Hey, Iām Puck! Iām an adult, Christian, aro/ace, and a whump writer! I write whump with OCs, and I also do prompts sometimes! I love asks and Iām happy to chat any time!
Thou speakāst aright; I am that merry whumper of the night!
I need to stop with the bad Shakespeare puns. Hi everyone! Iām Puck! Iām an adult, Christian, aro/ace, and (as of yet) undiagnosed ADHD. Iām in college majoring in Theatre! (Hence all the Shakespeare.) I also bake (mostly desserts) and dance (modern and ballet!)
I write historical whump, mostly. Sometimes I do something that leans more into the fantasy genre. All of my writing is SFW; and while Iāll happily read other peopleās work, I wonāt read anything NSFW. Feel free to tag me in your writing- I only write historical, but Iām down to read pretty much anything! I also love just talking to people- my inbox and messages are always open! Edit: I no longer only write historical!
I canāt wait to get started whumping!
IRL Stalkers Are Not Welcome On This Blog
My Work:
Series-es
ASO Masterlist (pirate whump, leans into fantasy later)
The Land of Sweets Saga Masterlist COMPLETE (Christmas whump, inspired by the Nutcracker ballet- this has nothing to do with the other Nutcracker whump piece I wrote!)
One-Shots/Short Stories (some of these may be continued if Iām ever in the mood!)
The Ring (no whump! Just some cute fantasy ace-spec positivity!)
Pawn (vampire whumpee)
The Gift (fantasy whump, continuation here)
The Nutcracker Prelude (Christmas whump, inspired by the Nutcracker ballet- this story is also now featured in the Once Upon A Blade anthology by thewhumpyprintingpress!)
Turnabout (hero/villain whump crossed with lab whump, whumper turned whumpee)
Figurehead (mer whump, pirate setting)
Give It Up (captivity whump, carewhumper)
With the Fishes (mafia whump crossed with mer whump, very dark)
The Court of Olympus (whump based on Greek mythology, mostly written for humorous purposes)
that wears the crown (royal whump, slight whumper-turned-whumpee)
Gordon Ramsay as a caretaker (yes, you read that right)
Prompts/Lists
Random Prompts
Shakespeareās Dark Side (whump prompts inspired by Shakespeare plays!)
Whump + Whump (whump prompts where I add two whump genres together and make prompts for them!)
Whatās In A Name Bank (lists of character name ideas)
Just had to pop on here to say that Idris Elba has been the faceclaim for Sir Myles since I created the character. I usually donāt do faceclaims but somebody mentioned it way back when I started Gamble, and I couldnāt shake it, so he ended up being the faceclaim.
The actor whoās the faceclaim for my knight OC was knighted today.
I feel pretty bloody cool about that. And also slightly like Merlin witnessing one of his prophecies coming true. (Maybe I should write a little snippet about Sir Mylesā own knighting to celebrateā¦?)
Since my last check-in, Iāve done my third Nutcracker ballet and got to play Mustardseed in a lovely production of A Midsummer Nightās Dream! I also met one of my favorite voice actors IRL and went to my local Renaissance Faire two days running! Saw a Sherlock Holmes play and a Dracula ballet and an Alice in Wonderland musical. I did have some grief, too, but such is life and Iām focusing on the light.
And finallyā¦I have been a little brave. This blog is still not quite back, Iām still hanging out mostly on my new one. But I have turned back search results so that my blog isnāt hidden anymore. I felt like enough time has passed and Iām safe enough that Iām okay with people knowing I exist again. My life has also stabilised a bit in general, so Iām hoping to get back into the swing of writing and update everything.
Here are some recent Herbie pictures for your enjoyment. He is still orange, still dumb, and still incredibly fluffy.
Warnings: this chapter is primarily fluffy, but Jemmy is still fresh out of an abusive situation and thereās callbacks to it
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Gamble: Part the Fifth
Sir Myles awoke slowly. The warm morning sun trickled in through the window, and Sir Myles reached up as if he could touch it, stretching like a cat. Heād slept deeply, not realizing how much his trip had exhausted him. The rest had helped him feel much more like himself. He lay in bed for a bit longer, enjoying the warm sunshine, before finally deciding that he had better be up and about.
He swung his legs off the bed to stand up and almost immediately sat back down again, pressing a hand to his startled heart. āZounds! Iād forgotten you were here!ā
Apparently Jemmy had woken up before him. The boy leapt to his feet as soon as Sir Myles stood, with a quickness that suggested he had been ready and waiting. Sir Myles decided to look into that later.
For now, he offered Jemmy a smile, as warm as the sunshine he somewhat regretted leaving behind. āSorry about that. Good morning.ā
Jemmy looked taken aback. āUm- good morning, sir.ā
It was a start. Sir Myles kept the smile on his face as he got up- more carefully this time.
He'd meant to stay up a bit, to make sure Jemmy slept all right. But the weariness from the journey had put an end to that idea; he'd fallen asleep almost before he'd gotten into bed.
It looked like Jemmy had slept; his sandy hair was rumpled as if he had, and Sir Myles hadn't heard any restless tossing and turning. Then again, that could easily be due to the boy being too terrified to move a muscle in Sir Myles' presence. And to Sir Myles being so deeply asleep that St. George's dragon roaring in his ear wouldn't have waked him.
Someone knocked on the door. Jemmy jumped like a frightened rabbit, his eyes wide. "It's all right," Sir Myles told him, adding in a warm chuckle that he hoped might help put the lad at ease. His heart ached. Jemmy so clearly expected cruelty at every turn. Sir Robert's harsh treatment was deeply engraved into the boy, and it would take a long while to fill in the grooves.
"Come in," Sir Myles called, already knowing who was on the other side of the door.
Will elbowed the door open, his hands busy with a breakfast tray and his face split with a wide smile. He aimed it first at Jemmy, who drew back from him just slightly but didn't outright cringe at his arrival. "Morning, Jemmy!"
Poor Jemmy looked rather like he didn't know how to respond. Will took it in stride, though Sir Myles caught the flash of concern in his face.
Sir Mylesā chamber was large and well-furnished. A sturdy oak table graced one side of the room, and Will set the breakfast tray down there. "Morning, sir. Sleep well?"
"After that ride? Thunder couldn't have stirred me." Sir Myles yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "It's certainly good to be home."
"Foretcolline missed you," Will answered. "I swear the flowers looked brighter this morning."
Flowers, eh?
āIs Isabeau up yet?ā Sir Myles asked as Will moved to the wardrobe to help him dress.
āIn the chapel, sir. Sheās hearing morning Mass.ā
Technically, as a Knight, Sir Myles was supposed to be pious. But it was Isabeau who took the religious services to heart. He joined her in the evening, but the morning service she usually had to herself. If he was ever given a lordship, of course, he would have to change his habits. But while he was only a country Knight, no one much cared whether he attended morning Mass or not.
Realizing that he hadnāt replied aloud, he turned his attention back to Will. āAnd is Juliet with her?ā he said. Isabeauās young maid often accompanied her throughout the day.
A flush crept across Willās face as he helped Sir Myles off with his nightshirt. āI think itās likely, sir.ā
āLeave flowers in her room again, did you?ā
āPink and yellow ones. I hope she weaves them into a crown, she looked as pretty as a rose in June when she did that last-ā Will stopped short, his face entirely red, as he realized what he was saying. Sir Myles threw his head back and laughed. Will had had his eye on Juliet for three seasons, but when it came to actually speaking to the girl, Sir Myles' usually talkative servant was tongue-tied.
āOh, thatās hardly fair, sir!ā Will complained. āIāve got nothing I can tease you about!ā
"It was you who said you'd been in the gardens, Will," Sir Myles answered, chuckling. "You've only yourself to blame."
Will, half sheepish and half laughing, continued helping him dress, a tell-tale tinge of red hanging about his face.
Jemmy had watched the entire interaction, trying to hide his gaze behind his hair. Sir Myles saw it out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice. He guessed that Sir Robert hadn't shown any sort of camaraderie or care towards his servants- or his Squire, for that matter.
"Are you going to shave, sir?" Will asked.
Sir Myles rubbed the several days' worth of coarse black beard on his chin. "Actually, I think I'll see if Isabeau minds it first. The knight I stayed with before coming home had a beard- I thought it looked rather distinguished." He'd thought Sir Robert a handsome man before the revelation of his true nature had turned him ugly. But the beard...he at least wanted to try it.
Will stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Was that, uh- was that the knight you got the lad from?"
Sir Myles nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow. "He acted more like a robber baron than any kind of true knight. And the way he treated Jemmy was vile. A despicable man- but he did have a splendid beard."
Will snorted. "I brought breakfast," he said, changing the subject swiftly as he often did.
"Excellent," Sir Myles replied, realizing very suddenly how hungry he was. "I tell you, Will, I'm not going to be sorry to bid travel rations farewell for awhile."
Will grinned, a dimple appearing in one cheek. "We're all glad you're home, sir." He moved to the oak table and took the cover off the tray he had brought. Steam rose up from several of the dishes in curling white tendrils, and out of the corner of his eye Sir Myles saw Jemmy steal a glance at the food.
"What've you brought us, Will?" he asked, stressing the us. He had a suspicion that Jemmy wasn't merely small for his age; he doubted Sir Robert had bothered to feed the boy regularly. An oversight he intended to correct starting this morning.
"Pigeon pie for you, Sir Myles," Will says, his usual grin fixed firm. Sir Myles didn't know how he went about the day smiling like that without his face being sore by vespers. He stepped to the table as Will gestured to the smaller bowl. "Porridge for little Jemmy over there. I saw the cook put some berries in. The lady said Iād better bring something lighter for him. Since heās so thin, you know. So thatās what I brought. Hopefully after a few weeks here-"
āWill,ā Sir Myles broke in, a little sharply. He could see Jemmy shrinking at being the subject of conversation. āThatās enough.ā
Will turned red again. āSorry, sir.ā
"It's all right." Sir Myles nodded at his servant to let him know he wasn't in any kind of trouble. Will returned the gesture, and when Sir Myles flicked his gaze to Jemmy and back by way of explanation, Will's face cleared at once. He set the cover back on the tray and, after tidying a few more things here and there, slipped out of the room with a wave for Jemmy and a nod for his master.
Sir Myles turned his attention to the platter containing breakfast. Heād only just lifted the cover again when Jemmyās small voice came from behind him. āPlease donāt hurt him.ā
Sir Myles dropped the cover, wincing at the clang it made. āWhat? Who- Will?ā He turned, staring at Jemmy open-mouthed. āWhat on earth makes you think Iām going to hurt Will?ā
Jemmy cowered away from him. āI-Iām sorry,ā he stammered fearfully. āI thought- you were angry at him- I didnāt-ā His voice faded away, and he stood trembling by his pallet with the look of a condemned man waiting for the executioner to pull the lever.
Sir Myles shook his head. "I'm not angry," he said slowly. "I donāt think Iāve ever been angry with Will in my life, heās a good lad. But even if I were angry, Jemmy, I would never hurt Will. I would just tell him why I was angry and ask him to fix it next time. I would never strike him. And Will knows that as surely as I do.ā
Jemmy still looked shaken. Sir Myles decided that actions would speak louder than words in this particular case. āReady for breakfast?ā he asked, making sure to put some extra cheer in his voice.
