“Would you like a flyer?” A kind lady on the sidewalk smiled, offering you a small, decorated paper. Taking it from her hand, you listened as she began to advertise something.
“Our café is having its grand opening today.” She chirped as though reading rehearsed lines. “We’d love it if you could make it!”
Your eyes scanned the flyer for the location which seemed to be in walking distance. Seeing as you were taking a walk, you’d decided to walk the short distance to the café and head home afterwards.
Following the street names, you soon found yourself in front of a small, hole in the wall café. The exterior was covered in greenery which seemed to fit the image of the establishment, and plastered across the windows from the inside of the shop, were numerous flyers advertising the grand opening. Though, before you walked towards the door, someone’s voice called out to you from behind.
“Excuse me.”
Turning around, you were met with a boy who seemed to be around your age. Once you looked a little closer, he seemed to be holding the same flyer that you had been handed earlier.
“Are you familiar with this address?” He asked, turning the flyer towards you and pointing at the street name. It seemed he still hadn’t noticed he was standing right in front of it.
“It’s right over here.” Moving to the side, he was able to see the café that he had been looking for, and seemed a little embarrassed by the fact that he hadn’t noticed it sooner.
“Can I head in with you?” You joked. “I’m a little nervous to go in alone.”
“If you want.” Taking your side, he walked in front towards the door and you followed close behind. Stepping into the café, you were impressed by the interior – intricate woodwork layered the edges of the furniture, velvet cushions covering the seat bases, and a warm scent of coffee hinted with undertones of vanilla and caramel wafted through the air. Surprisingly, there were only a few customers other than you two.
A lady immediately rushed up, ushering you both to a table for two. Once she had set the table and the both of you sat, you decided to speak up, embarrassed to be encroaching on his space.
“I’m sorry to be bothering you like this..” You chuckled, placing your purse in your lap.
“It’s fine. I’m not doing much either way.”
Ouch, a ‘You’re not bothering me!’ wouldn’t’ve hurt.
Though, it surprised you to see someone like him in a café on his own. So you decided to start up a conversation after you had heard each other’s names and placed your orders.
“Are you meeting somebody here?” You noted his neat attire; he seemed pretty dressed up.
“No, why would I be with you if I was?” He sarcastically replied.
Laughing in return, you continued. “Well, you don’t look like a person with a sweet tooth.”
“Huh?” He squinted at you, his face nearly forming a scowl. “And what does such a person even look like?”
“Hm..” You tapped your chin in thought. “..Not sure.”
He sighed, exasperated. Though, you were sure some semblance of a smile had formed on his face. Moments later, the waitress brought your orders; slices of strawberry shortcake and chocolate mud cake, alongside English breakfast tea for him, and jasmine tea for you. The conversations between the both of you branched out into a multitude of different topics, hobbies, schools, friends and whatnot.
After you both paid for your drinks and sweets, he offered to walk you home as you said it was close by, taking your contact info in the meantime.
A promise was made to meet up again soon at the same café.
Nagi Seishiro
The pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the school building sounded throughout the walls as the sound grew heavier throughout the school day. Once the final school bell rang, the sound outweighed the chatter between students as they spoke over each other in an attempt to form conversations. Grasping your umbrella in hand, you stood in front of the school exit, wondering how you’d keep completely dry in this hurricane-like weather.
You opted to wait for a little while as you spoke to some friends, thinking that the rain might become lighter in 20 or so minutes.
20 minutes came and went, and you were one of the only students who hadn’t headed home yet. Most had gotten picked up by car, some wore full raincoats, and few left by umbrella. You had kept your umbrella in your bag for a while, not removing it in the case that you’d need it, despite it being hefty and taking up quite a bit of space. Though, it seemed that the rain had become lighter than before, so you decided to take this opportunity to head home immediately.
Standing in front of the doors in preparation to swing them open, you noticed another person to the side, standing in front of the doors, head faced down at his phone. Just as you were about to open the doors to leave, a ‘game over’ sound effect reached your ears and your attention was caught once more.
Just as you turned your head, he did the same, your eyes meeting. You smiled and waved, unknowing of what else to do. Though his eyes immediately shot to the umbrella you had in your other hand and he stepped towards you.
“Hello.” He greeted. “Are you going home?”
“I am, did you need something?”
He rubbed his neck, seeming a little shy to speak. “Do you think I could use your umbrella as well?” He muttered. Actually, you couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, or exhausted. Though, you knew that you might’ve been in the same situation if you hadn’t brought an umbrella.
“Sure. The rain is pretty heavy, isn’t it?”
He swung open the door, the two of you stepping outside together as you opened the umbrella. You held it over your head and he stood to your shoulder, ducking under to fit. You laughed, offering for him to hold it instead. He complied, and you both walked outside the school grounds together.
Struggling to hear your voice through the sound of the surrounding rain, he leaned over a little. “You’re very organised” He sighed. “You remembered to bring an umbrella with you”.
You shrugged, brushing it off. “It’s been in my bag for a while just in case”.
You had never met him, although you feel as though you've heard of him before. His name was familiar to you for some reason.
“You said your name was Nagi, right?” You asked as the two of you stopped at a red light. “Are you the person who sleeps in class?”
“Hm… probably, yeah.” He responded, looking ahead at the road. “I guess I'm always tired."
You laughed, poking him in the arm. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“I think so.” He replied, thinking to himself. “I don’t do much when I get home, so, probably.”
You began to wonder what exactly he does. You’d heard of him from classmates, but you'd never thought of interacting with a person who seems completely out of it a lot of the time. Though, he was kinder than you expected, albeit seeming a little lazy. He didn’t note anything specific he did other than play games on his phone and occasionally hit the arcades as well.
“Well no wonder you’re so pale.” You scolded. “You’re practically a shut in!”
Nagi sighed in defeat, knowing that you weren't exactly wrong. On that note, you decided to propose a hangout day together outside of school. After exchanging contact information with him, he seemed a little more relaxed than before.
“You’re not going to ignore my messages, right?”
“No ma’am.”
Closing the umbrella as the two of you reached your home, he handed it to you as the rain had become much lighter. Sliding his hoodie onto his head, he waved goodbye to you, thanking you for the umbrella. He faced you with a blank expression, his eyes looking into yours, filled with a glimmer of light that wasn’t there before.
Summary: Every time he shut his eyes he was met with the shadows of the God’s Eye. Even in memory he could feel the weight of the water colliding against him; submerging him, engulfing him, drowning him. Perhaps it would have been best he died in the waters, die a Targaryen Prince and not a prisoner.
Things to note prior to proceeding: This is again one of my excuses to indulge in my habit of character study, especially to help build my ability to find character’s voices, but in reality I really just wanted to write in the world of Westeros since HotD and GoT are my comfort shows (as obscure as that is). As usual, please read the tags before proceeding, and do enjoy the work!
