?” She called from the bed.
“Pet.” He called back. When he turned to look at her, his heart clenched. She lounged in the center of the bed, sheets still strewn across the bed, chemise rucked up from her twisting and turning. Her hair stuck up in any and all directions. She looked ethereal. Save the dagger in her hand.
“Why roses?”
He wasn’t sure the question did anything to soothe his tensed heart. And faintly, John wondered if the fearful beauty he found in her holding his dagger was what she saw of them.
John chuckled anyway.
“An’ you won’t get jealous?”
Her head snapped up, “well I must now.”
He stood from the meager desk in his room and closed the space between them. Pet slid over, letting John the space he required to lay beside her.
“You mean there was someone in your mortal life?”
“Not exactly,” John took Thorn from her, setting it on the bedside table, “her name was Adaline Thorne.”
Pet humphed but listened.
“I was a King’s Guard at the time. She was the daughter of Lord Thorne - the King’s left hand man.” John leaned against his headboard and tucked her under his arm. “Not exactly his most trusted man but a man who was important nonetheless. Everyone at court called her Rose. She was the sweet to her father’s cruel.”
The yelling was louder than any battlefield. It echoed through the castle walls and John despised being the one who had to go to silence Lord Thorne—and make sure he hadn’t killed someone. Again.
The door swung open and John gripped his pommel.
“Lord Thorne.”
The man whipped around and John would have been impressed at how bloodshot Thorne’s eyes were if it wasn’t so common a sight.
“Commander,” he sneered, “to what do I owe the pleasure.”
John filled the doorway. His armour only made him appear larger. Thorne barely reached his shoulders with his fancy heeled shoes. Custom ordered in an attempt to appear taller and stand over all but the King. John didn’t reply. Thorne laughed - half humour, half fearful. In his fist, Rose’s arm surely bruised. But she never shared her father’s fearfulness of the Commander.
In the presence of Commander Price, Rose ripped her arm from her father’s grasp and roughly smoothed her hands down her gown.
“Father,” she hissed out.
“A family matter, I assure you, Commander. There is no need—”
“I do not care what the matter is, Lord Thorne.” John’s gloves creaked as he gripped his pommel harder to prevent himself from grabbing the lord’s throat.
“You have no right-”
“Sir,” John stepped farther into the room.
Thorne stepped back, peacocking himself to appear even half as intimidating as he thought he was. Rose took a step to the side, twisting her wrist.
“Should I ever find you with your hands on a lady again, I will take you in front of his Majesty himself.”
Thorne snorted, “my daughter is hardly a lady, Ser Price.”
John did grab the man’s doublet, yanking Thorne against his cold, hard breastplate, “you would do better to remember your manners in front of a lady of King Ulfric’s court.”
Thorne sneered a smile at him and tapped at John’s fist. “Of course, Commander.”
John shoved him away and turned to Rose.
“M’lady.”
With a quick glance at the shaking lord, she rolled her eyes at him. John’s hard glare quirked into a grin. Rose turned on her heel and started out of the room. John gave a nod to the empty spot where she once stood and turned to follow.
Thorne chuckled. John stopped.
“You will never have her.” John’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep, long breath. “I will never approve the union. No King can overrule me.”
John continued, slamming the door shut behind him.
She lingered around the corner and John surveyed her. Despite her strength in front of her father, she was wary, tired. A deep blue bruise covered her wrist, surely a similar one bloomed on her upper arm. He sighed and approached.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The door behind them did not open.
“It is my duty.”
Rose scoffed, “My father might be stupid but—”
“No, Adaline, he is not.”
The colour drained from her face. Her head shook side to side involuntarily.
“No. No, he can’t know...”
John turned his head away, “he does. He...”
The door clicked open.
“Good day, Lady Thorne.” John bowed at her and turned down a different hall. He could hear her step after him but pause before she made it too far.
“Men are cruel,” Pet mused, nails tracing shapes into John’s bare chest. It rumbled with a chuckle.
“You think we’re cruel, love?”
Her eyes cast up to him, deadpan. John laughed harder.
“What happened?”
It was a rose she traced into his skin.
“Thorne sent her to marry some...sod from another kingdom. I requested to be sent to the battlefields.”
Pet sighed, flattening her palm over his heart, and shifted to half lay on him, “I’m sorry, John.”
He smiled, trying his best to smooth down her hair that refused to settle, “she ended up happy, I think. Least, that’s what I heard when we set up camp near the kingdom.” John reached to kiss her head. “I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Losing her led me to you.”
“Was it love?”
“Such a love as any fool like me can believe in.”
“Universe save me,” Pet laughed, shoving at John’s chest to get free of his arms.
John tightened his hold, pulling her entirely onto him, “where might you be goin’, m’lady?”
Pet barked out a laugh, “I am no lady, good sir.”
“Imagine you are, though,” John whispered, “Lady Price. Wife to a Knight Commander.”
“Lady,” she whispered back, “by the Gods, I cannot have four last names.”
“You are whoever you wish to be, Pet. You do not belong to us. You saved yourself that day, not us.” John kissed her, slow and long.
“I did not free myself alone.” She mumbled as she pulled away.
“If you did not scream,” he kissed her, “if you did not spill your own blood,” and again, “Johnny would not have heard you, would not have known you.”
Pet studied him. John studied her back.
“I did not feel strong that day,” she finally said.
“No one does on the day they are to die.”
“What became of Rose?” Pet tucked her head under his chin, almost fearing the answer.
“I know I did not reap her Soul,” he mumbled, fingers tightening on her flesh, “one can only imagine where it ended up if I could not take it.”