Jemmyās brown eyes went so wide that Sir Robert would have been tempted to laugh if it hadnāt been so pitiful. āHere?ā the boy squeaked. āNow? With you?"
āWhere else?ā Sir Myles replied. āYouāre my Squire, Jemmy. Youāre to be by my side, learning the ways of a Knight. Not banished downstairs to eat or wherever Sir Robert put you.ā He eyed the boyās thin frame. āAnd if youād like more, you can always ask for it. Yes?ā
āYes, sir,ā Jemmy replied immediately, although Sir Myles thought it was more of an automatic response than truly understanding.
He did his very best to act as normal during breakfast, speaking to Jemmy a few times but otherwise letting him alone to eat. It was obvious that the boy had no idea how to hold a conversation with the man who held the power of life or death over him. Small steps, Sir Myles had to keep reminding himself. Let him eat before you try to get him to talk.
Thankfully, Jemmy did relatively well on that front. Once Sir Myles had assured him that the porridge was, truly, for him and he wasnāt going to get in any sort of trouble for eating it, Jemmy didnāt hesitate. Before Sir Myles was half finished with his pie, the boyās bowl was empty. I hope heās done that because he was hungry and not because he thinks it will please me. But regardless of the motive, Jemmy had had a good breakfast for once in his life, and Sir Myles was pleased by that. Jemmy shook his head when Sir Myles asked if he wanted more, and Sir Myles didnāt press the point.
Heād decided to fight one battle at a time, drawing on his admittedly limited experience in warfare. A knight who tried to take on dozens of opponents at once would find himself swarmed, dragged to the ground and easily dispatched once he was there. But a knight who focused on one enemy at a time could defeat them quickly enough that he could cut them down before they got the better of him. If Sir Myles tried to undo the damage Sir Robert had done all at once, Jemmy would be overwhelmed with all the change. Better to take it slowly and heal one hurt at a time.
Still, there was one that Sir Myles thought would be best to get out of the way sooner rather than later. He intended to do right by Jemmy, and that meant training him as a Squire properly when he was stronger. And that meantā¦
āCome on, Jemmy,ā Sir Myles announced, finishing the last bite of his pie and standing up. āIād like to introduce you to my children.ā
Jemmyās brow furrowed uncertainly. āSir?ā
āNot the way youāre thinking of, lad.ā Sir Myles held the door open for him, ushering the boy out with a gentle hand on his shoulder when he hesitated to step in front of the Knight. āMy children all have four legs, and sleep in a stable. Which is where Iāll be sleeping if I bring home any more Squires without asking my wife first.ā
Jemmy looked as if he wasnāt sure whether or not he could laugh at that, so Sir Myles chuckled at his own joke to let him know he could. āIāll show you around the rest of the castle as we walk,ā he said. āForĆŖtcolline is hardly the largest estate in the country, but it can still be a bit of a labyrinth if youāre not used to it. But in a month or two it will feel as though youāve never lived anywhere else.ā
He thought it a bit too much, just yet, to venture saying the word home.
Gentle Readers be warned: still no warnings, this is another setup chapter! Next one will start getting juicy!
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The Hunt Cup
They pass through groves, leap fences, cross fields, and steadily pursue, in full chase wherever the hounds lead.
The hounds were anxious. Tilly quite liked dogs, although she preferred her own little gray kitten, and she could tell that these dogs wanted very much to be off and hunting. They snuffled at the ground and strained on their leashes and whined and pawed the earth.
āHave they caught a scent already?ā Tilly asked Uncle Roger, keeping her voice low in case it was a silly question.
āOh, no, dear,ā he replied, in just as low a voice. āNot yet. But they know their purpose, and they want to be off.ā
āIs it always a fox they go after?ā
āWell, there are deer hounds, of course, and boar hounds, and the sort of little terriers that are meant to chase into badgerās dens and such. Even bird hunting dogs. But the true noblemanās sport, Tilly, is fox hunting. And I wonāt keep any other kind of dog. They know their business, you see. Some dogs will go into a frenzy and tear the quarry to pieces the moment they catch it, and then thereās no sport. My dogs will only fetch it for us and let it alone when they have it.ā Uncle Roger glanced up beneath his top hat, frowning. āWhat in the world can be keeping Reverend Fielding?ā
āIs he coming?ā Tilly asked, surprised. āI didnāt know priests went in for this sort of thing.ā
āOh, we couldnāt do without him,ā Uncle Roger replied, somewhat distractedly. āHe must bless the hunt before we can begin.ā
Why would a hunt need to be blessed? Tilly wondered. But she didnāt want her uncle to think she was a silly girl full of questions, so she kept silent.
Uncle Roger rode over to speak to a tall man who seemed to be in charge of the dogs, and Tilly leaned down to pat her horseās mane. She was getting very excited now. Sheād never been on a fox hunt before, and neither had any of the girls at school, though one had claimed that her father was rich enough to host one if he had wanted to. They had all known she was lying, but none of them could prove it. They only knew for sure that penniless Tilly was certainly not. If they could see me now.
āFinally!ā Uncle Roger burst out. āThe vicar!ā And indeed, here came Reverend Fielding on his black horse, wearing a red riding suit and his clergymanās collar beneath it and keeping one hand clamped firmly on his hat. The wind had picked up a little, and one or two hats among the company had been blown off and had to be fetched and brushed off by the servants. One unlucky man had lost his top hat too close to the dogs, who had pounced on it. By the time their master had beaten them back, the hat was in such a state that the gentleman had not wanted it back again. Uncle Roger had- very graciously, in Tillyās opinion- sent one of the servants inside to get one of his own hats for the man, so he wouldnāt have to ride bareheaded.
The Reverend Fielding was a very tall man, and very thin. āLike a beanpoleā, Tillyās governess would have called him (Tilly herself didnāt have the slightest idea what a beanpole was, except that Reverend Fielding was one.) He was very red in the face when he rode up to the gathering of horses and dogs, and had to keep mopping his brow with a handkerchief. āGood morning!ā he called to Uncle Roger. āHot day for a hunt, isnāt it?ā
āIt would have been cooler if weād started earlier,ā Uncle Roger called back, but the tone was teasing and not scolding. āWhat kept you?ā
āMy daughterās puppy ran out the gate,ā laughed the vicar, riding close to Sir Roger. āI think she wanted to join in the fun! But I had to go chase her down again, and make sure she stayed in the house where she belongs.ā He smiled at Tilly. āHello there.ā
āHello,ā Tilly replied, trying her best to smile back. She felt suddenly very awkward and uncomfortable. How can Uncle Roger think I belong with all these grand people? With him?
Her uncle noticed her sudden pensive turn and guided Blackbird closer to her. āYou are right where you are meant to be, my dear niece,ā he said under his breath. āAnd after today you shall be one of us now and forever. They will not dare challenge your place here after your first hunt, I can tell you that.ā
He had such a way of putting people at ease. Tilly smiled back at him, a real smile. āThank you, Uncle.ā
The vicar rode out in front of the assembled hunters, raising his hands for silence. āIf I may, Lord English,ā he said loudly.
āQuiet! Quiet, everyone!ā Lord Roger shouted. āOur good Reverend Fielding will bless the hounds and then weāll be off!ā
An excited murmur swept through the crowd at that, and then they remembered that the vicar had asked for silence and stopped their chatter.
Reverend Fielding rode up quite close to the dogs and took a small gold cross out of his shirt. It flashed in the morning sun as he raised his hand. āO Lord, we thank you for this glorious day that you have made. We ask first for your blessing on these noble dogs as they lead us in our hunt. Grant them speed and skill, and courage in the chase. And Lord, we ask your blessing on these horses that will bear us in our pursuit. Protect them from any obstacles that may lay in their path, O Lord, and give them speed and strength to carry us. And Lord, I ask your blessing on our brave hunters as they partake in this noble tradition. Keep them from injury or mishap, and let your blessing ride with us this day. We thank you for the prosperity of our dear Lord English that has allowed him to host this hunt, and pray that he will be able to hold several more.ā A stifled ripple of laughter went through the throng at this.
Reverend Fielding appeared to take no notice. āAnd, O Lord, I ask your blessing upon the fox, our prey, for though we hunt him this day, he is also one of Your creatures. Give him the stamina to run hard and long, and the courage to face the dogs, and, if it be Your will and the will of our Lord English, grant him a noble death. In the name of our Lord, amen.ā
āAmen,ā chorused the hunt party. Tilly almost forgot to say it and ended up chiming in late. Blushing very hard, she rode up close to Uncle Roger, who had himself gone to speak with the vicar. Tilly pretended to be braiding her horseās mane so she could listen; Uncle Roger seemed a little angry.
āI thought you werenāt going to put in that rubbish about blessing the fox,ā he said to the vicar in a cold voice.
Reverend Fielding looked taken aback. āWell, we couldnāt very well do without him, could we?ā he asked. āWhy should he not be blessed? Heāll have a hard day of it no matter what the outcome is. The good Lord will deliver him- into our hands or to safety, whatever pleases Him.ā
āYou had better hope it pleases Him to give us the fox,ā Uncle Roger hissed, so low that Tilly almost didnāt hear it. āI havenāt lost one of my hunt prey yet and I donāt intend today to be the first.ā
He jerked Blackbirdās reins and rode back to the company, his face pleasant and cheerful once again. Tilly watched him go, a cold shiver of uncertainty chasing itself down her spine.
Somehow this is the end of Arc 2! I canāt believe how long itās taken to get here but Iām very happy we finally are! This is another split screen POV chapter, this time between Dr. Shaw and Jesse. Itās looking like thereāll be another three arcs or so, so the story isnāt done yet!
Warnings: some discussion of whump, mild angst but otherwise this chapter is mostly fluffy!
Jesse's door was closed. Dr. Shaw sighed, pushing up his glasses as he raised his other hand to knock. "Jesse? Are you in there? I need to talk to you."
Silence from the other side of the door. Then Dr. Shaw heard something rustle, and footsteps. He stepped back.
Jesse opened the door, his small face serious. "I need to talk to you too."
"Oh." Dr. Shaw blinked, taken aback. "Well. Good. Can I come in?"
Jesse nodded.
They sat side-by-side on Jesse's bed. "You should go first," Dr. Shaw said.
"Okay." Jesse kicked his legs a moment, apparently thinking. Dr. Shaw didn't press him. It was a good chance to get his own thoughts in order.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
Jesse draws in a shuddery breath. "That was really scary, Dad."
"I know, Jesse."
"Is Chris okay? He was- he was bleeding a lot, Dad. And he ripped something out."
"Those were just stitches. Chris will be fine."
Jesse turned to him. "Because he can heal? Don't tell me I didn't see it, Dad. I saw it. Chris has- superpowers, or something. Is that why he has to stay in the lab?"
"It's not superpowers."
"Then what is it?" Jesse was fully facing him now. "Dad, I'm not dumb. I know you don't want anyone finding out about Chris and what he can do. I'm old enough to know why. You can't just- don't lie to me again, Dad. What's really going on in that lab?"
Dr. Shaw sighed. "Jesse, you're too smart for your own good, you know."
Jesse didn't respond, just waiting with a solemn face for his father's answer.
"I was an astrophysicist before you were born, Jesse. A space scientist, kind of. I studied the galaxy, the planets, the stars. Somewhere along the way I came across what I believed was evidence of extraterrestrial life, far away from Earth. Sorry, that's a big word, extraterrestrial. It means-"
"Aliens. I know." Jesse hadn't broken eye contact with him. It was sort of uncomfortable. Dr. Shaw felt somewhat like he was being interrogated by his son.
