Ahhh I Love It - Tumblr Posts
so I was looking at Pikmin art and I saw art of your rookie fennec...... and I couldn't help but doodle her real fast. I hope you don't mind, and I hope I did them justice!!
(I saw that her hair was originally pink, so I decided to put a bit of pink around the roots of their hair, like maybe their hair was originally pink but she dyed it mid-mission to match her spacesuit better. completely unnessecary, but I thought it looked kinda cute :D)
OMG!!!! I love it!!
Your art style, so cute, love how soft you made everything
I actually love the idea of her hair originally being pink, that’s such I cute detail I never thought about (might borrow that if it’s okay) And the kitty doodle, ADORABLE!!
Thank you so much!! <3
Destiel Pride: Featherlight
There comes a time in the grieving process when you run out of things to destroy. There are only so many colourful curses that can be screamed and muffled into the fabric of a trench coat. There are only so many people to blame before it becomes obvious the culprit is the person staring at you in the mirror each morning — or night. Time loses all meaning but before and after. There are no true mornings when mourning. Without Cas, there is no sun rising, only setting. That was how Dean lived in the weeks after Cas was dragged into The Empty.
He still hadn't used the word 'death', not even in the sanctity of his head. 'Death' was a slippery word when it came to the Winchesters, and Cas — whether the bastard liked it or not, was a Winchester by default. He was family. Goddamn family, with all the shitty hang-ups that came with the title.
The word 'death' didn't seem to encompass the grief. Cas was absent from any place that Dean could find him. Even in death, Dean would find him. The lack of him throbbed like bruised knuckles. It only hurt when he moved or thought about it, or stayed too still.
When two months had passed and all options Dean could think of had been explored to get Cas out of The Empty, he was left in the wreckage that'd once been his bedroom. The only things left intact fell into two categories, things that'd been too tough to break, and things that belonged to Cas.
In the silence that followed the carnage, Dean was left with what he'd been avoiding, a moment to think. He wasn't struck by a revelation. 'Revelation' wasn't the right word. He was struck instead by a sense of recognition. A long-hidden truth had stilled his hand and hollowed what was left of his body.
Cas loved him, he knew that. He'd known from the second the angel was gone. He knew what kind of love Cas meant. What he hadn't realised until he was hunched over himself, holding the splintered remains of his nightstand was that he loved Cas back. His loss had brought a torrent of rage because where the hell was all his love meant to go? When Cas left, he'd taken Dean's love with him.
And goddamn wasn't that the cosmic kick in the balls to bookend what he'd deemed a tragic existence? He'd been thinking about death and how useless death would be if Cas wasn't on the other end of it. He was thinking of life in much the same light.
Dean hadn't been raised to know what to do with a grief so all-encompassing it ran in the background of his existence like a mixtape on a road trip. If he followed his father's example, all that was left to do was to become an obsessed bastard, and destroy himself and everyone he touched in slow motion. The Winchester rule for dealing with grief? Become the gangrene in the wound. Make everything so much worse.
When Cas arrived at the door of the bunker a month later, Dean didn't know what to do. Everything in him pushed towards anger, towards utter annihilation of all that was good in himself. However, upon seeing the look of uncertainty on the angel's face decades of rage disappeared. What he was left with was the familiar ring of tinnitus and the thick pit of dread that'd settled in his stomach. What the hell were they meant to do now?
"Hello, Dean," Cas spoke, like nothing had happened. Giving Dean an out, he knew he'd never be able to take.
There was too much left unsaid between them to go tumbling back into cowboy hats and coffee quips like their last run-in with death.
Dean knew he was meant to talk but he'd never been much of a talker when it counted. His hands trembled as they moved unbidden to hover over Cas' shoulder. He needed to touch the guy, to make sure he was real but to do so felt too definitive. If Cas was an illusion, Dean didn't care. He wanted him to stay put for once.