She shivered. John pulled a blanket over her, though he knew she did not shake from the chill in the room. His eyes lifted, glancing out the window. The trees had fully shed themselves of leaves and the throes of winter settled into the fortress. Johnny had even begun wearing a tunic to combat the cold.
“Was he always like that?”
John blinked down at her.
“Konni.”
“In mortality and in immortality. Makarov is a cruel creature.” John said. His love for Adaline had long since grown over, but nothing could stop the rage he felt at the idea of Konni having control over her Soul. He had once seen the inside of his Realm. The dank, horrid place where Souls were strung up to torture and maim.
John would never understand why the Universe put such a man void of emotions, of sympathy, in charge of the final act of a human Soul.
“John?”
“Forgive me, Pet, I…I try not to think about what that thing truly is. In truth, I never knew him as a mortal, but as a God? I’ve never seen a shred of humanity in him.” John shifted, his flesh and bones near uncomfortable.
Pet moved with him, until she sat on the bed and John paced his room.
“Nik knew him. In mortality, I mean. Knew of him at the very least. They’re from the same place.” John’s pacing took him back to his desk. “Nik’s had to suffer the wrath of the man.”
“But…has anyone ever tried to speak to him?”
“Aye,” John snapped, “’s never done any good. Makarov wants blood. He enjoys watching mortals fight. I-...we’re Gods of War, Pet, but we hate it. We’re made for it but we don’t relish it. That these mortals would rather kill each other than speak.”
Pet huffed, “yes, I do understand.”
“I can’t even remember how many years ago it was when he attacked. But I can remember the carnage. He used Souls to fight his war. He sat in his little palace watching.”
“Souls?” Pet sat up straighter, her eyebrows pulling together in horror.
“Grims, he calls them. Mortal Souls he twisted and mutated until they followed his every command. We…we were forced to ask those at Rest to join a war they never knew could happen.” John scoffed. “Somehow, even as a God, he still managed to drag mortals into his schemes.”
“I don’t understand how he could be so cruel.”
“Best not to spend time tryin’ to figure it out.”
“Dove, this doesn’t feel like a good idea,” Kyle said.
She didn’t reply, just stared at the door.
“’S not like y’ll stop ‘er,” Simon chuckled, “’s not like she’s alone, either.”
Kyle rolled his jaw, glaring back at Simon. He stood behind Dove, a guard dog that would follow her to the last Rest Kyle ever wanted her to step into.
“There’s better ways t’ do this,” Kyle tried to even out his voice, but the strain was present.
“I’m going to the source,” she finally said, “and I won’t be alone.”
Simon chuckled again, Kyle whipping his head to glare harder at him.
“John’s gonna kill you.” Kyle muttered but stepped aside.
She reached for the door, Simon looming at her back, and pushed it open. The black void met her and she took a deep breath before stepping in.
With a groan, the room around them came into focus. An exasperated sigh met them and a fork clattered to a plate.
“What is the meaning of this,” Asmo stood from the table. It was more gilded and gaudy than the one that had sat in his home. The entire room was. It was fit for a man several steps above Asmo’s mortal station.
When he fully took in the forms lingering in his doorway, his disinterested eyes hardened.
“Great Warrior,” he hissed at Ghost. Then, “and you.” His eyes roved over her, appraising like he would a pig for slaughter.
It was Kyle’s only suggestion outside not going at all. He had helped fix her hair and begrudged that she would wear Simon’s dress when wearing one at all was his idea.
“If you must talk to him, at least look like the queen you are,” he hummed as he twisted her locks between his fingers and tacked it down at the crown of her head.
“And what am I the queen of?”
Simon stood in the corner, jaw locked as Kyle deliberately brushed his fingers over the neckline of the dress. And the Mark. Simon wasn’t sure if it was the symbolism of it or because he had a matching one, but every brush of hair or palm made his own Mark buzz.
“Us.” Kyle pressed a feather light kiss to her neck. Simon sucked in a breath.
“Queen of the Gods—”
“Queen of War,” Kyle whispered.
At that, Dove laughed, turned to look at Kyle with her big grin. She was as stunning as she had been when she first wore Simon’s dress, but the belt hung round her waist and the sheath and dagger hanging from it made her look ethereal. Simon no longer wondered if the floor length sleeves were a mistake or if the dress was fitting of the royalty she looked to be part of. It was made for her, just as she was made for him.
“They have clearly given you status my son could not have.” Asmo sneered.
Lamb would never admit that it took all her will to stop Ghost from advancing on him. Asmo, at least, had the decency to look terrified that the God could be stopped by a mere mortal.
“What do you know of Konni?” She asked, voice loud, almost not her own. Her head held high, she felt almost immortal standing in front of him. She hadn’t died that day, he had.
“Konni? Does it look like I reside in his palace, you useless bitch?”
The Ghost growled.
“I have to imagine that Konni would not be happy that you failed him,” Lamb said, stepping towards him.
Asmo stepped back, face blanching, but watched as she moved past him to sit where he had been. The table was lavish, filled to the edges with plates overflowing with decadent meats and fruits. She picked at his plate, at the remainders of pork fat he’d cut away, meager as it was. Then at the strawberries piled in the center.
“I know it was not my Gods that asked for a sacrifice,” she sounded bored, “why did Konni?”
Asmo scoffed, “I would not share my private conversations with my God with the likes of you.”
The Ghost took a step towards him. Asmo shook but did not move. Ghost reached out, taking Asmo’s chin in his paw and grinned behind his scarf.
“My Lamb asked a question. Best t’ answer ‘er.”