It was said the Targaryens were closer to gods than they were to men; that dragon fire breathed within their veins, that power, however scarce it may be, would settle in their hands. They were conquerors; monarchs; a paragon for what it meant to be indomitable, to wield a power as ancient and impregnable as that of the blood of old Valyria. As it stood, the only force that could destroy the Targaryen’s was itself.
—
The waters of the Gods Eye were said to have bled red as the bodies of dragons sunk into its depths. A sky, stained by the flames of dragon fire, met the bloodied waters in a horrific refraction. From beneath the surface the lifeless eyes of an archaic beast stared beyond the ripples of crimson, watching as the waning sun turned its back on such a sanguinary scene. The poets would immortalise it, the politicians would scorn it, but no one would call it a victory, not even when the maimed body of Vhagar would grow to decay, rotting beneath the waters of the Gods Eye, or when the mutilated remains of Caraxes had crawled its way to shore, shrieking with blood filled lungs.
But a lack of victory was not always a guarantee of loss. From the bank of the Gods Eye, Daemon staggered his way from the depths, throat burning as he choked out the greenish water of the lake onto the blackened dirt that scarred the ground. Clad in armour burnt black with dragon fire, the Targaryen Prince could feel the weight of its steel weighing his every step down into the mud. Yet despite the pain of his ribs, the wounds that pulsed like fire beneath his skin, the Targaryen Prince was grinning. It was callous, triumphant in its vengeance, the grin that one would see when death was mercy not given to the one who searched for it.
From the waters behind him, Daemon dragged the weight of another in his grip, the metal slick in his gloved hand, the only foundation of his hold being the drenched fabric of a tunic beneath the steel. Strings of silver hair clung to the armour, the boy’s body limp with unconsciousness in Daemon’s hold, but it was not the defeat that brought the grin upon the Prince’s face, it was the glint of Dark Sister, the red stained blade piercing through the boy’s shoulder. A mistake made on Daemon’s part, he had been aiming for the boy’s other eye.
There was no noise beyond the huff of breath from Daemon as he further climbed the bank of the Lake, the sound of metal shuffling against metal with each laboured step, and the drag of Valeryian steel through the mud, cutting through roots and sediment. It was not until he was on steady ground that Daemon let his grasp on the boy grow slack, watching with a sadistic triumph as the armour collided with the earth, the blade stopping the boy from landing on his back or his chest, instead he lay at an awkward angle. Daemon brought his gloved hand to his face, wiping away soot, blood, and dirt that painted the skin, staring down at the boy with a sort of cruel gratification.
A son for a son; A Targaryen for a Targaryen he thought, his head tilting to the side as he watched the boy's chest rise with an erratic delay. He imagined Otto Hightower’s face when a raven, with its onyx wings and its pointed beak cawing at the strangers it fed its messages to, would come to the Red Keep, informing him of the death of Vhagar, of the death of Prince Aemond. From the floor the silver haired boy grew pale, the blade still taut in its position, torn through skin and muscle, but death was not a mercy Daemon was willing to give his nephew, but it was a lie he was willing to let the Hightowers believe.
Somewhere in the vastness of the bloodstained lake, the faded strip of leather sunk beneath the waters, lost beside the bodies of dragons.
—
The chain burrowed into the bone of his ankle, the grotesque angle it was clasped at only seemed to cause further discomfort with every step or movement Aemond made. He had attempted to fidget with the clasp when the doors were shut and Aemond was free to thrash and pull at the bonds as much as he pleased till he exhausted himself, but even then his efforts were utterly futile. There was no purpose in asking the guards either, when their rounds shifted and their positions altered every hour he could hear their muffled conversations through the door, scorning and ridiculing the imprisoned Prince for being so easily captured by his Uncle. Aemond did not doubt either that if he should ask they would not waste the opportunity to tighten the chains further.
A click echoed in the bare room, Aemonds attention flickering to the door as it began to peel itself open, one of the guards becoming visible through the doorway. For a moment Aemond caught his gaze, the chill distaste evident beneath the guards helm, eyes narrowed as if the Prince was an unfavored animal in a cage. The Maester shuffled in before the guard could glare at him any further, the old man regarding Aemond with a momentary nod (the extent, to which it appeared, was the most respect he could receive having been brought to Dragonstone as a prisoner rather than a Prince) before turning, placing a silver lined tray down on the nearest table, carrying only a single cup and a corked bottle. Without so much as a word spoken between them Aemond watched with a sardonic stoicism as the Maester uncapped the bottle, the faint scent of poppies filling the room.
‘It is a larger dose than is most commonly advised,’ The Maester informed, pouring the white liquid into the silver cup with a steady precision. Even then Aemond could not quite settle the spark of paranoia and doubt that came to him as he watched the man pour it into his cup, the analgesic not unfamiliar to him, yet, if Daemon or Rhaenyra had wanted him dead he would have been left to drown in the God's Eye, rotting alongside the corpse of his dragon. ‘But it will ease the brunt of the pain which is the desired effect.’
With his uninjured arm Aemond took the cup from the Maester as it was offered him, glancing down into its contents only to be met with the rippling reflection of himself, a broken and clouded visage, being able to make out the blackness swelling around his good eye. He could deny the drink, throw it to the floor and let the liquid seep into the cracks of the stone, give into the haunting idea of spite. But what would he gain from such an adolescent display? A momentary satisfaction of his anger? A fleeting sense of control? If he turned the Maester away now what was to say that he would return the next day to offer aid to the one-eyed Prince? Aemond may be resentful but he was not a fool, without the Milk of the Poppy or proper dressings of his wounds there was no guarantee he wouldn’t succumb to infection and pain.
He brought the cup to his lips, letting the contents of the drink trail down his throat, its taste as bitter and sharp as it had been every time before when the Milk of the Poppy was given to him. Its effects were equally as strong as they were instantaneous, the hollows of his cheeks growing numb as the cups' anaesthetic contents spread over the ache in his muscles and the pain that lingered deeper in his shoulder where Daemon’s blade had run through skin and tissue. It was near overwhelming all at once.
Despite himself the subtle wash of relief brought a breath from his lips, a tension he had yet to notice fading with each second that passed the further the anaesthetic worked its way over him. The Maester took the empty cup from him, shuffling the short distance back from Aemond and to the round table where the tray was set, returning the silver piece to its original place beside the corked bottle.
‘Given the condition of the wound, my Prince, it would be wise to continue with Milk of the Poppy for at least the fortnight whilst we monitor the injury.’ The Maester spoke, picking the tray back up as the guard, who Aemond had seen prior through the doorway, repositioned himself to hold the door open for the Maester.
Perhaps the silver haired prince would have said something in response were it not for the faint haze of fatigue that clouded him as the anaesthetic worked its way over him. The old man turned to Aemond for a moment, bowing his head slightly before straightening upright once more, and Aemond, in turn, said nothing at all. Then, as brief as he had come, the Maester disappeared beyond the threshold, leaving Aemond to stare once again at the wooden door as silence settled over the hollow room.