"Yeah. Aliens."
"Is that what Chris is?"
Dr. Shaw sighed, taking his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Chris is an extraterrestrial. His ship crashed here, and I rescued him. In return, he's helping me with my experiments in the lab."
He could tell that, as much as Jesse was trying to stay serious, waves of excitement were pounding through his whole small frame. "He's a real alien, Dad?"
"Mm-hm."
"Wow."
"But Jesse, this is very important so I need you to listen." Dr. Shaw took hold of Jesse's shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. "You cannot tell anyone. Understand? No one else can know that Chris is an alien. Or that he even exists. He has to be a secret. Got it?"
Jesse nodded. "Is it because if somebody found out he was an alien they might try to take him to Area 51 and hurt him?"
"Um. Yes, that's...a possibility, I guess." How does my twelve-year-old know about Area 51? "My lab is the safest place for Chris. I won't let anything bad happen to him, but he has to stay secret, understand? I'm trusting you with that secret, Jesse. This is important."
"I can keep it a secret, Dad."
"I trust you, Jesse."
Jesseās eyes sparkled, bright with curiosity. "So is that why Chris has superpowers? Because he's an alien? Like Superman?"
"His abilities do have a biological explanation, but that's close enough,ā Dr. Shaw replied. āChris heals more rapidly than we do, and ages much more slowly. He may look human on the outside, but on the inside is a different story."
"Can you show me sometime?"
Dr. Shaw winced. "I think that's going to have to wait until you're older." He didn't exactly want his young impressionable child witnessing a vivisection. Or even seeing pictures of one of the many they'd done. "I might be able to bring home some X-rays you can look at."
"Awesome!"
"You know not to show them to your friends, right?"
Jesse rolled his eyes, his earlier seriousness dissipating. "I'm not dumb, Dad."
"As if a son of mine could ever be dumb."
Jesse played with the edge of the comforter on his bed. "Dad, how long has Chris been there?"
"Since before you were born. I told you he ages very slowly."
"Did Mom know about him?" Jesse's eyes were big and soft and shiny when he looked up, the way he always got when Elena came into conversation.
Dr. Shaw had been prepared for just about any other question but that one. He blinked sudden tears away, glad he had taken off his glasses. "No, Jesse, I...never got the chance to introduce them. I'd only had the project going about four years when she died. I was- part of it was for her. I was hoping we could find some way to use Chris' healing ability to help her, but I couldn't get it developed fast enough."
"Is that why Chris knew who I was?" Jesse asked.
"Mm-hmm. I told him when you were born, because I had been gone for a long time spending time with Elena and baby you. I...told him when she died, too." Dr. Shaw rubbed a hand across his eyes. "But anyway. Do you promise to keep the lab, Chris, everything I do a secret?"
"I promise, Dad." Jesse held up his hand, pinky out. "The most special kind of promise."
A smile tugged up the corner of Dr. Shaw's lips as he hooked fingers with his son. "So...want to come to work with me tomorrow?"
Jesse felt oddly nervous walking into the lab again. He clung tightly to his dad's hand, waving shyly at Steve the security guard as they passed. Joni was at the front desk again, sour-faced as ever. Jesse really liked strolling past her and turning down the hallway without having to check in or sneak behind her back to do it. He felt very important, walking hand-in-hand with the doctor in charge of the whole lab.
Dr. Shaw stayed with him as far as the locked door- which today was unlocked, just for Jesse. He took a walkie-talkie out of his bag and handed it over to Jesse.
"What's this for?" Jesse asked.
"When you're done, let me know and I'll have someone come bring you back to my office."
"You're not coming in to talk to Chris with me?"
Dr. Shaw's face did something strange. Jesse couldn't figure out what it was. "No, Jesse, I- think I'd better not, today. You and Chris should get to know each other without me hanging over your heads- I do have cameras in there and in the hallway though, so don't get rowdy, all right?"
Jesse rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dad."
Dr. Shaw patted his shoulder and opened the heavy door, wedging it open with his foot while he watched Jesse enter. Jesse turned to wave at him, and Dr. Shaw returned the gesture. His expression still looked kind of weird, but Jesse shrugged it off.
Jesse counted the glass boxes again as he went past. He remembered that Chris's room was the tenth one. Seven, eight, nine- ten!
And sure enough, Chris was there. He was sitting on the floor next to the glass, cross-legged with his head tilted back against the wall. His eyes were closed. Jesse couldn't tell if he was sleeping or meditating or whatever, but as soon as he sat down on the other side of the glass Chris opened his eyes. He smiled when he saw Jesse, and it looked like a real smile, not the sad fake one he had had on his face before. "The doctor told you about me," he said.
It didn't sound like a question, but Jesse answered it anyway. "Yeah. Dad said you're an alien? Is that...is that true?"
Chris breathed in and breathed out again, slow and deep. "Yes," he replied. "I am."
"Whoaaaa." Jesse had believed Dr. Shaw, of course. But hearing it from Chris himself...made it real, sort of. "You're not three feet tall and green with extra eyes and antennae."
Chris looked kind of confused at that. "Not the last time I checked," he answered, his brows furrowed. "Am I supposed to be?"
He seemed so bewildered that Jesse laughed. "No! But I have aliens and stuff all over my room, and most of them are green."
Chris nodded, although he didn't look like he really got it. "Well, I am sorry I'm not."
"It's okay!" Jesse exclaimed, suddenly worried that heād made Chris upset that he wasnāt green. āI think looking like a human is even awesomer. You can sneak into places without anybody knowing that you're not from Earth!"
"I suppose I could," Chris agreed lightly.
"What's your planet like?" Jesse asked, scooting so close that his knee bumped the glass wall.
Something in Chris' eyes turned sad again. āIt is very far away," he replied, his voice softer than it had been before. "There is much more sea than there is land, so most of my people live close to the water. Although I do not think that my ocean is much like yours."
"Why not?"
Chris breathed in and out again. He did that a lot. "Your water is either colorless or blue, from the pictures I have seen," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. He did that a lot, too. "On my world, the water is the color that you call green. Rich, dark, deep green that turns nearly black when there is a storm. There are storms very often. I never minded them very much; I like them. I like diving off the cliffs during a storm, feeling the way the storm disappears as soon as I plunge into the water."
Jesse knew his eyes were as wide as flying saucers. He didn't care. "Are there animals? Alien animals?"
Chris nodded. "Yes. Most of them live in the sea. There is not enough land for very many creatures to live on it. Only the-" he paused, frowning. "I don't know what to call them. I- I suppose they are sort of like your birds? Winged things that live on the red rock beaches next to the sea. But our...birds, they have no feathers."
"I wish you could show me what they looked like," Jesse said wistfully. "Maybe you could draw me a picture?"
Chris laughed a little. "I don't think I would be very good at it. But if your father will let me, I could try."
"Dad said you help him with all his research," Jesse told Chris. "That's what I wanna do someday, too. I love science, so- Chris?"
He knew almost immediately he had said something wrong. Chris had stiffened, that sad expression leaking into his eyes again. His arms and legs pulled tight against his body until he was crushed small against the glass. He took a few deep breaths, and then smiled at Jesse again. This time it was really watery and fake. "I am glad you like science, Jesse," he said. It seemed like he couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Are you okay?" Jesse asked quietly.
Chris took another very long breath in and out, and this one shook a little bit in his lungs. "Yes."
"You don't seem okay."
Chris laughed, just a little, at that. He unfolded himself again, sitting with his legs crossed like he had at the beginning instead of curling into the wall. Jesse liked him better that way. He looked less small and sad.
Without really knowing why, Jesse reached his hand out and placed it against the glass. Chris looked startled for a moment. "We are friends now, Jesse Shaw?" he asked.
The warmest, most real smile Jesse had ever seen spread across Chris' face. He lifted his hand and pressed it against Jesse's, only a few inches of glass between them. "Friends," Chris repeated, as if he had just realized the meaning of the word.
I did get into both The Tempest and The Pirates of Penzance! Those shows took up the majority of my summer and were an absolutely amazing experience- I played a Daughter and a Policewoman for Pirates and got some special moments all on my own- as a Daughter I got to swoon onto a rock when Frederic appeared and did a little dance with the Major General, and as a Policewoman I got to wear an enormous mustache that got laughs every single night! For Tempest I did not land Ariel, but I ended up playing the goddess Ceres and I had an incredible time with it anyway! For this season, I am back at the studio for my third Nutcracker- Iām a Party Mom this year, with a lovely fake husband and three fake daughters, and Iām also a Rat in Battle Scene and a Christmas Tree Angel in Act 2!
However, all that is not the really big piece of news.
I have an audition on Sunday. Itās at a local theatre that I was very impressed by when I saw one of their shows this spring- the best live Shakespeare performance Iāve ever seen so far. They put out an audition call for their first show of 2026, another Shakespeare play, and they are specifically looking for acrobats/dancers/performance artists.
The play is A Midsummer Nightās Dream.
I have a shot at my dream role. I have a chance at playing Puck.
It was the bosun who woke the boy the morning they left Storm's Eye, which meant that he was woken up with a jostling of his shoulder rather than a kick to his ribs. He had been up half the night musing about the captain's strange behavior, and his eyes were as heavy as the cannonballs that were kept by the guns. The bosun, muttering and twitching his round dirty spectacles and stroking his chin, did not seem to notice that the boy looked even more tired than usual. He took the chain off the boy's ankle (after fumbling the key four or five times) and led the way up to the deck.
The boy followed dutifully behind him with his eyes down, and so at first he did not see that the bosun had wandered off without giving out any orders. Then he looked up to find that he had been left quite alone on the deck. That was unusual. The boy knew better than to take the moment for granted; if he had not been told to do something he knew to make himself seem as though he had. Looking busy was a survival skill aboard this ship, and he had become a master at it.
He found a bucket abandoned by the rail and a small sack that had been tossed over a barrel and made his way down to the middle deck. At one end was a small chicken coop and a pen with two goats in it. The animals liked him, perhaps sensing that the small human was not so rough and loud as the larger ones that stomped about the ship. The chickens let him take their eggs with only one or two half-hearted pecks at his hands. The two nanny goats, as goats are, were a bit more ill-natured, but allowed the boy to milk them with a couple of cranky bleats and no more.
He sat with the animals as long as he dared. The clucking of the chickens and the bleating of the goats was far preferable to the back-and-forth shouting of the sailors and the piercing shriek of the bosunās whistle above decks. But at last he could delay no longer, and made his timid way to the shipās galley to deliver the morningās haul of milk and eggs.
Cookson met him with such a fierce clout to the ear that it knocked the boy flat. āWhere in thunder have you been?ā he snarled, in that sort of tone adults have got when they donāt actually mean you to answer the question they have asked. The boy did not answer the question; he was half-stunned by the blow. And when Cookson pulled him to his feet by his shirt collar and snatched the bucket and sack from him, it was discovered that most of the eggs had broken in the fall. The boy received several more such blows for that, even though it had hardly been his fault. Eggs are fragile things, and so are young boys aboard pirate ships, especially when they come into contact with wooden boards or a manās fist.