“I won’t.”
“Ghost,” she cooed. He glanced back, but released the Soul. “I remember my mother once told me you were born under him. That your own mother died the very moment you came into the world. Do you think that kins you to him?”
The slap came quick and hard. Lamb’s head snapped to the side and Asmo was on the ground a moment later, gasping for breath as she brought a hand to her cheek. The Ghost snarled words directly into Asmo’s ear while his forearm pressed hard into the Soul’s neck. A curved blade dug into Asmo’s cheek, coagulated blood dolloping from the wound.Asmo choked and clawed at Ghost’s arm.
“Simon,” she called, the words barely rising over the roaring of the hearth behind her. It warmed her back, feeding at a smoldering spark within. Some part of her didn’t want to call him off; that part knew Asmo deserved to have his Soul obliterated. Another knew the final death would never heal her the way her Gods did.
Asmo choked louder. Ghost pressed harder.
“Simon,” Lamb stood from the table, grabbing at the pelt on his shoulders, “Simon.”
“’S too kind, ain’t she?” Ghost roared, “pityin’ ya after ya struck ‘er. After ya tried t’ kill ‘er. Betta thank ‘er good, mortal.”
She tugged once more at him and the Ghost finally shoved himself off the floor, spinning to face her. He took her face in his calloused hands, eyes near black from rage. His shadows, ones that he’d worked to tame, flared at their feet, wrapping around her ankles and calves.
“I’m fine,” she told him, laying her hands over his, “I promise.”
Asmo coughed from the ground, wheezing as he crawled onto his hands and knees.
“You-you…” Asmo breathed, “can’t wh-win.”
“Let me do it,” Ghost pled.
“You will not harm a Soul that has already been Reaped.” Lamb couldn’t help but smile at him. Once, he had pushed her away with a warning that he would only hurt her. Now he stood, buckling at the knees and pleading for her permission.
“Y-you—” Asmo heaved, arms shaking as they struggled to hold him up, “y-you a-act as if…if you tamed it.”
“Lamb.”
“There was nothing about him to tame, Asmo. Like you, he has rage inside him but that is what I love,” she reached up to kiss Ghost over his scarf before pulling his hands away to look back at Asmo. “Konni stole your child from you. Why would he ask that?”
“Y-you are a s…stupid child. He…he wants pure Souls. Aliana was pure. Li…like you were.” Asmo let himself fall prone and he finally took a breath.
Lamb huffed. She could still hear the screams from Aliana. The smell of burnt flesh and the sight of charred bone.
Aliana was the one who’d told her about the warhorses. Showed her when the elders and stablehands weren’t around and told her which vegetables they liked best. Aliana held her against her chest the first time Harpy was marched out of the village, gone for almost a month, and then held her again when the horse pottered back into the square sans rider. But by the time Harpy was lost on her third battle, Aliana was gone.Asmo to answer for it.
“I hope your son isn’t like you,” she said, offering a hand to Ghost. He took it and let her pull him towards the door.
Asmo snickered, “he doesn’t have it in him…to be like me.”
“Good. The Universe is better for it.”
The door opened before her. Ghost tugged her back.
“He ain’t thanked ya.”
“He won’t. If there’s one thing I remember about him, it’s that Asmo does not know how to be thankful.” She glanced back at the Soul.
He’d turned over, sat against his hearth rubbing at his throat. A thick, dark bruise bloomed where Ghost’s arm had pressed and a bright red gash under his left eye from Ghost’s blade. Thick globs of blood littered his face. And somewhere deep in her mind, she could see his mortal life in a way she never could before. With a list of her head, she hummed and stepped back through the door.
Simon groaned, turning under the blankets before settling back into sleep. At her desk, Lamb twisted her tablets. He’d refused to leave her side, even refusing to let her bathe alone, after they stepped back into the War realm. Kyle eyed them warrily from down the hall but let it be when Lamb shook her head.
Ghost had fallen asleep after hours of standing vigil at her door while she wove another belt. It wasn’t in him to ask why — Simon could not form the words and Ghost would not let them out if he had — but he wondered it nonetheless as his eyes drifted shut and sleep swept him under. The soft shifting of yarn and wood mixed with her gentle humming lulled Ghost until Simon was safe enough to come back.
Her head lifted a moment before a soft knock came at her door and it opened a hair. John’s hand curled around the door and he paused in the doorway to stare at Simon.
“John,” her voice was hush. She set her weaving on her desk and beckoned him in.
With a slight shake to his head, he crossed the room and took her outstretched hands.
“Pet, what were you—”
“I will not be lectured, John Price.” Pet yanked her hands from his and stood, pacing towards one of her narrow windows.
“I just...I don’t understand why.” John ripped a hand through his hair, the other resting heavy on his hip. “That Soul has no right to ever be given your prescence.”
She laughed, a bitter and angry sound. “Apologies, Great Warrior, I did not realize my prescence was something you were in possession of. Indeed,” she nodded her head at him, “does Simon have the right to be given my prescence?”
“Pet, look at me.”
John’s voice darkened. It was closer than before and his hand grabbed her chin before she could argue.
“What the fuck’s this?”
“’E hit ‘er.” Simon’s hoarse voice came from behind John.
“Simon—John,” Pet tried to step back but John’s fingers dug into her cheeks. “John Price, let me go.”
She knew the mark on her cheekbone would darken, it already had by the time she’d taken a bath only minutes after leaving Asmo’s Rest, but she hadn’t seen herself since and it must have grown even worse.