—
By the fifth night his shoulder had grown infected, the skin flushed to a sickening red whilst the muscles swelled, throbbing with every motion he made. The bandage that the Maester had initially wrapped over Aemond’s wound had all but soiled, stained with dried blood and pus, the stitches beneath rubbing against the cloth, pulling and tugging on the material. He was not ignorant to the nature of scars and injuries, he was familiar with when pain was meant to dwindle and when the flesh was meant to soothe, and he needed no word of a Maester to know that the state of his shoulder threatened him far more than he would like to admit.
It had been a bearable discomfort the first few nights but had grown to anguish the worse the wound became, sleep having already become a stranger to him had long since forsaken him much as he willed it not too. He had attempted to rest in the lightless hours, lying still on his back, searching for a faint inkling of comfort beyond the ache of his shoulder, the chain around his ankle, and the flush of heat from the night. He tried, silently asking the seven-faced god to at least allow him that respite, but no amount of prayer was able to give him what he wanted.
Every time he shut his eyes he was met with the shadows of the God’s Eye. Even in memory he could feel the weight of the water colliding against him; submerging him, engulfing him, drowning him. The stone ceiling above him morphed, rippling in the dark as it turned into the surface of the water, sunlight trembling as Aemond found himself sinking, the weight of Vhagar’s chains and ropes tangled in his feet dragging him deeper alongside the dying dragon. When he’d wake he’d find his breath hitched, trapped within his lungs as if he were sinking all over again.
He was fortunate then, that the guards beyond his door paid so little mind to him outside their mockery, which in passing days had since shifted from its scornful ridicule towards something far more closer to contempt and scathing. If they had been able to hear his breath after every nightmare, the way he’d force himself to stand and pace in the small clearing of the room, the soft echo of the chain trailing against stone, then they had chosen to ignore him. Or at least that is what he forced himself to believe. It was the same with the Maester, until the state where his infection yielded no ability to be disregarded, the old man had offered no comment to Aemond on his physical appearance, seemingly discounting the lack of sleep the prince was certain had become apparent beneath his eyes paired equally with the languid motion of his every movement.
When the infection grew worse and the Maester was forced to change his bandage, Aemond had become so lethargic he could only sit in silence as the man bent his arm, moving it in a way which would allow for the soiled bandage to be pried from his skin. He didn’t have to see the expression on the Maesters face to know that by the way his lips thinned and his brows creased, the wound had taken on an entirely more minatory appearance. Only then, in the stagnant heat of the cell with the Maester’s calloused hands pressing the newly torn cloth onto his skin—the bandage such a pristine white against him—that Aemond feared, for the first time since sinking beneath the water, that he would surely die within the next few days.
—
The note came on the eighth day.
The guard, a boy no younger than he, had been the one to step into the cell, the slip of parchment tucked between his forefinger and his thumb. At first he regarded the prince with a weary apprehension, his gaze frightful in the way it danced over him, residing nowhere and everywhere at once. Aemond imagined what he must look like; gaunt and pallid, his features hollowed from the shadows and sleepless nights, his shoulders maimed with the touch of infection. How detached he must be from the forbidding image of the prince he had been a mere week ago, that strange dissonance like a ripple in a reflection so distorted it had become a different person in its entirety.
The boy extended the note towards him, drawing a step closer to the Targaryen, yet his body reeled, his limbs caught in a stiff repulsion as the distance shortened. Aemond felt that if he were to make any sudden movements, lurch forward from where he was huddled against the wall, the chain around his ankle rattling with a near grievous viciousness, that the boy would startle and collapse backwards.
‘My prince.’ The title felt awkward, spoken with such a confused caution it made Aemond grimace which in turn brought the boys steps to a falter. He glanced to his feet, averting his eyes from the Targaryen, as he recoiled and extended his thumb over the parchment, fidgeting with it in desperation.
Aemond made no motion to take it even as it was held out to him. What worth was there to give a prisoner a note? What could not so simply just be said that it must be passed in writing?
Again the boy pressed on, perhaps aware now that it was a fruitless effort to try and coax Aemond to take the slip, so instead he only knelt. It was a stiff motion, ungraceful, the sound of metal greaves of the armour when it scrapped against the stone of the floor, the sound nothing beyond disconcerting and horrid. He watched, with a narrowed glare, as the creased note was left on the ground no more than a metre away from him. He expected the boy to stand and leave—the same kind of departure that comes with desperation for escape, hurried footsteps poorly shrouded by the attempt of dignitaries for the mere sake of preserving mutual emotion—but there was no move.
The boy’s lips parted, bated breath hitching somewhere in the back of his throat, still casting his gaze anywhere but at Aemond. A second passed before another and another, silence falling over them both, the parchment somehow tethering the entire moment, trapping the tension into a single breath. He saw the shift of the metal on the boys shoulders, something between a sigh and an inhale catching in the air before the boy stood, shuffling to his feet with the same awkwardness as when he had kneeled. Standing upright made him look no more a guard than a sheep in wolves clothing.
He turned, hurried and tactless, but it was not before the door was pulled open by the posted guard that the boy gave the prince one last, long look, muttering a forlorn phrase that left him in an inscrutable panic.
‘My deepest sympathies.’
The door shut and Aemond moved forward.
He had convinced himself that his movements were not urged by distress, that in his panic he had somehow remained composed even in the isolation of his cell with no one to see the crease of his brow and the frantic urgency at which he pried the note open. In the seconds before his eye found the shape of the first letter he thought of his mother; the curve of her frown, the way she had looked at him upon returning from Storm’s End, the sympathy of a mother and the horror of a Queen; his brother, the arrogant lines of his smirk, how they had so fiercely vanished once a part of him had been slaughtered a room away, the indents of the crown on his brow, the flesh that tightened and lingered due to dragonfire; then of his sister, sweet, strange Helaena who had no part in this war yet it shrouded her, plagued her, consumed her in her every breath. He wanted to see them again, as shattered as the illusion of family was.
The first five words bled through the parchment, staining his palm, mocking him.
She fell from her window.
Nausea seized him, the penmanship on the slip no longer legible beneath his gaze. Had the room always been this suffocating? The air left him, clawing from his lungs, tearing at the tissue in a desperate effort to leave, to forsake him once and for all. He made no sound nor motion to move, something having staked itself within him, burrowing between his ribs.
They found her body in the spikes.
Aemond’s vision tilted the longer he stared at the words before him. The room shrunk around him, eroded stone watching whilst the Targaryen prince paled, every feeling within his body numbed and motionless. If he moved he would be sick. The more he discerned the shape of the letters, the more the horrific string of one word to another, the more real the truth became.
We mourn for our Queen.
He thought of his sister, no more than nine in the walls of the library, candle light flickering by the books as Aemond, no more than eight, read in silence beside her. He thought of her at age eleven, sitting on the sands of Driftmark, a crab marching along her hands as she uttered words that made little sense to him, the beat of the sea washing along the shoreline, reaching for their feet, the only tether between them. Again at thirteen the day she was married to Aegon, and again the night she had watched her son die, and again days before he left for Harrenhal.