The single benefit of the altercation was that Cookson had become too angry to have anyone in the galley with him, so once he was too out of breath to continue lashing out, he sent the boy away. The boy was all too glad to stumble out of reach of the cookās large fists. He did not waste time on tears, though of course he was rather bruised and hurt a good deal. He had learned that they did not help and more often made things worse.
Cautiously, the boy ventured up to the deck. He did not believe the captain would be there; he had taken to spending long periods of time in his cabin in one of his dark moods. But there were many of the sailors who the boy had been taught in Cooksonās way to be wary of. And so he slipped across the worn boards as quietly as he could, taking up a place by a coil of rope where he could look as though he were very busy picking it apart if anyone were to see him there, but would also be shielded from view unless someone happened to pass close by.
The coil of rope, by chance, had been set down quite close to the ladder that led down to the middle deck, where the captainās cabin door was. So it was the boy who first heard the slam of the wooden door and the familiar thunk, thunk of polished boots ascending a ladderās rungs.
The ship had sailed out from Stormās Eye, and had entered that strange position where it was surrounded by water with no land to be seen no matter which way one looked. Combining that with the perfectly cloudless sky meant that the ship had the appearance of being inside a large blue bowl. There was no way to know where the ship was headed; the bulk of their navigation would have to be done by maps and charts and the stars at night.
So it was quite strange when the captain strode to the rail, took a single look over the bow, and declared for all to hear, āWe are going the wrong way.ā
He was quite calm about it. Another abnormality. Such a mistake would usually have warranted shouting and berating the poor navigator at the very least, and another execution at the very worst. But all the captain did on this occasion was to step to the wheel and show the helmsman which course to take. He did this without a map, and yet seemed to know exactly where to sail.
But he does have a map, the boyās shrewd mind reminded him. The one with no markings that you saw him having made. Why wouldnāt he share it with the helmsman, at least?
The boy was not quite so silly as other men of the time, to believe that if a ship sailed on for long enough it might sail right off the edge of the world. But he certainly did not enjoy the prospect of no one aboard the ship save for the captain knowing where the ship was headed.
Curiosity is an excellent thing in young people, and though he did not have much chance to exercise it, the boy was a very curious soul. And he was curious about the captainās map. Some long-buried spark of courage flared to life as he turned his thoughts over and over in his head.
Rather often, the boy was called into the captainās cabin to clean while he was busy elsewhere. The bosun fretted over him like a nursemaid, and hated to see his cabin in disarray. And since the captain had been spending so much time in there recently, it had to be quite a mess by now. Which meant that, sooner or later, the boy would be tasked with straightening it out.
And just as soon as I amā¦Iām going to have a look at that map and find out where weāre really headed.
A new story? On this blog? Itās more likely than you think! I have a bit of feelings about this one- I first posted about it right before The Incident 2.0 happened and I had to mostly abandon this blog, so it hurt a bit to try to come back to this idea. But after a nice long break and some catch-up work with some of my other running stories, I decided to finish this one! Itāll be a miniseries-ish, I have a planned fourteen chapters. Not sure how fast itāll be updated, but I am enjoying where Iāve gone so far!
Part One: The Hunt
Mentioned specially: (this is what Iām labeling the taglist for this mini series, to keep up the Victorian vibes! Let me know if you want to be added!)
Gentle Readers be warned: (yep, even the content warning list is Victorian-themed. Iām having way too much fun.) No warnings this chapter! The first two to three installments will largely be setup before the whump happens.
Masterlist | Next
The Meet
A party of 10, and to 20, or 30, with double the number of hounds, begins early in the morning, they are all well mounted.
The sun had only barely come up, and already the drive was packed full of men and women on horseback. Several clutched fistfuls of leashes, at the ends of which trotted their collections of prize hunting hounds. Every last one of them had been dressed in spotless hunt attire, collars starched and boots shined and buttons polished. The horses, too, had been seen to- coats brushed to gleaming, hooves rubbed shiny, tails and manes braided and brushed until they were fancy enough to rival any ladyās wig at a ball.
And Tilly was supposed to be down there with them, except that Tilly was very late.
āCurses!ā she cried, fumbling with the buttons on her shiny black riding boots. āUncle Roger didnāt say theyād be here so infernally early!ā
She had already dressed for the hunt in her tan jodhpurs and neat black riding coat. She wasnāt a member of her uncleās club yet- that would happen today- and so she couldnāt wear the bright colors that many of them wore. But she had been careful to look the part as much as she possibly could.
Her governess would have been thoroughly dismayed to see how quickly Tilly attended to her hair- a hundred brush strokes went abandoned in favor of a quick run-through with her fingers and a sloppy braid that she wound up onto the back of her head and pinned in place. Her hat went over that, and then she buttoned her boots and was away down the grand staircase.
Tilly burst through the doors into the early morning, intending to slip to the stables and fetch her horse, and then pretend she had been there all along.
What happened instead was that she came face-to-face with her uncle, Lord Roger English, and about four dozen of his closest friends.
"Uncle Roger," she stammered, and then corrected herself with "My lord- I wasn't-"
Lord Roger laughed heartily, and after a moment the rest of the hunters joined in. "My dear girl, we've been waiting for you!" Lord Roger put an arm around Tilly's shoulders exactly as if she was a grown-up member of the club already. "We couldn't have started the hunt without you, never fear. Your horse is already saddled."
Tilly breathed a sigh of relief.
"And, my dear, I must insist that you call me Uncle Roger, rather than "my lord."" Lord- no, Uncle Roger's eyes twinkled. "You will soon be one of my club, yes, but you are already family. I don't refer to you as Matilda, do I?"
The mention of her full name made Tilly shudder. She hated Matilda.
A valet brought her horse for her- a beautiful bay mare she called Acorn for the color of her nut-brown coat. Sure enough, Acorn was saddled and bridled, and someone had brushed her till she gleamed. Her mane and tail had even been braided. Tilly could not keep back a grin.
She was a good horsewoman. She rode astride, although she could ride sidesaddle, and her uncle had remembered that when he gave orders for someone to fit Acorn. Tilly put a leg in the stirrup and swung herself up into the saddle easily, and met her uncle's approving nod as she settled herself into the seat.
It was good of Uncle Roger to take her in. Tilly's parents had died the year before; the pain of their loss still stung. She hadn't even known she had an uncle in the House of Lords. He could have gone on with his life, let her stay in her boarding school until her parents' money had dried up, left her to become a governess or the wife of some middle-class merchant or whatever else it was that happened to rich girls who were no longer rich.
Instead he had found her- tracked his lost relative down himself, even, instead of merely sending someone to fetch her. And he had brought her here, to his beautiful country estate. He treated her like a daughter, and since he had no wife or children of his own, he had promised that it would all go to Tilly when he died. She could not have his title, of course, but he would leave her the estate and everything else he could.
Tilly, she told herself, like she did almost every day, you are a very lucky girl.
And now she was finally being counted as one of his close companions. Lord Roger's hunts were exclusive; he had to like you very much to invite you on one, or so Tilly had heard. Only his most dear and trusted friends accompanied him- he certainly did have a great many close and trusted friends, Tilly mused. There must have been dozens of riders milling about the drive. Suddenly she felt rather nervous. She would be initiated into the club on this hunt, brought in with all these fine ladies and gentlemen. Suppose they thought she wasn't good enough for them? Suppose they said cruel things of her behind her back?
Well, it won't be any different than boarding school, will it? Tilly had hated every moment of school. Somehow everyone had known within the week it happened that her parents had died and her money was running out. She had been called penniless, an orphan, both behind her back and to her face. Many of the girls had teased her mercilessly. Some had gone beyond that, resorting to cruel pranks that had left her in tears at the end of almost every school day.
The day when Lord Roger English had come down the drive in his splendid carriage, escorted into every classroom by the head teacher asking for Miss Matilda Stewart, embracing her like he had always known her when he finally found her in the middle of a torturous French lesson, declaring for everyone to hear that he was taking her to live with him on his estate just as soon as she could pack up her things- the envious looks on her schoolmates' faces would be an image Tilly would fall asleep to as long as she lived. It was a real-life fairy tale, and she didn't think she could ever thank her uncle enough.
Lord Roger snapped his fingers and a servant led over his horse- he had a stable full of them, but today he had chosen Tilly's favorite, a handsome black gelding with a proud attitude about him. His full registered name was Four-and-Twenty Blackbirds, but as that was rather a mouthful to say he was called just Blackbird. Tilly had tried to ride him once and he had thrown her off, although he hadn't seemed mean-spirited about it and she hadn't held it against him. Blackbird only liked to be ridden by Lord Roger, and stood as patient as a lamb while the lord got in the saddle.
"Are we starting?" Tilly asked eagerly, nudging Acorn up beside Blackbird.
Lord English smiled at her. "Not quite yet, my dear girl. There's a few small matters we need to take care of first. You'll understand soon. For now, just wait and watch."
Hey! I wasnāt sure if your requests were open or not, so if theyāre not, please ignore this haha
If youād like to, could you do a story set during the reign of terror during French Revolution, where a high-up revolutionary officer finds his old friend -an aristocrat!- hiding. The aristocrat is terrified because his old friend clearly is helping The Terror progress, but the revolutionary instead secretly helps his aristocratic friend to escape?
Sorry, I know this is a bit of a weird idea haha
Hi there!
I wasnāt sure when I mostly left this blog if Iād keep answering asks/taking requests or not. Iām still not 100% sure, but I do like this idea! French Revolution is a very fun setting, and I didnāt want this idea to just sit in my inbox, so while Iām not totally sure I still take requests, I do want it to be published just in case someone else feels inspired! As for myself, let me marinate it a bit and see how my brain feels about continuing to take requests.
The crew returned to the ship in high spirits, having consumed rather a large quantity of spirits in the bars and taverns that were as frequent as signposts on Storm's Eye. The cook, and by extension the boy, had returned much earlier to put away the supplies, although Cookson had gone out again after chaining the boy in the hold when he was finally allowed to sleep. He had slept only a little, his mind working very fast to try and make sense of everything he had seen.
The boy was very frightened most of the time, and he could not remember much before the pirate ship at all, but that had not for a moment made him any less clever. And he was a very clever boy even without his memory, so he made sense of things rather quickly.
The captain was planning something, that much was obvious. There was the making of the secret coded map only he wanted to know the meaning of, the odd behavior that had had the entire ship toeing a knife's edge since the deaths of the two mutineers (Marsham still clung to life, but it was only a matter of time before he slipped away or the captain grew tired of his continued stubbornness in not dying when he had been supposed to, and ended things for him. At this point it might be a mercy.) None of the crew- not even the bosun- seemed to have been told where, exactly, they were meant to be sailing to.
There was not a member of the crew that the boy was not frightened near to death of, although the captain was by far the most fearsome and the cook a near second. If he had had to choose one of them that he feared the least, he would likely have picked the bosun. The round little Irishman had never done anything worse than cuff him, unless he had been ordered to by the captain. The boy did not blame him for that- he knew all too well what punishment there was for disobeying the captainās orders. And he would have hated to see the bosun hurt- the bosun who was kind in his own strange way, who had occasionally convinced the captain to be lenient with the boy, who sometimes slipped him a bit of food when he could spare it.