Dean's hands hovered ghostlike in the space between them, haunted as the rest of his body by the loss of the angel. His fingers flittered around Cas' body, nervous birds on hot, highway concrete. They'd land for a moment, featherlight, before taking off again. They explored Castiel's arms, his chest, his cheeks. All the while, Dean remained silent as the saint he wasn't.
In all his imaginings of their reunion, everything had been intense, whether he was throwing curses or kisses at Cas. He'd never expected his lips to lock and his body to betray him by shaking like a goddamn leaf in the breeze. He felt like he was a kid again, lost, silent and looking for someone or something to hold onto with all his fucking might.
He wanted to find his tongue, to say something to wipe the look of absolute bewilderment and trepidation from Cas' face but what the hell was there to say? No words would be enough.
He placed his hands on either side of Cas' face, watching the angel's eyes swell. He wanted a grand gesture. Cas deserved it, but Dean was still tied in knots trying to work out if this was a line they could cross and walk back from. Dean didn't know what he'd do if he screwed things up, terrified Cas would be another home he could never return to.
His lips found the scrape of Cas' cheek. The familiar five o'clock shadow on the unfamiliar territory of his mouth. It was so unlike Dean to be any kind of tender. There was no way the action could be misconstrued for anything other than what it was. A promise? A confession?
His hands had landed on the small of Cas' back and the curve of his hip. He opened his mouth to speak but the words came out garbled, sounding embarrassingly close to a sob.
Still, his mouth wouldn't shape the words. He closed his eyes and prayed, hoping Cas would hear.
Don't you ever do that to me again.
You Can Stay With Me
finally finished this fic where Doc takes care of an abandoned child, I hope you guys like it! tw: child abandonment, everything else is fluff
Despite the lateness in the month of October, it is scorching in the town of Lincoln. Doc walks out onto the school house's stoop and squints from the red hot sun. There are storm clouds a way's away and he hopes they bring rain and not another useless lightning storm. Stepping back inside he makes his way around the small desks, cleaning up loose papers and rearranging books. He runs a hand across his sweat-dampened cheek and curses himself for not shaving it off, or at least trimming his beard. Because of the small size of the school house it is usually packed with children of all ages. So cleaning up afterwards does take him some time. Of course everything feels ten times longer in agonizing dry heat.
Doc turns to begin sweeping around the doorway but nearly jumps as he's no longer alone. A small child now stands on the stoop, a little girl not much older than a toddler. With a mass of wavy chestnut hair it almost looks like a halo as she gazes silently at him with large green eyes. She is wearing what appears to be a man's nightshirt, worn and dirty. Looking to her dirty and scratched feet Doc realizes how far she's come, town about a mile or two away. "What are you doing all the way out here little one?" The child just stands there, almost looking terrified to speak as her dust covered cheeks are streaked with tears. Doc leans down to her level, tentative as if she is a fawn he's afraid to scare off. He looks back to the town, hoping to see someone after her but there is no one. "Where is your mother?" She says nothing, just looking at him with those green eyes. "Your father...?"
This seems to hit a nerve as her eyes widen and begin to well with tears. "They-they said he don't want me..." Her chin wobbles as tears begin to stream down her small face, washing the dust off of her cheeks in little trails. She hiccups as her little body rocks with sobs, clearly unable to say anymore.
"No, no! Don't cry it's alright!" Doc pulls her close and wipes the tears from her face as she leans into his touch. "Please don't cry..." He looks up to see the storm clouds are coming closer and this child is obviously not fit to go back from wherever she came. Carefully he picks her up in his arms as he little hands wrap around his neck, her eyes still wet with tears. "Do you want to stay here tonight?" She nods quickly, burying her face into his neck and holding on tight. Doc smiles slightly at her closeness to him. "What's your name?"
She looks up at him from her place in his shoulder. "Laura."