Then he thought of her impaled by the spikes of the Red Keep, her body descending from the high windows of the towers, the black veil wrapping around her face, her neck, her shoulders, her arms. From somewhere in his mind he heard the horrid split of flesh against wood, the spikes stained red as blood seeped into them. Had she fallen with her eyes to the ground? Or had she fallen with her back to the world, choosing, in a final moment of rebellion, to ignore its cries as it had so often done?
Aemond brought the parchment to the floor, pressing his palm to the stone, part of him withholding the fruitless hope that should he press hard enough the note would vanish and with it the death of his sister. Helaena who was the Light of the Realm, the Kind Queen, the Beloved, the Dreamer, now dead. How cruel it is that he should be the one so deserving of death yet be the one to live while his sister lay lifeless, gored on the spikes of the Red Keep.
He stood on legs that no longer felt his own, compelled to move by a force unrecognizable. She had not been killed, no, death had not greeted her in such a torturous way, instead she had chosen it and somehow that felt worse. Aemond paced, stalking to the nearest wall of the cell, the stone ragged beneath his fingertips, sharp enough to cut the fragile stain of his skin if he moved against it fast enough. He walked along the wall, his footsteps contorted into a distant taunt in his ears. Alive, alive, alive. Dead, dead, dead. His steps only grew faster.
From somewhere down the hall, where the guards turned to ascend stone steps and the shadows of Dragonstone were the only ones left to witness him, there came a crash and the Targaryen prince finally screamed.
I have given no permission for my writing or work to be posted anywhere else other than this account. I hope you enjoyed. <3
Was digging through my notes and found this discarded scene from Mand’alor bal Kaysh Vod’ika. Obi-Wan’s verd’goten was originally a single chapter featuring a hunt on Mandalore, but I scrapped that in favor of the Xanatos hunt published on AO3. Of course that decision was made after I had already written 3k words, so enjoy the scrapped scene after the break. (The original arc also involved a completely original mission where Obi-Wan crossed paths with Luminara and her master. I may use bits and pieces of that mission in a future arc.)
This chapter originally had another 500 or so words where Obi-Wan is adopted by a strill puppy. I think those words got deleted, since the only evidence is a pro/con list and the single “protect” emotion from the strill parent.
Obi-Wan wasn't sure what he expected Mandalore to look like, but it wasn't this. Large swathes of the southern hemisphere had been bombarded from space, leaving enormous puckered black scars across a golden desert. The desert was relatively new, or so Jango said, a result of the bombardment destroying the natural ecosystem and leaving the area uninhabitable without sophisticated environmental domes.
The northern hemisphere had been miraculously spared - and that alone had probably kept the planet capable of supporting humanoid life - leaving a glimpse of the Mandalore of old. Forests and mountains blanketed the area, making it difficult to carve out enough space for a single clan, let alone a city or proper landing pad.
Jango guided Jaster's Legacy in for a lopsided landing between an evergreen forest and the start of yet another mountain range, a feat Obi-Wan was glad he didn't have to perform. "Wayii," he exclaimed softly upon exiting the ship, eyebrows rising in awe at the way the Legacy was perched atop three boulders like a giant bird of prey.
"It just takes practice," Jango assured, voice modulator hiding most of the amusement Obi-Wan could feel from him. "Now, your verd'goten," he started and Obi-Wan snapped his attention over. "Traditionally, the two of us would disappear into the wilderness while the rest of Clan Fett tried to catch and defeat you. Seeing as that's not an option, we'll have to test your warrior skills another way."
Obi-Wan swallowed his nerves and nodded seriously.
"In these forests are a number of dangerous predators. Your task is to hunt a strill," he stated and Obi-Wan tilted his head in question. "They're an apex predator native to these forests. Highly intelligent, mammalian, with an unmistakable stench and six legs. Tend to pounce from high trees," he warned, grinning when Obi-Wan nervously glanced at the tree line.
Those were some very tall trees.
"I'll be with you to make sure you don't die, but this is your hunt," Jango finished. "Be sure to take whatever you need from the ship."
"I don't suppose there's a strill tracker?" Obi-Wan quipped before studying the forest. He had taken the basic survival courses all Initiates took. He had the Force. If things went to absolute bathashit, he had Jango.
He could do this.
He set off into the forest with a light pack, a single blaster, and a survival knife. He had contemplated grabbing more supplies - enough provisions for a week, more weapons, a full temporary shelter and bedroll - but had ultimately decided against it. This was a test. He wouldn't take the easy way out.
The forest was eerie and peaceful at the same time. Insects chirped and screamed all around him, blocking out the softer padding sounds of small prey animals and his own two feet. Branches snapped and shook from the breeze and various creatures going about their lives. The scent of pine and rotting foliage sat heavy in his lungs.
He trudged on.
The sun filtered through the sturdy veshok trees and warmed patches of undergrowth. Obi-Wan paused in one, absorbing the heat and breathing out his tension. Breathed in peace, and exhaled his uncertainty. Inhaled fresh air and exhaled his nerves.
He stretched out his senses.
Jango stopped fifty yards away, preternaturally still in the way all predators were. He was calm, patient, warm, but ready to spring into action at the slightest signal. His own senses - and likely his sensors - were on high alert, searching for any indication that Obi-Wan needed his help.
Obi-Wan would not need his help. Not for this. He would make Jango proud.
A rapid heartbeat and softly padding feet off to one side, a flicker of life just as wary and alert as Obi-Wan was. He brushed against that dim light, identifying it as a small herbivore. A prey animal, calculating in its own simple way whether it wanted to flee or continue munching the sweet vorpan berries.
Another flicker of life overhead, this one sleeping. A good thing, too, since there was an aura of danger and barely leashed violence tucked behind those brown wings. Obi-Wan would not put it past this particular creature to attack, and possibly kill, humans if it felt the desire. He sent a soft sleep suggestion to it and warily turned his attention elsewhere, though part of him kept it firmly in mind.
Something nudged his arm, and Obi-Wan's eyes snapped open. A cold black nose attached to a long triangular face nudged his arm again, and Obi-Wan huffed a soft laugh. He slowly, carefully reached up to pet the shatual's head and scratch the base of the wide antlers, gaze flickering over the herd that had decided to come meet him.
"Hello there," he greeted quietly, belatedly realizing he had been projecting peace into the Force in his attempts to keep the predator bird overhead asleep. No wonder the herd had come up to him. "You're a brave little fellow, aren't you?"
Jango shifted, and the shatual herd stiffened, heads all swiveling to stare at the Mandalorian. Obi-Wan jerked back to avoid getting clocked by his new friend's bony crown.
The largest shatual made a guttural sound, and Obi-Wan scrambled away as the herd abruptly fled.
A mix of exasperation, disbelief, and humor prompted Obi-Wan to turn, a bemused if chiding look on his face. "Thanks for that," he snarked, staring pointedly at the blaster Jango had drawn.
"This happen a lot?" Jango asked evenly as he stowed the weapon.