The rest of the crew were a very rough sort. There were perhaps twenty all told, a small crew for a pirate ship but very efficient, and all of them quite ruthless. Most were English, some Irish or Scottish or Welsh, but a few came from further parts- there was one tall, dark man who spoke very little and answered to no name, but could fight the best of all. There was an Italian fellow who was rumored to be nearly as cruel-minded as the captain himself, and an American who was covered from his head to his toes in tattoos, and an Englishman that had been a true gentleman before he had lost his fortune and had to become a pirate to make ends meet, and there was a Frenchman and a Brazilian and several that seemed to have come from nowhere in particular. Many of them were scarred all over from fierce battles- one of them had had his hands cut off and reattached, and whoever had reattached them had not been a very good surgeon; the fellow didn't seem to mind because it made him all the more frightening. Another man had lost an eye and wore a patch- of course many sailors wore patches so that they would not be lost when they went into the dark bottom parts of the ship, but this man with a patch had no eye underneath it, only an empty socket.
The captain chose his men well. He selected the best fighters, the most ruthless sailors, the ones most likely to be motivated by the promises of treasure he so often made. He also made sure that the majority of them were clever enough to be good sailors, but at the same time too stupid to consider overthrowing him. He trusted none of them save the bosun, and not even he was completely safe from the captain's wrath should the black mood strike.
The black mood struck oftener and oftener, these days, bringing with them the awful little red spots that meant the captain was going to do something cruel. The boy had learned to make himself scarce when he could. But there were many times he could not. And, since a small slip of a boy made an excellent target for a grown man's rage, the cruelty of the captain seemed to fall on him more often than anyone else. The crew, of course, hardly minded that, except for perhaps the bosun in his private thoughts.
But lately there had been a different sort of mood sometimes. If the boy had not known better, he would have described it as...nearly dreamy. The captain, sometimes, would wander the ship with his blue eyes hazy as the horizon, an odd smile half-hidden beneath his mustache. If one spoke to him- one of the sailors, the boy would not have dared draw such attention to himself- captain did not answer. He did not even seem to hear.
And then, always very suddenly, he would come out of it, and he always did the same thing. He rushed to his cabin, shut and locked the door, and spent the evening sequestered in there without even the bosun being allowed entry. An ear pressed to the keyhole would reveal the clomp-clomp of his heavy black boots, wild and unintelligible muttering as he stalked about the room, sometimes even shouting at himself or slamming a fist down upon the table. Once the boy had heard something shatter. And one terrifying dark night there had been peals of laughter- crazed, cackling, wicked laughter.
The crew whispered that their captain had gone mad. The boy only half believed it. The captain was too devilishly clever to be mad. He was certainly hiding something, but madness it was not.
They left Storm's Eye the next day, having resupplied the ship. (There was much grumbling and complaining of headaches among the men who had spent their shore leave drinking, and the boy was knocked about rather more than usual, which often happened when the men were drunk.) The helmsman and navigator in particular were in a foul temper, and had many whispered arguments at the bow of the ship over the course of the day. The boy, busy scrubbing the deck with saltwater to shrink the boards and make them waterproof, was close enough to hear one of them.
"He's got no markings on the damn map," hissed the navigator. "Just tells me what degrees to chart every morning and leaves the rest to the winds and waves!"
The helmsman chewed on the edge of his mustache as he answered. "You ever been on a ship with a captain who won't say where you're headed? Ain't proper."
The boy frowned. He has a map. I saw him buying it. Why wouldn't he be using it? Where are we going that he doesn't want even his own crew to know about?
It was that not-quite-suppressed curiosity that drove the boy. He had never done anything so dangerous before, and he was quite frightened but strangely exhilarated, too. He thought it over that night, turning it around and around in his mind like a kitten with a ball of yarn, and by the time he fell asleep he was determined.
I am going to go into the captainās cabin, the boy decided. And I am going to have a look at that map for myself.
This is once again not a story update, but I just had to give yāall a little life update!
First- I think there was a post I reblogged once and put in the tags that I wanted to see a live production of Hamlet that was as good as the one in the post. Well, I can knock that off the bucket list- I saw Hamlet live for the first time last month and it was amazing! Somehow Hamlet done as a nineties-era family drama worked a lot better than it should have. (I also saw their companion production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, which was equally amazing and also featured Hamlet spending the entire second act in a beach chair wearing an umbrella hat.)
Now for the big news.
Iāve recently gotten the opportunity to audition twice for a local theatre- once for The Pirates of Penzance, which Iāve landed an ensemble role in (although they didnāt tell me what ensemble.) The other audition was for The Tempest. And as a result of that auditionā¦tonight I have my very first Shakespeare callback! Iām trying HARD for Ariel, and it seems like a small casting pool, so my hopes are high! Iāll keep yāall posted on how it goes!
This is the last fully written chapter I have for this story! After this Iāll have it all reposted and I can start writing more!
A note- this chapter is fairly heavy on the abuse/corporal punishment aftermath side, so please read carefully! I think I got triggered a few times writing this one, so just tread carefully.
On a less serious note, I promise this one isnāt a rickroll.
Warnings: this oneās rather severe on the abuse/fear side!
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Gamble: Part the Fourth
Sir Myles felt rather like a hunter trying to approach a wounded animal. He doubted Jemmy would attack him, but he could bolt if Sir Myles moved too quickly. Or, worse, he could be so overwhelmed with terror that he couldnāt even register the kindness Sir Myles was determined to show him. Not for the first time, he wondered how many at Castle Drakehold had followed the example of their lord, and if any had shown compassion to Sir Robertās young Squire. For many reasons, he had his doubts on the latter.
āSir?ā Willās voice behind him. He felt the young man touch his shoulder. āAre you all right, sir? Youāve been staring at the door like itāll run if you take your eyes off it.ā
āItās not the door Iām worried about,ā Sir Myles answered, turning to face his servant. āHowās Jemmy?ā
Will frowned, his eyes troubled. āLooked at me like I was going to eat him, sir. I did my best- just kept rambling on, you know, trying to make him see that I wasnāt going to hurt him, telling him that you and Lady Isabeau were good folk, all that sort of thing. I donāt think it worked, sir, heās so afraid that I doubt he heard much of what I said, and maybe it just terrified him more. āRenzo might have better luck with him, sir, he knows how to calm frightened horses, so maybe itāll work with a frightened boy-ā
āWill,ā Sir Myles cut in gently. āBreathe.ā
Willās face reddened. āSorry, sir. Rambling on again, I was. I just- Iāve never had to deal with this before. Youāre a good Knight, sir, you are. Thereās never been any reason for someone to be so afraid of you. He wouldnāt even eat, sir. Wouldnāt even look at me. If heās that afraid of me, I canāt imagine how he is with you.ā
āWell, the reason Jemmyās so afraid is because heās not used to a good Knight,ā Sir Myles replied. He sighed. āWell, no sense in beating about the bush, is there? Iāll see you in the morning, Will. Iād best go in and see if I can calm the lad down a little.ā
Will nodded sharply, turning to go. āTread carefully, sir. The smallest things can set him shaking like a leaf in a gale.ā
Sir Myles took a deep breath, just like he had before going in to see Isabeau, and pushed open the door.
The first thing he noticed was that Will had made up a pallet for Jemmy by the fire, just as heād been instructed, and piled blankets onto it.
The second thing he noticed was that Jemmy, at the creak of the door, shot up and onto his feet.
The third thing he noticed was that Jemmy nearly fell, his leg buckling under him.
āJemmy!ā Instinct won out over caution. He sprang to the boyās side, steadying him. Jemmy gasped sharply.
āSorry, lad. Sorry.ā He frowned. āAre you hurt, Jemmy?ā
āNo, sir,ā Jemmy answered quickly.
Sir Myles let the boy go, trying to decide how to proceed. Heās lying. Heās hurt in some way. But if I try to get him to tell me the truth, Iāll frighten him. He may even think I want to hurt him, too.
He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. āJemmy, please tell me the truth. I saw you almost fall when you stood up. Are you hurt?ā
āā¦yes, sir.ā
āWhere?ā
āMy back, sir.ā
Oh, no. Sir Mylesā heart sank. āJemmy, take off your shirt, please.ā
Jemmyās small shoulders seemed to fold in on themselves. The boy turned around and sank to his knees at the edge of the pallet, reaching up with shaking hands to pull his shirt over his head.
Mother of God, Sir Myles thought. He had been on the battlefield, he had seen plenty of wounds. But rarely did he see injuries like this. Jemmyās thin back looked as if some beast had clawed it to ribbons. The wounds varied, from raised welts to half-healed marks to cuts so fresh they still wept blood.
āJemmy, what happened?ā he said aloud. He raised a hand and ran his fingers gently over the wounds. The welts burned hotly under his touch.
āIām sorry, sir,ā Jemmy whispered quietly.
āYouāve nothing to be sorry for, lad. Justā¦why?ā
āWhenā¦when Sir Robert was training yesterday afternoon. Iāmā¦I was supposed to hold up the shield for him, so he could practice his strokes, andā¦and I dropped it.ā
āYou dropped his shield. And you received this as punishment.ā
āYes, sir. I-Iāll try not to drop yours.ā
Sir Myles felt sick. A Knightās shield- even a lightweight one- would be far too heavy for a boy this small and frail. Especially considering that Sir Robert had apparently used his young Squire as target practice. āI saw him strike you, in the arena. Why did he beat you if he had already done that?ā
āI dropped his shield, sir. If he had been swinging his sword just then he might have killed me. I-I needed to learn to do better. Just a box on the ear wouldnātā¦it wouldnāt have been enough, sir. Iām very stupid.ā
Sir Mylesā heart knotted painfully at hearing the boy speak so disparagingly of himself. Those cruel words cut deep, I see. Aloud, he said, āDid Sir Robert beat you often?ā
āYes, sir. Almostā¦almost every day. But I can still take this, and Iāll try to take it quietly.ā Jemmy drew in a shuddering breath, his voice shaking. āI-Iāll do better, sir. Iāll tell the truth next time. I-I know I deserve this for lying, sir, and Iāll never do it again, I promise-ā
āJemmy!ā Sir Myles couldnāt hold back his near-shout, shocked at how drastically the boy had misunderstood his intentions.
Jemmy flinched, his arm coming up to shield his face from the blow he clearly expected. āIām sorry!ā
Oh, fire and brimstone, look what youāve done now, you idiot. Sir Myles lowered his voice, trying to reclaim the ground he had just lost. āYouāve nothing to be sorry for, lad. Iām sorry. I didnāt mean to shout at you. I was just- Jemmy, why do you think Iām asking you all of these questions?ā
āI-I donāt know, sir.ā Jemmy lowered his arm, seeming to realize that Sir Myles didnāt intend to strike him. āIām only supposed to answer when Iām asked.ā
āI donāt want to hurt you,ā Sir Myles told him. āIām not- Iām not like Sir Robert, Jemmy. Iām not going to beat you, I only wanted your shirt off so I could see what he did to you and try to help.ā He reached out and touched the welts again, gently. āThis? This is wrong. Everything about the way he treated you is wrong. How in the name of all the saints is beating you supposed to make you a good Knight? Which is rather the point of being a Squire, unless Sir Robert neglected to mention that part.ā
āHe- he did mention it, sir,ā Jemmy whispered. āHe said that a Knight must be strong. Iām not strong, sir, I canāt even take the birch without crying out. Iāll try to, though. I-I promise.ā
Has he heard a word Iāve said to him? Sir Myles bit down his frustration, knowing that Jemmy would read it as anger directed at him. Like as not he simply doesnāt understand. Maybe Iāve taken things too quickly. Instead of merely telling him that heāll be treated better here, I should show him. Yes, that sounds right.