But John’s hand disappeared and his back retreated towards the door. Simon threw his legs, shaky as they were, out of bed and reached for his pelt and pauldrons.
“John,” Pet followed, throwing as serious a look as she could at Simon to keep him in place. She chased after John, who’d picked up signigicant pace as he stormed through the halls.
He turned a corner and only a moment later, she turned it to find him fixing a vambrace. His armour should have glinted off the sconces that lit his way to the Rest, but the rage dulled it.
“John!”
Rustling behind her caught up, Ghost barely a step behind her, fixing his pauldrons.
“Ghost, stop.” She spun, pressing her palms flat on his chest. The beast paused, black eyes staring back with a narrow ring of honey focused on her. “Simon, please.”
The groan of a door swinging open echoed against the walls. Pet abandoned reasoning with Ghost to sprint towards the Rest.
“John, listen to me!” Her hand grazed his arm, ice cold metal against her warm skin, and she choked on a lost breath as the Rest pulled them in.
The room was dark, no fire to light their way, but the Knight had no use for it. He followed the vile scent straight to his kill. Pet sucked in a breath and the entire Rest erupted with light. Asmo jerked awake, but he didn’t get his mouth open before the Knight drug him out of bed and threw him to the floor at Pet’s feet.
“John, that is enough.”
“Nothin’ I ever do t’ him will be enough.” Thorn glinted in the blaze roaring in the hearth.
“Wh-what is the—you bitch!”
Asmo got a single hand under himself before the neck of his tunic choked him to stand.
“The man you saved from true death inn’t even grateful, Pet.”
“S-saved?”
A heavy foot hit the ground. An icy chill washed over her back. She didn’t need to turn to know Ghost stood guard.
“John, you are better than him,” Pet took a step forward, “you are better than them both. You must be fair. You are fair.”
Impossibly, the Knight’s eyes softened.
The ice moved with her, tendrils wrapping around her biceps and calves, and Pet reached for Thorn.
“Give me this, John. Give me his life.”
“I would give you the Universe on a silver platter, Pet. But your love cannot change what I am in my core. What is fair is to take the hands of a man who would strike you. To remove the head of a mortal who thought himself better than me. This is fair, Pet. This is what I am.”
The shadows tightened as she lunged and Thorn sliced across Asmo’s neck. No scream came, just a breathless gasp. Nothing bled from the cut, blood long since thickened in his veins. Clumps of coagulated blood dropped from it, hitting the ground with a deafening thud before his body followed suit. She turned away at the sickening roll of his head. The Rest groaned, its pristine wooden floors shifting, peeling up around the melting Soul. Pet watched, awe and horror filling her eyes as the Rest swallowed Asmo’s body whole. The floorboards cracked and splintered back together until all that remained was her and two Gods.
Her body feable, the shadows lowered her to her knees. Despite the chill in the air, the wood was warm. Alive. She had never once considered that the Rests were living. That they were part of the realm just as the entire fortress was. Part of her Gods.
A warm hand pressed on her shoulder. When she looked up, John’s pitiful eyes stared back. His gloved thumb wiped away a stray tear and his fingers curled under her chin.
“Why do you cry for him?”
“He was a mortal. Misguided and stupid, maybe, but a mortal just like me.”
“Tha’s not it.” To her surprise, Simon’s voice soothed her twisted up feelings.
“I-I guess...”
John crouched, armour echoing through the quiet room.
“I knew him my entire life. I...I never saw him die. I-i...it felt like he was still alive as I am.”
Thick arms reached under her, lifting her until she was tucked tight against Simon’s chest. His heart didn’t beat, it had no reason to, but she wished it would—for her.
None of them spoke as they left the Rest — one she was sure she could never return to — nor as Simon carried her back to her room. The blankets were pulled back just far enough for him to settle her in. But John stopped at the door. He traced the grain of the wood, the pattern it created across the door as if a story he’d never bothered to read.
“I can’t apologize to you...for killing him.”
“I forgive you.”
“We are...”
“I forgive you.” She repeated, louder.
“I hope you understand how dear that is to me,” John finally turned to her.
Simon had thoroughly buried her under her blankets and furs and she’d turned to her side to watch them go. John could only see the top of her head and the tips of her fingers that peeled back her covers so she could see them.
“I do.”
“And I hope you could join me for tea tomorrow.”
Silence fell over the room.
Then, “yes, I will.”
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masterlist
wasn't planning on posting this until tomorrow but i hit post on ao3 instead of save so here we are.
who else fuckin hates asmo? also sorry there's no johnny, he accidentally locked himself in his lab and has to wait for the potion/poison to wear off
There were no grunting soldiers. No screams of war. Not even the smashing of steel and flesh. Nothing.
The fire in her room was dim but warm as if not to remind her of her almost fate. The pelts on the bed were soft as if they had seen years of use before her. The dresses in the wardrobe were calming as if lavender was woven into the fabric.
And she was not bothered. No one knocked on her door. Only the clink of silver alerted her to breakfast, lunch, or dinner being set outside the door.
The fortress was quiet, calm, and unlike anything she’d ever learned of her gods.
In truth, she didn’t know if they had ever really been her gods. Her village was one of the many that had chosen the war gods as their patrons. It was what spurred them to battle more often than peace. She merely adopted the worship as her parents before her and their parents before them. Left offerings of meat and steel at the altar in town, hoping never to experience the wrath of the gods personally.
Only once, in her childhood, had she questioned the worship of war gods. Once, when she was still naïve enough to think peace was an option.
“Mama, why do we pray to them?”
Her mother looked down at her, eyes soft with frown lines creasing the corners, “we pray that they do not turn their wrath on us.”