"Not generally. I think I was projecting and they got curious," Obi-Wan admitted. "We should move on. I think that's a shriek-hawk overhead, which means a strill wouldn't be welcome here."
There was a brief pause as Jango consulted his HUD. "Good eye," he confirmed.
Obi-Wan smiled as he wandered deeper into the woods, the Force guiding his steps.
They stalked through the forest for hours, Obi-Wan picking out what plants he thought were safe for foraging and Jango verifying their safety. Whether that was cheating, Obi-Wan didn't care to examine too closely. He knew how to test whether a plant was edible. Using Jango's knowledge simply kept the man from worrying at Obi-Wan's naturally small appetite.
There were no repeats of the shatual herd incident, though Obi-Wan may have used a small Force suggestion to lure a rabbit for latemeal. He only felt mildly guilty about using the Force in such a way as Jango helped him field dress and roast the animal.
Camp was a simple affair; a pile of dry leaves, a small fire, and a blanket to keep the morning dew off. Jango didn't even bother with the blanket, relying instead on his beskar'gam to keep him warm and dry. Part of Obi-Wan was jealous, the rest of him knew he would get his own suit soon.
The next day came bright and early, complete with Obi-Wan gasping from a half-forgotten nightmare and Jango groaning about a night on the hard ground. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and would have thrown a pillow if he had one; the ground was not that much harder than the shared blanket pile they were experimenting with on the Legacy.
They wandered onwards, Obi-Wan following the vague currents of the Force as best he could. It was difficult to tell where exactly he was meant to go. The Living Force had never been his strong suit, and the Force felt especially elusive in this old, scarred forest. This was a place teeming with life tempered by a looming expectation of danger; these were survivors, determined to eke out a living among the jagged rocks and scraggly trees and the heavy weight of death.
He shivered as he crested another boulder.
The vague feeling of alarm and the sound of rustling trees alerted him to animals fleeing something. He turned, stretching his senses out.
A breeze ruffled his hair, and Obi-Wan nearly gagged at the stench it carried. Like rotting meat and Vos's training tunics and unwashed bodies all mixed together. He hastily switched to breathing through his mouth, and nearly gagged again as he realized he could taste the stink.
He glanced back at Jango, a disgusted look on his face. 'Is that what I think it is?'
Amusement spiked, and Jango inclined his head. 'Yes.'
Obi-Wan scowled and crept towards the strill, drawing both his vibroblade and blaster. He reached out with the Force, recognizing a spark of animal intelligence just ahead, mind bright with happiness and victory at a successful kill.
The strill was just as ugly as it smelled. Short gray fur bristled across its flappy skin as it tore into the downed shatual. Its front four legs held the shatual in place as it systemically tore the beast into shreds, blood and viscera spreading from the corpse in a gory puddle.
Obi-Wan swallowed roughly and raised his blaster.
Something - the wind, maybe - alerted the predator of his presence as its head snapped up, snarling. The Force barely had time to flare in warning before the strill pounced, fangs and claws extended.
Obi-Wan shouted in surprise and thrust one hand out, catching the strill with the Force, pushing it back, and buying him precious seconds to scramble to his feet.
The strill snarled as it landed, prowling around him in a wide arc. Obi-Wan raised his blaster and aimed for the creature's center of mass, Force at the ready for any unexpected surprises. The Force trilled right as the strill leapt, and Obi-Wan twisted to one side, blaster landing a fiery score across the loose skin of the strill's underbelly.
He cursed under his breath. That would only make the animal angrier.
The strill snarled as it landed and immediately bounded up a nearby tree. Obi-Wan shifted closer to the shatual body, tracking the strill as it jumped from tree to tree around him.
He dove to one side as the strill fell almost on top of him, blaster snapping out three quick bolts. The strill whimpered as it landed, and Obi-Wan frowned as he realized he had only caught one of the six legs instead of the animal's vulnerable chest.
It would hurt, but it wouldn't incapacitate.
Apparently it hurt enough, as the strill picked up its injured leg and fled into the forest. Obi-Wan grit his teeth and followed, eyes scanning everywhere for disturbed foliage and blood.
Despite the injury, the strill was fast, quickly disappearing among the veshok trees. Obi-Wan reached out with the Force, searching for that combination of intelligence and anger/hurt/fear/hunger that was the strill among similar animal minds.
He scowled as he felt the strill escape to the edge of his awareness. If he were better with the Force - if he were a real Jedi - he would be able to feel it out from across the planet. He picked up the pace, using the Force to vault himself over a downed tree and enhance his speed.
But it was no good. The strill was clever and knew the forest better than Obi-Wan did. He drew to a stop, panting, as he recognized that his target had escaped.
As he caught his breath, he realized Jango was nowhere to be seen. He frowned, reaching out with the Force for the familiar presence, but only finding the relatively dull glimmers of animals instead. He reached for his commlink and paused.
He wasn't asking for help. He wouldn't. Not for this.
He could do this. Jango thought he could do this, so he could do this. He would not let Jango down.
He flipped a switch on the device allowing it to broadcast his location, and tucked it back in his belt pouch. Whether Jango needed the tracking signal or not, it settled something deep inside knowing Jango would absolutely be able to find him.
And if the strill did kill him, at least Jango would be able to find his corpse.
With that cheery thought, Obi-Wan carefully examined his surroundings. There, off to the side and high in the trees, were what looked like claw marks, and lower on the trunk were a few spatters of blood.
He followed those signs for some distance, trusting the Force to keep him mostly pointed in the right direction and his own eyes the rest of the way, and emerged in a small rocky clearing. He scoured the lichen covered rock for the telltale blood spots he had been following, and headed back into the forest.
As he came upon a small rocky clearing, he was forced to admit the strill was far more clever than he had given credit. He drew his knife, marked the false trail, and tried a different path.
The third time he entered the small rocky clearing, Jango was waiting for him.
"Not a word," Obi-Wan demanded, finally locating what he hoped was the real trail.
Jango didn't move, but he also didn't say a word, so Obi-Wan counted that as a win. He determinedly ignored whatever emotions Jango was bleeding into the Force.
The third path led him into the foothills of a mountain and down into a shallow stream. He scowled at the cheery water feature, just knowing the strill had used that to well and truly lose him.
"Do you have a plan?" Jango asked as he drew close.
Obi-Wan sighed, releasing his frustration to the Force, and took a seat on a conveniently flat rock. "We weren't taught more than basic tracking skills," Obi-Wan admitted, "but I did spend a lot of time hiding from and chasing down my friends in the creche. Whenever someone got really good at hiding, we could generally locate them if we meditated and really focused, so I'm going to give that a shot."
"Does that work for anyone?"
Obi-Wan shrugged. "The better you know who you're searching for, the easier it gets. I got a decent feel for the strill while we were fighting, so with some luck I should be able to find it. At least, I should, as long as it hasn't gone too far away," which they both knew was unlikely given the strill's injury.
Jango didn't have anything to say to that, so Obi-Wan closed his eyes and drew the Force around him. Energy swelled, and Obi-Wan concentrated, dragging his attention away from Jango's bright light to pick through the dimmer threads surrounding them.