āDid Will leave some wine over there with the rest of it?ā he asked, swiftly changing the subject. āIād like to clean and bandage these welts before you go to sleep, and wine does a better job than water. It may sting some, but itāll help them heal.ā
āI-Iām not sure what he brought, sir.ā
Sir Myles got up and went to check, finding a flagon of wine standing on the little table. āAh, perfect.ā He crouched down behind Jemmy again. āNow, before I start this, lad, I need to know- are you hurt anywhere else? Tell me the truth.ā
āI- yes, sir, I think. But itās only the ones on my back that actually hurt. The ones on my legs donāt hurt very much anymore. That was almost a week ago.ā
Sir Myles sighed. Of course there would be more. He didnāt ask why that had happened. āIāll leave those be until tomorrow, then. Are you hurt anywhere else?ā
āOnly my hands, sir. But those donāt hurt very much, either.ā
How many ways did Sir Robert punish this boy? A sharp black anger had begun swelling up in Sir Mylesā chest. Heād never dreamed of having to deal with something like this. Heād never known a Knight- sworn to protect the weak and to act chivalrously at all times- could be so cruel. And he had a terrible feeling that there had been other things done to Jemmy which he would find out about later.
āAll right, Jemmy. Iām going to start now. Iāll be as gentle as I can, but if you need me to stop, just tell me, all right?ā
āYes, sir.ā
Medicine, thankfully, was something Sir Myles was relatively skilled at, even if his particular brand was on the rougher, field-medicine side. He understood how to care for someoneās injuries.
He didnāt understand how to help someone who thought he would cause more of them. I am in so far over my head.
It was the first night. Only the first night, and he had already made Jemmy think he would beat him. I made him take his shirt off right after he said he wasnāt hurt when he was. What else would he assume I was going to do? Why didnāt I explain from the beginning that I wanted to help?
Sir Myles worked carefully and quickly, sponging the wine into any open cuts and across the rest of the wounds. Jemmy was very still beneath his hands, hardly daring to breathe. Sir Myles could almost feel the terror dripping from him like the wine dripping down his back. The color of the liquid was rather unfortunate- the dark red looked a little too much like blood.
Is this what Sir Robert saw every time he hurt Jemmy? Did he feel any remorse at all?
Hey all! Just a quick reminder that I moved blogs! You can still find me on Tumblr here and Iām now only active on this blog for story updates and brief announcements like this! š
WOW it has been a year and two days since I updated this story, where has the time gone? Like the last piece, this one was initially meant to be more comedic, and swiftly ended up not that way. Iām learning to let the story dictate what it wants to be instead of trying to force it.
They settle into a type of rhythm after a few weeks. Danil is quiet, shy. He always keeps an eye on Janosā hands as if heās waiting for him to strike out with them. But he no longer flinches at every move the blacksmith makes. Once or twice, Janos has even seen him smile.
Janos has gotten used to having another person around. Twice in the first week, he forgot that Danil was there and accidentally left the boy without food overnight. But now he always remembers, and Danil has begun to gain a little weight as a result. He has a long way to go before heās back to being relatively healthy, but he looks less starved. And heās gotten stronger. Janos has learned to choose tasks in the forge that Danil can manage, and heās learned that offering a simple āgood workā when Danil finishes them helps ease the boyās fear like nothing else.
Maybe this isnāt so bad, Janos decides. I didnāt like this plan, but it isnāt so terrible after all.
Danil doesnāt know it, but they already did a test run. Janos had sent him to deliver a set of knives to a carpenter- it was a real carpentry shop, but the man that had answered the door had been Masaan instead of the true carpenter. It had gone flawlessly. Janos had asked Danil about it, and the boy had said quietly that no one had even so much as looked at him. Janos had had to hide a smile of his own- that was exactly what they needed.
And there was another thing that had settled much of Janosā worries- Masaan had given the boy a coin. A single bell, barely worth anything. Janos had asked him to do it as a sort of test.
Danil had passed with flying colors, handing the coin to Janos along with the empty satchel. āHe gave me this,ā heād said, sounding unsure of himself.
āHe was happy with the knives?ā
āI think so.ā
āHm. Good.ā And then Janos had tossed him the coin back. āYou earned it, not me,ā heād replied to Danilās startled look.
He isnāt sure what he would have done if the boy had pocketed it. He wouldn't trust him for the mission, that was for sure. Heād probably have needed to try again with a new slave. But could I really have sent him back to prison? Especially knowing what would happen to him?
Janos shakes his head. Enough thinking in hypotheticals! He passed the test, get on with it! He pulls a scrap of paper off the wall, telling him what needs to be done today.
As soon as he reads the writing, he groans aloud.
āIs something wrong?ā Danil asks, looking up from feeding coal to the forge fire. The brand on his neck has healed enough that it can be left uncovered, but itās still a dull red, not yet fully mended. The lionās head seems to glare at Janos today- that cursed Imperial symbol.
Janos stabs the paper back through its nail with more force than necessary. āI hate the Imperials, boy,ā he grunts. āHate them. The ones that arenāt brutes are idiots and the ones that arenāt idiots are brutes.ā He goes to the wall of weapons- the fancy trinkets, not the actual usable things- and takes down the most ridiculous one of them all.
Itās a scimitar forged of silver, the blade elegantly filigreed and inlaid with gold. Precious stones in shades of blue and green adorn the curved hilt, and the pommel is inlaid with a large, perfect black pearl. Itās one of the most lovely things Janos has ever crafted. And it is entirely useless.
āThis absurd thing was commissioned by the Lady Donima.ā Janos snorts. āSheās very fond of my shop. She has a whole collection of my bejeweled weapons by now.ā
āWhat does she want them for?ā Danil asks. Janos is surprised he already feels confident enough to ask questions, but glad of it all the same.
āStorms take me if I know,ā he replies. āProbably the same as the rest of them. She wants pretty, expensive things to look at.ā He hands the sword to Danil. āPolish that. Carefully. Sheāll be coming by later to pick it up. And sheās likely to stay around for a while, which will of course interrupt my work, but what would an Imperial care about that? Ridiculous woman.ā
Danil takes the sword, his lips twitching.
āWhat?ā Janos asks.
āDoes this Imperial lady fancy you?ā
Janos feels his face go hot. āShe imagines that she does,ā he admits grudgingly. āAnd also imagines that I return her affections. Sheās a senseless imbecile, even by Imperial standards. To her feather brain, my obvious lack of interest is only because I donāt want to admit my feelings for her, in a stupid show of reputation or something like that. Madwoman.ā He realizes that heās been rambling and waves his hand. āEnough about that! Back to work with you!ā
He pretends not to notice the way Danilās lips are pressed together, trying not to let a laugh slip between them.
As Janos has come to expect, the Lady Donima turns her arrival into an event. The woman parades herself down the artisansā street on a palanquin draped in gold, borne on the shoulders of strong slaves (also draped in gold.) She lounges in a nest of cushions, preening and primping and waving grandly at the gaping mouths of the passersby. She is followed, as always, by a quartet of muscular guards with spears in hand. And, also as always, her outfit is completely ridiculous. Sheās dressed herself to match the sword, clad in silver cloth inlaid with gold threads, jewelry made of green and blue jewels and black pearls.
Anyone in the Empire would be dazzled by this woman. Anyone but Janos. To Janos, this display is just like the weapons on the front wall- beautiful, sparkling, and completely useless. Just the cost of her headpiece alone could keep half a district fed for weeks. The Imperials love their glamour, and theyāll never know how much Janos hates them for it.
Well. Not until Masaan gets the plan moving, anyway.
Janos doesnāt bother pasting on a smile as he moves out into the street to greet his patroness. Half the reason she likes him so much is because he doesnāt flatter and fawn over her the way most people do. Heās well aware that she sees him as the object of a chase, a prize that will be all the more satisfying for the difficulty of it.
"Lady Donima," he says, with a short bow, and offers his hand to help her out of her litter.
The woman exits delicately, brushing imaginary dust off her fabulous dress. She huffs, shakes her head- making the jewels in her hair sparkle lavishly in the midday sun- and then beams at him. "Janni, my favorite craftsman!"
Stars and storms. "A pleasure to see you again," Janos replies. He knows his neutral tone won't offend her; she thinks of him as her mysterious quarry, and his barely-hidden disinterest seems to her as a mask. Her goal- as well he knows- is to get close enough to remove it.
Lady Donima is perhaps unaware that not every eligible man and woman in the Empire is completely and utterly infatuated with her. Eligible, of course, meaning only Imperials or those connected with them. If a poor shop keeper dared sigh over an Imperial lord or lady they'd be lucky not to be executed the next morning.
"Of course you have my commission ready," Lady Donima trills. "I've been so excited to see you! It, I mean. Is it beautiful, Janni? Is it the most lovely thing you've ever made?"
Another blacksmith might have bowed and fawned to her. Janos does neither. "Come in and judge for yourself," he says, in his most neutral tone.
Lady Donima fans herself frantically as she steps through the door, giggling like a little girl. "Oh, I do love your little shop, it's so- rustic. One does get awfully tired of silks and ribbons. Wood and stone are so refreshing, aren't they?"
"Mm," Janos mumbles, by way of answer.
Lady Donima scans the wall of jeweled weapons, her lower lip beginning to jut out in what she probably assumes to be a very attractive pout. "Mine isn't here."
As if summoned by her words, Danil appears out of the shadows, his eyes trained on the floor. Janos can practically smell the nervousness in the boy- he hasn't been this close to an Imperial for a long time. The scimitar is perfectly polished, and Janos holds his hand out for it.
Lady Donima screams as if she's seen a rat.
Danil startles so badly he almost drops the scimitar. Janos raises his eyebrow. "Is everything all right?"
The woman is shaking, white-faced and tight-lipped. She looks to be, very suddenly, in absolute mortal terror. "Janni," she whimpers. "Janni, what is that?"
She's staring directly at Danil.
Oh, storms. "Only my slave, Lady Donima."
"But- but that brand. He's one of the ones from the prisons, isn't he?" Lady Donima seems genuinely afraid. She backs away from Danil as if he's about to pounce on her.
Janos takes the scimitar from him and, perhaps slightly more roughly than he ought to, pushes Danil away. "Get back to your chores," he orders, stepping close to add under his breath "Outside. Don't come back until she's gone."
Danil nods, wide-eyed. He looks like he doesn't know what to think.
Janos has no time to think. He turns back to the lady, offering her the scimitar.
She shies away from it with a trembling hand, her eyes still trained on the door Danil has gone out of. "Oh, Janni, how could you?"
"My lady, I don't-"
"Everyone knows the ones from the prisons are dangerous!" Lady Donima presses a delicate hand to her mouth as if in deep distress. "Why would you be so foolish as to buy one of them? You'll be murdered in your sleep, and then who will make pretty things for me?"
"I am quite capable of handling a single slave boy," Janos replies stiffly.
"But, Janni, you haven't even got a whip or anything! You don't know how- how- savage these common folk can be. I never buy any of them myself, and certainly never out of the prison surplus! What can you have been thinking?" Lady Donima's voice is shrill. "You shall certainly be murdered. What will I do if my favorite weaponsmith is murdered?"