“We pray that our enemies will die.”
Her head snapped to look at Elder Asmo. His face was hard, eyes trained on the bundle of meat in her hands. He stood in front of the altar, lighting the fat candles that covered it.
“Do you wish to be cut down? Raped and pillaged?”
“Elder, she’s only a child,” her mother whispered.
“Children must learn,” Elder Asmo stepped up to her. He towered over her head, never leaning or crouching to meet her eyes, “do you?”
“No,” she mumbled. Her hands clutched the offering to her chest. Blood seeped from it, through the cloth, and into the fabric of her dress.
“Then you pray to the war gods to be spared.” His eyes flicked to the red dripping from the bundle, “best save the blood for Gaz. He does like it, so.”
She nodded vigorously, releasing her tight hold on the meat and stumbled up to the stone altar. She set it in front of the idol of Gaz. Without her permission, her hand reached towards the idol.
Then she stared at the ground. A gasp came from behind her. The child lifted her head at the seething Elder Asmo. A sharp pain bloomed in her ear, though she dare not reach up to touch it. Dared not invoke the wrath again.
“You dare touch the gods? Go, get out of my sight.”
Her mother scooped her into her arms, rushing out an apology to the gods and began towards their house.
It did not seem that the war gods would spare her.
As the sun dipped behind the horizon, a clink of silver sounded outside her door. She waited for a moment before opening it.
In place of the tray of lunch she’d eaten was dinner. Picking it up, she popped her head out of the door. The corridor was as quiet as her room. No footsteps retreated and no person was leaving.
She closed the door, set the food on her desk and resolved to leave her room the next morning. She was unsure of what she would find, but the silence was deafening.
When the sun rose the next morning, she was awake. Usually, she would sit at her desk, staring at books she could not read, until breakfast was set outside her room.
Today, she brushed her fingers over the dresses in the wardrobe. Most were simple, plain, like something she would have worn while working alongside her mother in their small plot of land. Four were different. Unlike anything she would have ever been allowed to wear—even on her wedding day.
Each was a weave of vibrant colours and she hesitated to touch them the first time she saw them. Her mind wondered how they’d arrived. Were they loot? Stolen during a raid on a village? A castle? Were they for princesses and queens? Ladies of the court? Were they washed of bloodshed from the day they were obtained?
Were they made for her?
Her fingers snagged on the laces threaded through the bodice of the blue dress. She couldn’t put her finger on why it felt so familiar. It was a deep, stormy blue that beckoned her to put it on. As she pulled it from the hanger, a breath left her at the realization that it would be easy to put on herself. Not that she had seen a single maid to help if she couldn’t. The skirt was a matching blue, though the underskirt that just peaked through the front was tartan. And still, she could not quite put her finger on why it was so familiar.
Freshly dressed and hair brushed behind her shoulders, her fingers trembled to open the door. Would they want her looking around? Or was her presence in the fortress merely because she was given to them?
She wasn’t sure she wanted to stumble into any of them. Gaz had been kind and gentle, even the Knight was soft and spoke lowly to her. But they were war gods.
Having found no shoes, her feet sounded gently as she walked.
The walls of the fortress were near bare stone. Sconces lined the hallways she traversed. An intricate tapestry hung around a corner; depicting hounds hunting a unicorn. Ornamental swords and daggers hung between sconces every so often. She wondered if they were truly ornamental.
Her hands tangled in the soft linen of the dress when she found a set of stairs. It spiraled up to a turret.
The tower looked over the land of the fortress. It was surrounded on all sides by a dense forest, the trees so close together that it was almost pitch black inside. The path to the front gate was almost impossible to see, as the trees butt against the high walls of the fortress.
A courtyard sat inside the walls, set up as if soldiers would spend days training on the field. But it was silent.
She wanted to laugh at the idea that the silence was even worse outside of her room. At least she had the fire to fill the space.
She gathered her skirts and began back down the stairs. The second her foot hit the bottom, though, she froze.
Soap watched her, leaning against the wall across from the stairs. Her head ducked to her chest, dropping her gaze from his. She could feel her knees give way but a hand caught her arm before she sank to the ground.
“None a’that,” Soap whispered.
“I—I’m so sorry, great—”
Soap sucked his teeth, “don’ call me tha’, bon, look at me.”
To her surprise, she shook her head at him. She couldn’t look at him, not his face, not in his eyes, not even at his boots that had stepped into her line of sight. Her eyes squeezed shut.
His fingers curled around her chin, lifting her head, and he laughed.
“’M not gonna hurt ye,” he cooed, “yer wearin’ my dress.”
At that, her eyes shot open. The blue of his eyes was lighter than the first time she’d seen him. Like looking at the clear sky.
“Y-your?”
“Aye, picked it out an’ all, looks lovel’ on ye,” he nodded, a smile growing on his lips as her eyes scanned his face.
Scars dotted the skin of it, one cutting through his chin and continuing into his left brow. His teeth, which had started to appear as his smile widened, were perfectly straight and his lips thin. Her eyes finally stopped at his.
“Gaz didnae think ye’d leave yer room,” he let go of her chin to step back. Her head remained where he’d left it.
“How long?”
“Week’s past,” Soap shrugged, “ye’d be happy tae know yer village won.”
Her head shook, “I don’t…I don’t care.”
His smile grew wicked, eyes shifting dark, “aye, atta girl. Didnae deserve somethin’ so sweet.” He took a menacing step towards her. Her foot caught on the stair behind her while her hands dropped her skirts to catch on the arched doorway.
“Soap.”