His attention slid to a knot of threads vaguely resembling his target and a herd of shatuale. The strill-thread watched closely, its focus on the runt-thread at the back of the herd with the gimp leg, as the herd gathered at a sizeable bush. The runt dropped its head to gather some berries, and the strill pounced, air catching the gliding skin between its legs and depositing the predator's claws on the shatual's neck.
The shatuale-threads panicked, bolted, and fled, leaving the strill-thread and the dying shatual-thread behind but not forgotten. As Obi-Wan watched, the shatual-thread frayed and split, the pieces carried away on some indiscernible breeze to tangle themselves with the shatuale herd and the strill ripping strips out of an empty shell.
And those scattered threads suddenly contracted, bright and solid and demanding, dragging the herd and the strill-thread, now frayed in places, together. He watched as the mess of threads collided and tangled, forming some knotted mess he could hardly pick apart before it suddenly dispersed, leaving only a few frayed remains behind.
He frowned at the unhelpful vision. Something - the Force? - frowned right back.
He prodded at the frayed remains and felt a flash of very animal alarm/protect/hunt in return.
He kept that thread firmly in mind as he carefully eased himself from the Force.
"Find something?" Jango asked evenly, though after his latest deep meditation the man might as well have been screaming his worry, curiosity, and fascination to the galaxy for all he was masking the emotions.
"I think so," Obi-Wan answered, rising to his feet and nearly tumbling to the ground as his vision temporarily blacked out. "Whoa. How long was I out?"
"Four hours," Jango answered, stowing the blaster he had been cleaning. He fished a nutribar from one of his numerous pouches and threw it at Obi-Wan. "Eat and drink. The water is safe."
Obi-Wan scowled but obediently bit down on the dry bar before chasing it with water and venturing back into the forest. The strill-thread felt different outside that plane of deep meditation, but he had a direction to follow and he wasn't about to let it slip away again.
He almost wished he had waited to finish the nutribar before chasing the strill. His mouth felt sandy, and he hadn't thought to fill a canteen before leaving the stream behind.
The strill-thread remained steady in his mind, and he couldn't help the slight increase in pace as he caught the first pungent whiff of the beast. He cloaked himself in the Force as if he were hiding from Quin and approached slowly, senses straining for any sign the strill knew he was approaching.
He heard growling and an answering whuff just ahead. He ducked down, drawing his blaster and checking the Force. Jango was still several meters away, and it felt like the strill was distracted by a sizeable herd of angry shatuale.
Angry herbivores. That was not something he would have expected.
The lead shatual ducked its head, antlers pointed straight at the strill, and whuffed another warning. The strill growled and darted forwards, forward paws raised to slash.
Obi-Wan could only watch as the shatual charged, caught the strill in the points of its antlers, and tossed it aside like trash. The other shatuale dropped their heads and followed suit, hooves trampling the strill into the dirt. The lead shatual stopped long enough to study its target, whuffed and pawed at the ground, and tossed its head in victory as the strill whined pathetically.
He sat stunned for a moment, not sure what he was supposed to do as the shatuale proudly left the area. He was supposed to hunt the strill, but a herd of prey animals came and did the deed for him. Did it count if he tracked it, fought it, and ultimately didn't kill it?
But no, the poor animal wasn't dead yet.
He could feel the creature's pain, see how it struggled to breathe around a crushed ribcage. Its limbs were shattered in multiple locations, the grey fur already matted with blood where its thick skin had burst. The shatuale hadn't killed the strill, but there was no way the strill would survive much longer.
He felt a swell of pity for the thing as he approached. There was no way he could help it; even if he had enough bacta on him (which he definitely didn't), the creature would sooner kill him than let him approach.
He met the animal's gold eyes, unfocused and cloudy though they were, and tried to press peace and comfort on its mind. Something stirred and weakly nudged against his mind, leaving an impression of pain/sad/hungry.
The strill released a wet whine and blood burbled past its lips. Obi-Wan closed his eyes in mourning, pressed a suggestion to sleep on the rapidly weakening creature, and shot it clean between the eyes.
It really was a mercy this time.
He rose to his feet as he heard Jango approach. "I killed it, but a herd of shatuale did most of the work first," he blurted out, stowing his blaster.
Jango came to stop next to him, staring down at the corpse before turning his helmeted face towards him. "That's okay," Jango said. "I told you before, the verd'goten is traditionally a hunt between clan members. This was a test to see how advanced your survival and fighting skills were, and based on what I've seen, you're more than skilled enough." He smiled behind the helmet, one hand resting proudly on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Congratulations, verd."
Verd. Soldier. Warrior.
Jango's smile became tender as he squeezed Obi-Wan's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, vod."
for the ask meme: matt and casey, 55. tracing the lines on the other’s hand :]
This got so long... but then it is me we're talking about 😅
'Touching' prompts list (will accept more!)
-----------------------------------------
Heart Line
It really should have been Nyte Blayde night.
It was Friday, after all, and they weren't all the way through their second watch of it yet. However, the moment the Boss had confided in her partner that she'd actually never seen Tron: Legacy, there'd pretty much been no doubt how they were going to be spending their evening. She'd suggested they cuddle up in bed to watch it, mostly so if she got bored it wouldn't be so hard to distract him toward something else, but so far, the movie didn't seem too terrible.
“So this is the guy that made you decide to start puttin’ blue lights on everythin’, huh?” Casey commented matter-of-factly as they watched the protagonist.
“And made it evident I like men.” Matt pointed out with a smirk.
“What made it evident you also like women?” she asked offhandedly. He raised his eyebrows and nodded at the other figure on screen. “Oh yeah.” she chuckled, remembering. “Well... thank you Quorra, I guess.” she said, faux saluting her.
Matt let out a slight chuckle too and took her left hand in his since his right was already around her shoulders. Rather than just holding it though, he began to sweep his thumb along her palm, inevitably catching the lines on it and starting to trace across them one by one. Her hand began to tingle slightly at the touch.
“Mmm.” she purred, glancing down at what he was doing. “That feels nice baby.”
“Yeah?” he replied, smiling and continuing to make his way along them. After a moment he stopped and began to stroke back and forth in the same spot.“I like this line.” he mused. “Sounds a little ridiculous but it's on this top bit of your palm so it’s all... squishy.”. He demonstrated by giving that part of her hand a little squeeze.
Casey glanced down. “Ah see, that is my heart line." she told him. "If you look, it's actually really splintered cause I have y'know... like a shitload of emotional trauma.”. Matt looked over at her, a mixture of confused by the relevance and sympathetic, but she honestly didn't feel the need to talk it through right now, so she shrugged it off and finished her explanation. “And it's up real close to my fingers because I usually suppress my emotions, find it hard to express ‘em, all that shit?”. He knew it better than anyone, if the time they spent dancing around each other before they got together was any indication.
“Love, I don’t want to be an arsehole, but I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.” Matt admitted in an amused tone, letting go of her hand and pulling her closer to plant a gentle kiss into the side of her hair.