"You will find another, I'm sure." It's a risk being so dry with the Imperials, but Janos' frustration is rising steadily.
"Couldn't you get a bodyguard or some such thing?"
Janos stares at her. A bodyguard. Me. Is she daft? "There is no need, my lady, I assure you."
She whimpers, and Janos almost believes he can see tears in her eyes. This is truly how the Imperials see the world, he realizes suddenly. So twisted by their belief that they are above the rest that this woman is genuinely frightened of a common slave boy who has far more reason to be afraid of her.
Janos' thoughts stray to the knife tucked under his mattress. Have I become a bit too Imperial myself, then? He shakes his head to clear the image. "My lady-"
She startles, the fear in her eyes fading, replaced by a look of contemplation Janos does not like. "I have an excellent idea," she announces. "It'll be a surprise, Janni. And an excuse to visit here again." She laughs, tracing a finger up his arm.
Janos resists the urge to pull away- as much as she is fond of the chase, he's a dead man if he lets on that he isn't truly playing her game. "Your scimitar, Lady," he says, offering her the gaudy weapon.
She grimaces. "Clean it first. He was touching it; it's probably diseased."
Wordlessly, Janos obeys. What else can he do?
The Lady Donima takes her commission and leaves at last, promising to turn up again soon. Janos stands at the workbench while her litter disappears down the dusty lane, his fists clenched so hard they're trembling. Anger courses through him like the yearly floods through a dry riverbed.
He waits until it subsides to go and fetch Danil.
The boy is on his knees in the courtyard, pouring out a bucket of water at the base of Janos' scrubby tree. It looks like it isn't the first one; he still can't carry a full bucket. Janos overlooks pointing out that the tree has survived without being watered for years now and Danil's efforts will make very little difference. "She's gone," he says instead.
Danil scrambles up. "I-I didn't cause you any trouble, did I?" he asks anxiously. Janos reads the question behind the question, what the boy's really asking. Are you going to send me back?
"No," he says, answering both at once. "Lady Donima is...stars, the only word for it is Imperial. She only fancies me because I'm an Imperial Master. If I was still just a poor blacksmith she'd not spare a glance for me."
"She did seem to like you," Danil murmurs. "I was surprised."
Janos looks up, catching the tiny smile tugging at the boy's lips as he ventures what might be a joke. "Quiet, you," he says, keeping his voice serious. "I'll have you know I once had two Imperial princes propose marriage to me in the same afternoon."
Danil's eyes widen. "Really?"
"No."
A laugh bursts out before Danil can force it back down. He looks startled by the sound of it, glancing up at Janos as if afraid he's going to be angry at him for laughing. Janos merely raises an eyebrow, and the slight smile returns to the boy's face. Is it bigger now, more open, or is it merely Janos' imagination?
He holds a hand to his forehead, glancing up at the sun. "Let's get back to work while we've still got daylight. The gods only know what that woman will order next."
A week later, with no sign of Lady Donima, Janos begins to think she's forgotten her strange promise, and stops worrying about it. Naturally, the next day brings an unexpected visit from the patroness.
Danil bites his lip when he sees who's arrived, instantly seeming to shrink in on himself. Janos sighs as he wipes his hands on his apron. "Stay out of sight this time, boy. I'll try to stop her from coming in, but you might have to slip outside if she won't be persuaded."
She's ridden a horse this time instead of taking her ridiculous litter. Still, the horse's mane is plaited with silver thread that shimmers in a way that no imitation could, and the high, ornate saddle she perches in wouldn't be misplaced on an elephant. She's brought only two guards with her this time; Janos elbows past them to help her down from the horse.
Against her chest she clutches a narrow box.
"I can't stay long, Janni," she says, pouting a little. "There's a party I just can't miss. But I just had to see you first. I've been frantic with worry, you know." She says it almost accusingly.
"I can take care of myself, my lady."
"I know." For a moment, the teasing returns, as she reaches out to tap flirtatiously at Janos' bicep. He lets her. He can do nothing else.
Then she collects herself, shaking off the playful attitude. "But this will help." She pushes the box at him.
Janos isn't sure why he's afraid to open it. He sighs, steels himself, and takes off the lid.
"I can't accept this." The words come out flatter than he wants them to.
"You must!" Lady Donima grasps his arm. "I had it made just for you, Janni. Mine has jewels on it, but I told the man that you would like it better if it were plain. I know you so well, don't I? As much as I wanted to put just one ruby-"
"My lady. I can't take it."
"Why on earth not? It's an Imperial Master who made it, it's the best quality possible-"
Janos fumbles for an excuse that will not offend her, as much as he longs to blurt out Because I don't want it. "The cost must have been astronomical even without gemstones. I cannot accept a gift like this." He moves to hand it back to her.
Lady Donima laughs, throwing back her head so the silver thread in her hair catches the light. She has still not released his arm. "You dear, foolish man, are you worried about my spending? I still have plenty, don't you fret. I'm sure I'll be back to spend some of it at your shop soon." Abruptly she grows serious again. "Especially now that I'll know you're safe. I'll be displeased if you don't take it. I had it made especially for you, and the next time I come I want to see it on that wall with your tools and all the ugly weapons." She presses the box back toward him.
Janos hesitates. She doesn't sound like she means it as a threat, but he knows the Imperials. If he does displease her, she can very easily turn it into one. His status as Imperial Master will count for nothing against the word of an Imperial Lady.
Lady Donima draws closer to him, looking up through her eyelashes in a way that seems both pitifully exaggerated and somehow misguidedly sincere. "Please take it, Janni. Just for my peace of mind."
Janos sighs. Reluctantly, he takes the Imperial woman's gift. It rests heavy in his hand.
"I'll not be worried about you now," she declares, beaming. "I'm sure I'll be back very soon, but for now I have that party to get to. I must drag you along to one someday. You would be a sensation with my friends." She skims her fingertips along his chest, brushing the top of his leather smith's apron, looking coyly at him as she does so.
Janos helps Lady Donima back into the saddle of her horse. She's all smiles now, her worries- real or pretended- banished. She waves gaily back at him as she rides away, her stoic guards trailing her. Janos lifts a hand in a brief return to her wave. It's all he can manage.
He stands in the street for several minutes after she disappears, trying to get his thoughts together.
"I saw her ride away." Danil's soft voice somewhere behind him. "Is she-"
Janos turns to go back into the smithy, and the words die in Danil's mouth. Janos sees his eyes widen, his thin chest suddenly rising and falling faster, taking a step back from Janos in a way that looks more instinctual than conscious. His eyes flick once to Lady Donima's gift, then back up to Janos' face.
Janos is finished. The entire encounter has drained the energy from him, the tension suddenly too heavy for him to handle. I'll deal with it later, he says to himself, and to the boy he only says "Well?"
Danil flinches at the sound of his voice, his tongue darting out to lick his lips like they've gone dry. Wordlessly he turns back to finish whatever work he was doing before Lady Donima's unannounced visit.
Janos can feel the boy's eyes on him. He steadily ignores it, moving to the back wall where he keeps the weapons secretly forged for the rebellion. There's always a spare nail back here, and he drops Lady Donima's gift onto one.
Among the collection of knives and swords, the sturdy, finely-crafted leather whip looks somehow out of place.
Anatol didnāt see Sabyl until they arrived there. Heād expected the cart to turn a corner and suddenly be facing some huge, imposing stone fortress, some impenetrable stronghold with walls and towers and turrets. Sabyl did have walls, but not the kind he was expecting.
Sabylās walls were mountains.
Anatol had slept most of the way through the second leg of the journey, exhausted by grief and fear. He only woke up when the light vanished, sending the entire cart into nearly pitch blackness. He sat up, confused and afraid. What happened? Where are we?
And then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the rock surrounding the cart on all sides. A tunnel. Somehow, there was a tunnel through the mountain, and the cart was heading through it- heading to Sabyl.
And when it finally broke out into the white winter light again, all Anatol could do was stare.
Sabyl sat inside a ring of mountains, nestled in a little valley. Buildings lay scattered around the area, small and squat and made of stone. He could see people moving around them, but the cart was still too far to see any details.
You canāt escape this place. He realized it instantly. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There were trees, but scattered and separated, never allowed to clump together to form a hiding place. You couldnāt run without the guards seeing you. He could pick them out now- they were the people in white furs and sturdy black boots.
And half of them had wolves by their sides. Even bigger than the ones that pulled the cart. They werenāt on leashes. They paced around like they were guards themselves, and Anatol had no doubt that if a prisoner tried to run, the wolves would be on them.
Would the guards call them off? he wondered. Would the wolves obey?
He remembered the way the wolves had circled him last night. I wonder if theyāre trained to eat people.
It made him feel sick, seeing just how trapped he was. A prisoner couldnāt run without being seen. If they somehow managed to avoid being spotted, the wolves would catch them. If they werenāt caught by the wolves, they faced the frozen mountains. Thereās no way out of here.
The cart traveled deeper into the valley, and now Anatol could see detail. The guards in their white furs and black boots, with expressions of mixed curiosity and tension on their faces. Anatol wondered if theyād been told that their newest prisoner was the prince. Is it better if they know who I am, or better if they donāt? he asked himself.
He saw the prisoners, too, and the sight of them sent an odd mixture of fear and sympathy swirling through his heart. They were miserable creatures, wrapped in ragged furs or scraps of cloth or anything they could use to keep themselves a little warmer. Their faces were thin and drawn, scattered with bruises and cuts and scars. All of them shivered with cold. They glanced up at the cart as it went by, and Anatol flinched at the hopeless looks in their eyes.
Did Mother know that it was like this? Heād known, of course, that Sabyl was no easy life. But he couldnāt imagine his mother knowingly condemning people to this. She must not have knownā¦but then, she visited Sabyl twice a year to make sure it was secure. She had to have known.
But theyāre criminals, arenāt they? another side of himself argued. Not only that- this place is for those who commit crimes against the royal family. Donāt they deserve this?
Anatol glanced at the nearest prisoner. She was an old woman, bent nearly double, her lips blue with cold.
Does she deserve it? he asked. Do I? I was falsely accusedā¦maybe some of these people were too.
The wolves sped up, and Anatol frowned, wondering why. One of the guards on the seat, the tall one, laughed. āThey know theyāre coming home.ā
āThey want their supper,ā remarked the one with the tattooed dragon on the back of his neck. āThink thereās been any escape attempts while we were gone? Maybe theyāll have a treat.ā
Anatol shuddered, remembering the wolves from last night. The way they had circled the carriage, the glow of their eyes in the darkā¦and those were wild wolves, not the trained ones of Sabyl. The ones trained to rip would-be escapees to pieces.
The cart stopped with a rough jerk in the middle of a small cluster of buildings at the far end of the camp. Anatol nearly fell on his face again. I am getting tired of that. He hadnāt noticed it before, but his heart was racing. I wonder what Katria is doing right now. Will they tell her that Iāve arrived here? Or have they scratched my name from the royal records already?
The tall guard unchained his hands from the side of the cart. The second the chains fell away, the one with the dragon tattoo hauled himself into the cart, grabbed Anatol by the collar, and dropped him out onto the snow. Anatol gasped with shock and pain.
The guard chuckled and jumped out after him. Anatol rolled to the side before the man's boots landed in his ribs, which unfortunately meant that he got himself thoroughly soaked with snow. Furs would have done something to protect him, but Anatol had none, so he was dragged up shivering from the icy ground.