A growl left Soap’s throat as he turned his head to the hallway. At the far end stood the berserker, wolf hand hanging at his back. Without it, she could see the skull with red splats of blood decorating it. He began towards them and she tripped back into the stairs, hitting the stone with a groan.
Soap’s head snapped back to her but the berserker’s hand snatched his chin, “told ya to leave her be.”
“Ah did!”
The darkness in his voice dissipated as he cried out at Ghost. It lingered in his eyes, though, and Ghost leaned into his face.
“Then what’re ya doin’?”
“She’s wearin’ my dress, no’ yers,” Soap bit out, slapping at Ghost’s hand but achieving nothing. She could see his fingers dig into Soap’s cheeks.
“’S cause no one told ‘er what they mean. Go.” Ghost yanked Soap away and shoved him towards the hall. “Now, Soap.”
Her breath stuttered in her lungs as she watched Soap growl again but turn away from her. The sword at his side rattled as he stormed away. She released her breath only to suck it back when Ghost turned to her.
His head listed to the side as he took in her cowering form. The lower half of his face was covered and all she could see was the deep brown of his eyes. Hands reaching for purchase behind her, he chuckled and shook his head.
“Nowhere t’ run up there,” his voice reverberated on the stone, “nowhere t’ run here.”
“My room,” she gasped out, “I-I want to—”
Ghost chuckled again but turned away from her to follow after Soap. She watched, eyes wide, as he disappeared around a corner.
Then she shoved herself to her feet and took off towards her room. The door swung open and slammed shut against her back, breaths panting out while she struggled to undo the bodice of her dress in her panic.
They were war gods, after all.
“Do you even have tact,” Gaz hissed.
Soap laughed meanly, throwing his head back while the Knight rubbed at his forehead. Ghost stood by the window, watching the trees sway in the wind.
“The first time she leaves her room in a week and you corner her,” Gaz stepped into Soap’s chest, “she’ll never come back out.”
“Good,” Ghost announced, “doesn’t need ta be anywhere near us.”
The Knight let out a long sigh, then slams his armoured fist to his desk, “she’s our charge. She doesn’t have a choice.”
“Give her to Laswell, she can take care of the girl,” Ghost demanded.
“She’s ours,” Gaz spit, shoving Soap away to charge towards Ghost. A sick grin filled Ghost’s face as the rogue stood chest to chest with him. “We aren’t giving her away.”
“An’ you think ya can stop me? With your pretty hammers?”
“That’s quite enough,” Price shoved his hand between the two and shoved Gaz back, “she isn’t going anywhere.” He turned to face Ghost. “She is ours.”
“Soap nearly—”
“Ah wasnae doin’ anythin’ tae her!” Soap threw his hands out and cried out. Gaz snickered at him but leaned back against a table to watch.
“She was backed to the wall, mutt.”
“An’ she’s not likely to leave her room again,” Price whipped his head to look at Soap, “all over a dress.”
“Could feel it,” Soap mumbled, “like bonnie was callin’ me. Yer all jealous it wasnae yers.”
Price let out a breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before sitting in his chair. His hand rubbed at his beard while his eyes scanned each of them.
They could all feel it when she touched them, ghosted her fingers over the fine fabrics and pulled at the skirts. An unfortunate result of asking the favour of a fellow goddess. Farah had a sick sense of humour.
“Everyone will leave her be. No one,” he pointed a finger at each of the gods standing around him, “is to approach her first.”
“Isnae fair, sir,” Soap whined.
“Find fault in yourself, MacTavish. Our girl was hurt. I will not have you furthering that,” Price extended his finger towards the Northman.
Ghost smirked at Soap behind the Knight.
“Captain.”
They all turned to Gaz.
“With all due respect, why should we three be punished for Soap’s deeds?” Price nodded him on. “Why don’t we all see her. Together. If Soap can’t be trusted to behave alone, we all keep him in check.”
Soap’s mouth opened, but Ghost slapped a hand over it, dragging him into his chest. He struggled against the hold, but gave up after a sharp look from Price.
“Alright. We’ll invite her to dinner,” Soap’s eyes lit up, “I’ll invite her to dinner. And you,” Price raked a hand as far down Soap’s hair as he could before gripping it, “will apologize to our girl.”
Gaz snickered behind him.
“Need I remind you who butchered the cunt we had to thank for her?” Price didn’t have to turn to see the smirk on Gaz’s face dip.
Both Price and Ghost released Soap and Price dismissed them from his quarters. He sank into his chair, head dropping into his hands. Never would he had thought a single mortal could tear into the fabric of the gods’ world. Yet she sat in a room, inside his fortress, unaware of the chaos she could reign over them.
The knock startled her from her book. She’d spent most of her morning and early afternoon reading; isolated.
Padding softly towards it, she opened the door an inch, then fully.
“Sir—”
“Please, pet,” Price cooed at her, “you can call me John or Price.”
Her mouth shut but she nodded. They stood in silence a moment before Price shook his head. He’d been staring too long.
“I’ve come to ask you to dinner.” Her mouth fell open. “The boys and I would like to apologize for how you’ve been treated since you arrived. Soap especially.”
Lips smacked together while she studied him. His face was gentle, calm and almost wary of standing in front of her at all. Blue eyes—different than the chaos of Soap’s—bore into her soul. Instead of destruction, they held hope and confidence.
“Please don’t feel pressured,” he continued, “we’d love your company but understand if you’d like to be left alone.”
“I—” her voice caught in her throat but Price thought it was the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. “I’ll consider it.” It quieted, barely audible had it not been for the dead silent fortress.