She sighed, knowing it was stupid but she’d started the tangent now so she might as well get into it. “Look, there used to be this little uh... psychic place back in Stilwater.” she explained. “I didn’t have any money but the lady in there read my palm a little anyway.”. She paused. “She also...said I had poor circulation ‘cause my hands were so cold.” she muttered absent-mindedly.
Matt scoffed slightly. “OK, I’ll give her the last part.” he conceded. “But you know I think that sort of thing’s bollocks.”
“Hey, so do I.” Casey insisted a little defensively, but her eyes did flick over to some of the little good luck charms she’d accumulated over the years that were pinned to a board on their wall, aware that maybe that wasn’t entirely true.
“Right, so all those arguments about ghosts we had were, what, foreplay?” he asked, drawing back a little with a raise of his eyebrows.
“Matt, I swear to god, I’m time jumpin’ us to Old Stilwater some time and this whole damn thing's bein’ put to rest.” she replied.
“Well I look forward to that.” he replied calmly, but there was definitely a tiny hint of smugness to it.
She rolled her eyes slightly. There was a lot of shit she wouldn't have believed had it not directly happened to her, so she didn't feel the need to convince him right this second. But she knew what she’d fucking seen. At least she... was pretty sure. Maybe. Either way, it wasn’t really the point right now. “Look, I don’t believe in all this palm shit now.” she clarified. “But uh... I was 12 so... I may have gotten a little into it after that. I... took the book out from the library, started copying out all the pages and shit...”
“Oh my god.” Matt replied, bringing the knuckle of his index finger to his mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m lame.” she replied. “Remind me what you were doin’ at 12 again?” she asked sarcastically, nodding at the screen.
“Trying to hack into The Pentagon, mostly.” Matt pointed out. He paused for a moment. “Go on then, trainee palm reader lady.” he suggested teasingly, offering her his free hand. “Tell me what mine says.”
She took it in both of hers and began to run her fingers over his palm, but she couldn’t resist getting him back. “Huh...” she mused. “Interesting. Says here you were a little bitch when you were a teenager.”
“Oi!” Matt responded, pulling his hand back faux defensively, although he was laughing slightly. “Sorry for trying to indulge your highly scientific pastime.”
Casey laughed along with him. “Baby, c’mon, I couldn’t waste that opportunity.” she laughed. “OK, imma do it for real.” she assured, reaching for his hand once more.
"Real...?" Matt replied sceptically, but he let her take it. She traced the lines more thoughtfully this time. She watched out of the corner of her eye as it made him smile and shift his shoulders a little, obviously finding the sensation rather pleasant. “Well, your head line’s super long.” she explained. “Means you’re smart but like... you overthink shit sometimes.”
“Are you actually reading this or do you just so happen to have met me before?” Matt joked.
She gave him an amused look before glancing back down. “But look, see, you’re also super creative because it curves down a lot.”
“Oh yes, I’m quite the artist in my spare time.” he continued sarcastically, leaning his head back against the headboard, looking entertained.
“I meant with your simulations and shit.” she pointed out. “Although one could argue your fanfic also-“
“Yes, I think you’ve made quite enough jokes about my fanfic, thank you very much.” Matt muttered quickly. He was blushing a little but was comfortable enough with her at this point that he didn’t seem as embarrassed as he once was about it. “Let me see; saliva isn’t lube, don’t use “raven-haired” so much, and you think I need to get some dick.”
Casey bit at her lip, smirking a little. “Well I mean, I was just gonna say the whole setup for Nyte Blayde and Ryder, the character who has the greatest resemblance to you in the entire show by the way, to fuck in the secret lair was pretty creative.” she pointed out. “But good to see you were listenin’ I guess.” She smirked over at him, then returned to looking at the lines before he could further protest. “Ooh, OK, so, your heart line starts in the middle of your palm, that means you fall in love pretty easily.”
“Well... that’s not... entirely untrue.” he admitted.
“Matt that’s probably gonna be the most accurate thing on here.” she teased. “Oh, but it also touches your life line, so you also get your heart broken pretty easily.”
“I can’t tell if you’re supposedly reading it, making it up, or just taking the piss now.” Matt admitted.
“Sweetie, if I was makin’ it up I’d be waaaay more flattering.” Casey admitted, repositioning her head on his shoulder.
“Isn’t that the whole point of these sorts of things?” he pointed out. “Telling people what they want to hear?”
“Well...” she relented. “Maybe if you were paying me.”
“Could be using it to get into my pants.” he teased in a slightly flirty tone, glancing across at her.
“You aren’t wearing pants.” she pointed out.
“Yeah I am.” he replied, releasing his hand from hers and snapping at the waistband of his boxers to prove the point. “I’m not wearing trousers.”
“Not this bullshit again...” she chuckled, squishing the area of his palm just under his index finger. “Hmm, well this says you’ve got a bit of an ego?" she said, raising her brows a little to feign suprise as she looked back to him. She caught the rather intense blue of his eyes and suddenly wasn't so focused on looking at his hand anymore. “But you’re also... real easy to talk to...” she continued. “Sweet... loyal... funny...”. She reached over and pushed his hair back off his face with her free hand before continuing. “You’re all... passionate about your special interests and shit.”. She looked over at him with a fond smile. “You’re just really fuckin’ cool, Matt.”
Matt looked genuinely touched, a far softer smile lighting up his features in return than the chuckles and smirks they'd been enticing from each other. “Well.” he said gently. “I suppose, coming from the Emperor herself, that means a lot.”. He paused and moved his hand to interlink his fingers with hers. “I love you, Cass.”
“I love you too, Matty.” she replied.
He used the arm around her shoulders to pull her towards him and towards him for a soft, slow kiss. That genuine smile was still present when they parted. “You know sometimes I still find it hard to believe you do.” he admitted. “After how long it took to get us here and everything.”
“Yeah, well...” she replied, stroking the hand along his face and catching sight of the little line that had started this whole discussion, then catching his gaze again and smiling. “You make it real easy.”
The sky was black on that night, blacker than any night Effie had never seen, she was lying in the comforting petals of a single red rose, the only one left on the bush. She stared up at the night sky and watched as the storm rolled in over the hills. She sighed then flew up. The
human city glistened with poisonous metal in the distance; she never understood why some of her kin agreed to live in such a vile place. She huffed before heading back to her rose. The rain was starting to fall harder now; it was time to head back.
Effie wrapped her bright red hair in her grey cap, pushed down on her dress, reached in her bag for her return dust. She threw it into the air and jumped through the portal into Faerie. Shaking off the dust she started for home. The faerie city was alive with flowers and gems that of which humans could only imagine. Effie loved her home, though the human world had better summer storms, and she quite liked them. She skipped along the soft stones; thinking of how the thunder sounded like a giant in the distance and how the flashes of light looked as if millions of battles were being fought in the sky above her.
She was so involved in her thoughts that she did not notice she had stepped on a face. She looked down: a boy’s face was under her foot, his face was bloody and his eyes dull. She screamed and felt a hand go over her mouth.