Maybe these two didn't get Katria's orders.
They marched him towards the central building in the cluster, which boasted a solid wooden door. The doors on the other small buildings seemed to be either iron bars or merely stiff cloth curtains, which flapped in the wind and didn't seem secure enough to keep a snowflake out. Let alone one of those wolves.
One of the guards pounded on the door, and when it opened Anatol realized that the guard with the dragon tattoo was not a big man, after all. The Sabyl Watchdog standing in the doorway was. Anatol was rather tall, but this man towered over him. His arms bulged with muscle, and he looked distinctly displeased to see a new prisoner.
"This him?" the Watchdog rumbled, eyeing Anatol with a glare.
The tattooed guard, by way of answer, practically threw Anatol at the Watchdog. Anatol stumbled right into the man's burly arm, and the Watchdog held him easily with just one hand on his shoulder. It felt as though it were a hand made of iron. Anatol was getting rather tired of being tossed back and forth between large men, but he kept his mouth shut and didn't try to pull away from the Watchdog's firm grip.
"I'll take him from here," the Watchdog said.
Anatol's guards didn't protest, walking back towards the center of Sabyl, already jostling and joking with each other. Package delivered, I suppose. I am no longer their problem.
The thought didn't come with any bitterness, or even fear, though he still had plenty of that- his trembling wasn't only because of the cold. His mind had felt strangely numb since arriving at Sabyl, seeing just how remote and impenetrable it was. There was no going back. No one escaped Sabyl, certainly not a prisoner as high-profile as Anatol. And Katria would not have some miraculous change of heart and send for his release.
I am trapped here.
The Watchdog half dragged, half shoved him through the doorway. Anatol was glad when the wooden door slammed shut, cutting off some of the cold wind screaming outside.
The Watchdog seized him suddenly around the waist. Anatol yelped in surprise. "Shut up," the guard rumbled, and Anatol realized that he was being searched as the man's big hands felt all around his clothes. Anatol felt his face turning hot, but he didn't dare open his mouth to protest.
"What are you looking for?" he ventured.
The Watchdog grunted. "Contraband."
"What's contraband here?"
At that, the Watchdog looked up, grinning. He had a gold tooth. "Everything I decide you can't have."
Anatol turned his gaze away.
Fortunately- or unfortunately- he hadn't anything with him but the clothes on his back. Sabyl hadn't seemed to have any kind of uniforms for its prisoners, so Anatol was allowed to keep them.
The Watchdog went to an almost comically small desk and took out a huge leatherbound book and a pen. "Name?" he grunted.
"Anatol Soranov."
"Wrong."
Anatol jerked his head up. "I know what my own name is!"
"Soranov is the name used by members of the royal family. You, boy, are no member of the royal family. You are nothing but a prisoner." The Watchdog grinned, enjoying himself. "Want to try again? Your name."
Despite himself, Anatol felt the telltale prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes. Even my name, Katria?
"Your name," the Watchdog growled, sounding much less like he was enjoying himself.
Anatol swallowed hard. "Anatol," he answered, leaving his family name off.
The Watchdog's lips turned up. "Good. Learning already."
Anatol didn't answer.
"I'd tell you the rules, but there really aren't many. Do as you're told. Don't try anything stupid. And, a special one just for you- we don't care who you were before. You're nothing here. Remember that." He shuffled through some papers as he opened the wooden door, glancing up to fix Anatol with a hard look. "You're in Block D. The stone buildings over there, fourth one down." The big Watchdog gave Anatol a shove towards the door. "Go on, get moving."
All he could see through the doorway was white and gray. Snow fell gently in the city around the palace. But here, the rough mountain winds threw the snow down in whirling fistfuls, turning the world outside the stone door into nothing but a blinding, cold whiteness.
Anatol took a step towards the door. The Watchdog's voice froze him where he stood.
"Wait. Come here."
He felt like a deer caught in the sights of a hunter's crossbow, just waiting for the arrow to loose, as he walked back to where the burly Watchdog stood waiting for him.
"Forgot to give you something," the Watchdog said.
And he slammed a meaty fist into Anatol's stomach. Anatol sank to the floor like a stone in the sea, coughing and gasping as he tried to reel his breath back in.
Dr. Shaw paced up and down the room, carding his hands through his hair. āThere goes everything. Everything! Iāve kept this project classified for ten years, and in five minutes the whole thing gets blown out of the water!ā He banged a fist against the wall. āWhat were you thinking?ā
Chris looked at him for a long moment, his brow slightly furrowed. āI- I wasnāt,ā he said finally.
āThatās for sure.ā
āI was so relieved that my rusa- that my healing was back. I did not think what would happen if Jesse saw it working.ā
āHe thinks you have superpowers.ā
āI donāt know what that means.ā
āIt doesnāt matter!ā The hand at Dr. Shawās hairline rubbed furiously over his temples. āI know my son. Heāll tell all his little school friends that his father has a superhero in a laboratory, and someoneās going to come nosing around trying to see what heās talking about, and this entire operation will be blown!ā He slumped suddenly into his abandoned chair, his head in his hands.
Chris sat in a chair on the other side of a table, his hands spread out on the tabletop. He kept staring at them, running a finger over the barely-visible veins. Heās only half-listening, Dr. Shaw thought irritably.
Jesse had been bundled away with Mandy, bursting with questions. Sheād given Dr. Shaw a look that meant Iāll handle it. He trusted her. Mandy knew how to be discreet.
Unlike some people. Heād always planned to tell Jesse eventually. But when he was older, wiser, less likely to blurt out the secret to all and sundry. Notā¦not now. Dr. Shaw sighed, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. āIāll have my work cut out for me keeping this quiet. Jesse and secrets don't mix."
Chris glanced up. "It was not Jesse's fault," he said quietly. "It was mine."
"Oh, I know." Dr. Shaw huffed. "I shouldn't have even risked bringing him here in the first place. I don't understand why he wants to come here so often."
Chris was staring at his hands again, turning them over in the light. "Jesse admires you," he said. "He wants to be you someday." A small smile turned his lips up. "I...I think he also enjoys talking to me."
"Well, too bad for him," Dr. Shaw snapped. "Maybe if I keep him away from here for awhile, he'll forget about the whole business. And of course I'll have to tighten security. Keep an eye on who he talks to...make sure he thinks he only imagined it..."
Chris was frowning.
"What?"
The alien looked at his hands as he spoke. "I don't mean to tell you that you are wrong-"
"Good. Then don't."
"What if you explained the situation to Jesse?" Chris picked his head up, the serious look in his eyes somehow burning into Dr. Shaw. "I have not spoken to him much, but I believe he is very intelligent. I think, if you expressed to him how important it is to you that all this remain secret-" Chris' face did...something at that, a flicker of undefinable emotion crossing it before it settled back into his usual neutral expression. "I think he would understand, and he would be careful not to speak of it."
"Thanks, Dr. Phil." The words were bitter, and Dr. Shaw knew they were bitter, but he said them anyway.
Chris cocked his head. "You are still angry."
"For a supposedly hyper-intelligent extraterrestrial life form, you're pretty slow on the uptake."
A small frown creased Chrisā brow. "You are angry...with me?"
"Dammit, Chris, yes!" Dr. Shaw exploded. "You couldn't have waited until I got Jesse out of there? Or even just turned around so he couldn't see you heal? You know how important this project is. You know how I felt about Jesse being told. And you had to go and give it away!"
Chris laid a hand on his stomach. "I- it was trying to heal, and it could not," he said, looking down. "It...hurt. I could only think of getting the stitches out and letting my rusayat do what it wanted to."
"I think your whatever could have held on a couple seconds."
Chris shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. It cannot. It- it does not just heal me, it sustains me. It is my life force. I cannot push it back. If I had waited, it would have healed over the stitches."
"Yeah, it isn't like we're in a lab with medical equipment everywhere that could deal with that."
Chris rarely fidgeted, but now he dug his fingers into the fabric of his pants, staring down at his lap. "I was hurting, Doctor. But this time I could do something about it. I-I could have waited, but I- I was tired of the hurting." His voice became very small as he spoke, almost a whisper.
"You've got to be kidding me." Dr. Shaw turned to face the back wall, running his hands through his hair. Frustration simmered in his chest, almost boiling over. āYou have got to be kidding me. Iāve seen you vivisected, Chris, and you barely reacted. Now youāre telling me a couple of stitches is your breaking point?ā
"I am sorry," Chris whispered. "I-"
Dr. Shaw wheeled around and backhanded him across the face.
Chris gasped, reeling from the force of the blow. He caught himself on an outstretched hand, just barely keeping from falling all the way to the floor.
Dr. Shaw froze. The anger drained away in one instant, replaced by cold shock.
Slowly, Chris reached up to touch the blood that had begun to trickle from a split lip. He looked at Dr. Shaw, his eyes penetrating. He did not speak.
Dr. Shaw swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Chris. Hey. I'm- I wasn't- I-"
"Have I misunderstood our relationship, Doctor?" Chris asked. His voice was soft, but space-cold. "You told me that we were friends."
āWe are, Chris. I was- Iām sorry. That was...unprofessional. I shouldnāt have done it.ā
Chris nodded stiffly. He said nothing else. He just sat there, looking at Dr. Shaw, the side of his mouth smeared with red.
I did that.
Dr. Shaw stammered out a "I'll talk to Jesse" and fled Cell 10 as fast as he could.
He didn't stop until he had made it back to his office, collapsing into the chair. What is wrong with me? he berated himself. I need him to trust me! I've put so much work into being friends with him- how could I strike him? How could I lose my temper like that?
Chris' betrayed blue eyes stared accusingly at him from inside his head. He'd been taken by surprise, not expecting the slap, because Dr. Shaw had never hit him before. Why would he have needed to? Chris was always compliant, he never protested or put up a fuss. He was the perfect test subject, and they weren't just the doctor and the alien anymore. You told me that we were friends. Chris' quiet, icy voice, still stunned from the unexpected blow, echoing in his mind.
Dr. Shaw sighed. It wasn't even that he thought of himself as Chris' friend. The alien was a means to an end, nothing more- but it made it so much easier that Dr. Shaw could talk to him openly. It felt so good to know that an extraterrestrial being talked to him like a friend. Chris was under the impression that Dr. Shaw went along with the experiments because he had to, that he regretted it every time. Dr. Shaw had let him believe that, had let Chris bond with him in that strange not-quite-friends way. He needed the cooperation, couldn't imagine how quickly this project would fall to pieces if Chris ever took it into his head to start fighting.
But he'd broken the trust he had so carefully encouraged the forging of. Chris would still talk to him, he knew. He would sit quietly and act as though nothing was wrong, because that was what he did. But it wouldn't be the same. It never would be. Chris would not forget that Dr. Shaw had struck him. And he would not trust him fully again.
I need him to trust someone enough to talk to them. If not me, then- then-
Dr. Shaw straightened up, the idea coming to him with a suddenness that was almost like a blow. It was simple. Almost too simple. Chris would see it as an olive branch. Dr. Shaw could use it as a bridge.
It had been Chris' idea anyway.
Dr. Shaw took out his phone and put in Mandy's number. "Hi, Mandy. Yeah, everything's taken care of. Listen- I need to talk to Jesse."