But Price just smiled and bowed his head, “that’s all we ask.” He stepped back and she took in the leisure of his clothes. A simple linen tunic, yet framed with gold trim, and a paid of brown trousers. Whatever belt cinched them at his waist was hidden beneath the fold of his tunic. His boots were like those her father wore while working in their field—simple and old and browned leather. No weapons to be seen.
She barely recognized her own god.
“Thank you, pet. If you do decide to come, simply say it and the torches will light your way to the banquet hall.”
Price bowed low, as if he bowed to royalty but caught himself as he stood.
“Don’t feel that you need to wear one of our dresses—we don’t hold court here.”
“Thank you, Sir—John.”
His heart had never beat faster.
“Of course, little one. Until tonight.”
Price stepped back. Confident, sure she would accept if only to see more of the fortress and how they lived. Their prize was a curious one if nothing else.
Behind the closed door, she panted. Like John’s, her heart raced. Unlike John’s, it was not from joy. Pet—the name had wedged itself into the crevices of her brain. Little one had been rattling around, the thing he’d called her on the very day he saved her life. So her heart raced with apprehension and a healthy hint of fear.
He’d told her not to feel pressured but how could she say no? To not only one god but four?
As if sensing her distress, the sound of water trickled in from her personal bath. The steam wafted at her feet. Pet stepped towards the room, hands and legs shaking but never stopping until she was bare and sunk into the scalding water.
She spent the afternoon sifting through clothes. One dress not quiet enough, the next too courtly and loud. This one too simple. That too fine. She audibly reminded herself to stay far away from the four opulent dresses. Fingers reached for them before she froze in place. How cruel to wear just one dress.
Though she did consider the darkest one. It had to be Ghost’s. Would Soap feel shame at her wearing the gown of the god who’d saved her from him?
Pet wondered if Soap ever felt shame.
Washed and dressed in a simple red kirtle, she stood in her doorway.
“I...” she eyed the dim sconce across from her, “I’d like to join them.”
In an instant, it flared and the hallway was bathed in bright flame. It trailed down the hall, the left corridor brighter than the right.
Her path.
It’s only about two minutes before she’s stood in front of two thick wooden doors. Plain but holding her entire world now. Sealing her off from the men gods she was handed to.
Her hand barely lifts before they inch open, creaking on old hinges. By the time they sit fully ajar, her hand had reached the height of the handles but is frozen in place. Silence fills the pregnant air. John stands from the small table, a wide smile on his face.
“Pet.”
John is at her side before she realizes it. One hand hovering over the small of her back so close she can feel the warmth of it.
“Come sit,” he leads her to the table where she avoids all three pairs of eyes that study her.
The banquet hall is large, the ceiling towers over her with a single ring chandelier hanging in the center. There are other tables, lined so neatly in rows that point towards a stained glass window. She doesn’t get to spend any time looking at it.
John pulls out a chair at the head of the table.
“Shouldn’t you...” she glowers down at it.
“No. There is no leader.”
Pet tries to remember every, any, thing her mother taught her about propriety. Class. It was a thin, shallow education.
She sits slowly, lifting only to let John push her chair in. There’s a single plate in front of her. One spoon, one fork, one over sharpened knife. A goblet.
Were they not gods? Did they not live in opulence?
Was the table they ate at really only six chairs big?
“O'right, lamb?”
Her head snaps up. It’s then that she takes them in. John is very much the same as he’d been that afternoon. Soap wore almost the same thing he always did, though a blue tunic covered his chest and dipped into his achingly familiar kilt. She could only assume they didn’t appreciate a lack of clothes at dinner. Gaz had an apprehensive look on his face. His usual leather jack was gone, instead he wore a deep purple gambeson. The top buttons were undone, allowing her to see faint scratches along his neck and chest.
The final man god was one she’d never seen the face of. Ghost. His features were handsome, royal almost. Rather than any level of decorum, he wore only his undershirt and linen hosen. Around his neck was a loose scarf that he’d begun to pull over his lower face.
“Wait!” She hopped to her feet, chair scraping against the wooden floor. Ghost froze his movement.
His lips were split unevenly by a cut, the skin pulled into a cleft over his left canine. To her surprise, his nose was unbroken and perfectly straight with only a slight bump to it. A gentle face for a berserker.
“Come now, pet,” John sucked her attention from Ghost, “let’s eat.”
She lowered herself back into her chair and glanced at John. He now wore an expression similar to Gaz but was trying to hide it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. Ghost cocked his head at her. “The fortress. It’s...very beautiful.”
“’S not how most would describe it,” his voice rumbled in her head. John set things in the middle of the table, slapping at the hands of Soap and Gaz.
“Pet eats first.” John boomed at them. He motioned for her to pick from the plates he’d set down.
“I can wait,” her voice shook but John’s head shook faster.
“Nonsense. Eat,” John pushed the platter of meat towards her, “they can wait a little longer.”
“Ah dinnae think ye eat as much as us,” Soap whispered. She turned to face him, fear coursing through her veins. “Ahm sorry, bonnie.”
She swallowed hard but said nothing as she picked through the meat. Attention drawn, she missed the narrowing of John’s eyes as she only took the smallest pieces of pork. Ghost pushed a basket of bread towards her, of which she took a small roll.
After filling her plate, her eyes flicked to John’s. He nodded for the rest to dig in. Each god set some piece of their meal on her plate. Ghost set two more rolls down, Soap another large piece of pork. Gaz portioned out a serving of potatoes and John filled her goblet near to the brim with red wine.