“Shut up, do you want it to find us?” another boy’s voice said. Effie blinked. She wasn’t sure what “it” was but she didn’t want to find out by the looks of the bloody boy. The other boy pulled her into the shadows and took away his hand.
“When I say so, run,” he peaked over the side of a wall and Effie could make out his dark hair and pale skin. He made a movement with his fingers, telling her to come. She peered around the corner and into the next street. Pure fear made her unable to scream. A creature stood under the light from the home above. It was very skinny, its skin looked taught and grey and its wings were torn, its mouth dripped with blood. Its eyes, its dark soulless eyes stared out into the night.
“Do not look back; do not stop no matter what you hear, and for the love of the Queen keep up.” He paused for a moment. “Run!” he dashed off and she after him. It was following them, the creature; she could hear its screeching scream and the shuffle of its feet on the ground. The boy ran into a house, it was run down and falling apart but she followed him, it was better than being outside. The doors shut behind her; she could hear banging on the doors. The boy had stopped and was staring at her his head cocked to the side.
“I’m Everrit Isadora Morris,” he bowed low to the ground.
“Effie Dufort,” she said. Everrit smiled, now in a better light she could see what he looked like. He had a mildly strong build and blue eyes that shone brightly under his blonde hair. He was wearing a bright green shirt and human jeans, his wings were black and silk looking.
“Come on the others will love to meet you,” he led her down a hall.
“Won’t those creatures get in?” she asked.
“Nah, Atta is a mage she spelled it against them,” he walked with a sort of swagger most boys she knew didn’t walk with. There was a confidence behind it. He led her into a small room where two boys and a girl sat around a table playing a game of Fidchell. Everrit made a coughing noise and they looked up.
“We have a guest,” He said pointing to Effie. The girl stood. Her black hair was cut short around her face and her grey eyes were filled with a mixture of something Effie could not place.
“I’m Atta and these are my younger twin brothers Aerie and Ari our mother liked A names, just like the Faerie Queen Anna Lee,” she seemed quite proud of this fact.
“Hi, I’m Effie,” she said.
“You want food,” Atta asked walking into the kitchen.
“What do you have?” Effie asked. She was never one to turn down a meal if offered to her. Atta pulled out a box from the cupboard. It looked to be something humans would eat, well because Effie had never seen such a thing.
“Its called Cinnamon toast crunch, it tastes amazing. We’ve had it for dinner this entire week.” Atta said.
Aerie and Ari made gagging noises in the back ground.
“Don’t listen to them,” she poured some on a plate and set it down at the round table in the middle of the kitchen.
“So can someone tell me what that thing was? Oh that’s amazing” she said taking a bite of the small crunchy… thing… what did humans call these things?
“Well, besides the point that it is very rude to speak with one’s mouth full.” Everrit winked at her. “Those were well, we aren’t sure, but they were once dead”
Effie blinked. “Dead? Dead faeries do not chase you across the entire city, trying to do whatever it is they were trying to do”
Atta sat down and grabbed her hand. “They were trying to eat you,”
Effie pushed back her chair so fast it made a black mark on the wood. Fear crawled up her bones. “Eat me?”
“Yeah, not many people know, it’s not wide spread,” Ari said.
“They were dead once but now they are something else,” Aerie said.
The twins looked at each other. “They are what humans call a Zombie” they said in unison.
“Meaning?” she asked
Ari stood and walked over to the table “Meaning, we don’t have long before a hoard of once dead fey take over this entire world,” his blue eyes were signing with unshed tears.
“But how would that happen, they aren’t that fast,” Effie said, she needed this all to be okay, her world had changed in the span of mere hours.
“They are fast enough,” Ari said pushing his brown shirt up his arm... His arm was bit.
“It happened to Everrit’s sister we watched her change. They bite you and you eventually become like them. I probably have hours left,” he looked over at his twin.
“No,” Aerie shook his head.
“You know you have to,” Ari said.
Aerie got up and walked into the other room and Ari followed.
“He has to die doesn’t he?” Effie asked.
Everrit stood. “Yes and if Aerie isn’t going to do it I will,” he walked towards the door but Effie grabbed his arm.
“How can you do that that is their brother?” He glared at her.
“Ari is just as much my brother as he is theirs. But in hours he will not be our brother, he will be a monster and a danger to all of us. I will do what I must to protect what is left of my family” he pulled his arm free and walked into the room the twins had just entered.
Atta closed her eyes. “I am so sorry,” Effie said. She reached her hand out across the table and took a hold of Atta’s hand.
A scream came from the room and Aerie and Everrit burst into the room.
“Grab nothing, he changed, he’s too strong, just run” Everrit yelled grabbing Effie’s arm and pulling her towards a door in the back.
“Aerie, come on, “Atta yelled.
Effie turned and in the light of the kitchen she could see Ari so perfectly well… too perfect. His skin was white and his eyes so black they looked like pits, blood oozed from his mouth, his body was hunched over slightly and his wings protruding from his back were torn.
“Atta, Aerie, we need to go now” Everrit screamed.
Atta grabbed Aerie and pulled him away from his twin.
“No, kill him and me, kill us both” Aerie said, his voice was calm.
“Are you insane?” Everrit said. “We need to go, we need to warn people”
“You all go,” Aerie said not taking his eyes of Ari.
Ari growled and moved forward quickly. Everrit whipped out a bow and arrow and stuck him. He fell to the ground.
“He won’t be down long, Aerie, we need to go,” Everrit said holding his bow pointed at Ari.
Aerie shook his head. “Ari and I came into this world together and we will leave together,”
Everrit seemed to be battling in his mind; finally he put his arm out and pushed Atta and Effie back.
“Go, get to the castle, if we can inform the queen, maybe we can stop this,”
Atta looked from Everrit, to her brothers, and back at the bow in Everrit hand.
“Everrit…”
“Just go both of you go”
Atta pulled Effie out the door. They were met with what looked to be ten or more undead fey. Effie could hear screeching coming from inside the house. The undead ran towards them as soon as they saw her and Atta. Atta bolted down the side of the house and Effie followed. They ran across the city streets leading them towards the castle.
“We can’t bring them there,” Effie yelled.
Atta turned swiftly and two daggers flew from her hands. They zoomed past Effie and into two of the Undead’s heads. They fell down and did not move. She continued this until all the Undead lay in a heap in the alley way. She walked over to them and picked up each dagger, wiping the blood off with a cloth in her bosom, and placing them in slots in her boots and jacket. She turned and looked at Effie. Effie stared at her in wonder.. Effie did something she never thought she would have the courage to do and reached out and kissed Atta. She didn’t know her, not really, but she was if anything fascinating and that for the time being was enough for now. She pulled back and stared at Atta.
“Well, that was unexpected, very nice though, and we will continue this, but first we need to save faerie” Atta winked and ran off towards the Faerie Queen’s castle.
Effie took a deep breath, smiled, and ran after her.
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