“Now,” John brought a bite to his mouth, “we should start by apologizing for your less than hospitable welcome to your home.”
“We just wanted you to settle in,” Gaz continued while John ate, “didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long.”
“’N ahm sorry fer wha’ ah did,” Soap cut in, “wasnae good of me.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
“’S not,” Ghost said, wiping his face on the back of his hand. John sighed but said nothing. “Soap’s a dog. Not well behaved around pretty lambs.”
“L—lambs?”
“He means you,” John supplied, “eat, pet.”
She speared a piece of pork and shoved it in her mouth. The meat was tender, juicy and the best thing she’d ever had. Made her barely able to contain the groan deep in her throat. Gaz chuckled at her face.
“Regardless, you should know that you are allowed anywhere you’d like to go in the fortress. Nowhere is off limits to you.”
“What else is here?”
The four deflated. They’d truly left her with no idea about her new home.
“Jus’ aboot anythin’ ye can think of,” Soap finally admitted, “an’ anythin’ else ye’d like.”
“I’d like?” Her head tilted, goblet freezing in front of her lips.
“Yes,” John swallowed and set his fork down, “we’re Gods, little one. Anything we want will readily appear to us.”
“I’m not.”
They quieted. Thought for a moment.
“We’ve never had a...mortal here,” Gaz admitted, “but, by virtue of your village’s...offering, you should also be granted whatever you want.”
“I want my moth—” Ghost stood, slapping a hand over her mouth. He towered over her chair causing her entire form to still.
“Don’ do that.” His voice was hollow and ugly. “Don’ ever ask for a living being.”
Her blood chilled. Soap had recovered from his wince and Gaz’s shoulders sank with a loosed breath.
“You don’t want to know what happens should you ask for a living being, pet. Nasty business.” John shook his head, eyes lost in thought. A memory?
Ghost lowered his hand and himself back into his seat, “try somethin’ less fleshy.”
Soap groaned, “och, dinnae say it like tha’.”
“W—what about a sweetroll?”
A moment later, a weight filled her empty hands. She lifted the pastry to the table. It was warm and some of the icing oozed down the browned roll.
“Good,” John beamed, “anything you ask for is yours.”
They slipped into silence. Eating and drinking with little murmurs between Soap and Gaz. Pet tore small pieces of sweetroll away, setting them on each of their plates as she ate it.
“What am I to do?”
“Hmm?” John hummed around the sweet.
“All day. For...ever? What will I do?”
“Ye dinnae have any chores, if that’s what ye mean,” Soap spoke around his meal. John hissed at him but Pet spoke before he could get the chastisement out of his mouth.
“I can’t do nothing for the rest of my life.” She pointedly ignored Gaz’s wince. “Please.”
John hummed again. Ghost shifted in his seat across from him.
“I could be a priestess.”
“We’ve enough of those to last an eternity. And that would involve you leaving for the mortal world.” John shook his head. Her face soured but his stared right back at her.
“I—I could keep the fortress!”
“’S magic, lamb. Don’ need upkeep.”
She tossed her fork onto the table with a cry, “something!”
“Pet,” John slid from his chair to kneel at her feet, “we can find you something. Just enjoy dinner. Please.” He took her hands in his. Pressing a kiss to the back of both of them, she stared down at the God with wild eyes. A cleared throat jerked both from their stupor and John rose to his feet.
“Now. How about more sweetroll, hm?”
By the time dinner was finished, she was exhausted. Soap and Gaz spent most of the meal’s remainder fighting for her attention while Ghost sat quietly beside Soap—listening but never interjecting. Only when Soap pushed too far, made their Lamb—their Prize—flinch back, did he correct the mutt. John joined in their laughter sometimes, but like Ghost, spent most of the time watching Pet.
When she announced she was too tired to continue, the younger Gods argued over who would walk her back to her room. They were silenced by the banquet doors slamming shut. John smirked at them over his goblet.
Ghost walked silent behind her, watching her body sway with her four goblets of wine. She babbled on as she walked; detailing a rare moment of peace in her home when she was a child. Ghost growled out a question about her father, but she just turned to him with a smile to rival Johnny’s and said:
“No. My father was a good man. Never hurt me or my mother.”
His scowl melted as she leaned against the wall, unaware she was standing beside his bedroom door.
“Do you have a name?”
“Course I do,” Ghost gently pulled her arm along, towards her own room, “we all do.”
“C—,” she leaned into his hold, “can I know?”
“’S Simon.”
“Simon...lovely.” She hummed. Simon smiled at her but never stopped leading her to her door. It danced through his mind, the sweet sound of his name on her tongue. What would it sound like if she cried it out, pressed between his chest and his bed?
At her door, he pushed it open but did not enter. His lamb slipped in, kicking her shoes off and collapsing onto her bed.
“I miss my home.” Her voice dropped along with her head.
Simon had promised himself that he would never enter her room without her explicit permission. Yet broke it to kneel at her feet.
“I know, lamb,” he held her cheeks in his palms, “but you’ll be safe here.”
Her watery eyes met his, “where do the warriors go?”
“Don’ worry yourself with that. Sleep now.” He hesitated for a moment before unlacing her kirtle for her. Once it was loose enough for her to pull off herself, he stood to his full height. She watched him with those watery eyes. “Sleep, lamb.”
He stepped back, never turning away from her, and pulled the door with him. As it clicked shut, she shed her clothes and clambered under her furs. The fire breathed warmth into the room as she slipped under.
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ye girl did a lot of (way too much) research on medieval clothes for this so please applaud. also i proofed this like 8 times so if you find an error no you didn't.