"Laura. That's a very pretty name. Well you can just call me Doc." For the first time a smile appears on her face along with a small giggle. "You didn't think that would be name?" She shakes her head with a smile as he walks through the door. "Well none of my students call me that...but that's my name." He makes his way into the back room through his neat little home, the room where students will occasionally stay. Carefully he sets her down on the small yet sturdy bed and begins to grab a water basin and cloth. He goes to move but feels a hand grip into his sleeve.
Laura stared up at him, her eyes wide with fright as she grips his shirt like a lifeline. "Please-please don't leave." Surprised by the touch Doc frowns, but it softens into a smile as he can't help but feel pity for a child so small, to already be abandoned and scared to be alone. He knows exactly how she feels.
He motions to the basin right outside of the room's doorway. "It's alright, I'll be right here." With this reassurance she lets go of his sleeve. He takes the basin and dampens the cloth, cleaning her face, finishing by using the leftover water to wash her little feet. When that is done, Doc sifts through the room's set of drawers and finds her a nightgown. Despite it being much too big for her it's the smallest he has, being used to elementary and older students. Doc helps her into these clean clothes and he can't help but smile as her eyes grow in awe at what to her is the nicest thing she's ever worn. Doc takes a comb from the room's dresser and carefully begins to brush through her thick chestnut hair. Laura smiles happily seeing her reflection in the mirror, and then notices a small basket next to the bed. It is merely an old wicker basket but inside are multiple items other children have contributed to future visitors. Peeking out of the box is a stuffed dog, and the child can't tear her eyes from it. Doc turns to see this and smiles fondly and takes the toy from the box. "Do you like this one?" Laura meets his gaze silently, and nods. Doc chuckles and slips the stuffed animal into her arms. "It's all yours."
Laura's eyes grow wide as she looks down at her first real toy. "Mine...?"
Doc smiles warmly. "Of course." Finishing on her hair he runs his hand through the last few tangles and returns the brush to his place. "There we go, now we can have supper." He picks her up off the bed and gently leads her down the hall into his small kitchen. Entering, Doc lights a small oil lamp on the table and using another match, lights the oven. Off of the small counter he puts a leftover roast into the oven and takes a can of beans from the cupboard. "I would make more, but that would take time." Laura doesn't say a word, just sitting herself at the wooden table admiring her new toy. Doc notices this and can't help but smile. After a few minutes the beans and meat have heated and he sets two plates, along with a glass of milk each from the ice box.
As soon as the plate is set before her, Laura's eyes grown wide, looking at her meager meal as if it's a feast. "Thank you..."
After a good ten minutes the two silently finish their supper, and Doc cleans the dishes before leading Laura into the living room. Doc moves to his chair and lights the lamp and turns to see Laura waiting patiently. His eyes scan the room to find his bookshelf and he smiles gently. "Would you like me to read you a book?" The child tilts her head slightly, thinking over what Doc said. Doc laughs softly and picks a book from his shelf and settles into his chair, motioning for Laura to sit next to him. Without a second thought the child pulls herself up into the chair as Doc settles her on his lap, opening Aesop's Fables. "This one is like a collection of stories–"
Laura perks up at this. "Oh–! Nice ladies would tell me stories before!" She flips through the books pages, smiling as it's ink illustrations flip through. "I wanna read this one, please."
Doc grins at her enthusiasm and opens the book. After about two hours or so he finishes the last story. "...The end." He glances to his clock at the table reading nine-thirty. "Alright...it's probably time for bed..." Looking down he sees Laura fast asleep against his chest, her stuffed dog held tight in her little hands. Carefully Doc takes the afghan from his love seat and drapes it over the two of them, holding her close. "Well...maybe bed can be here tonight." As Doc drifts off, the sound of steady rain pattering on the roof.
Choose your fighter
Stanuary Week 3: Ocean
"Ocean City Beach During Hurricane Earl" by Mrs. Gemstone is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0
Read on Archive of our Own.
Stan and Ford worked to secure their most recent salvage on the deck of the Stan O’ War II.
The brothers took a routine approach to their labor, being well accustomed to blustery conditions. The sea was not particularly calm, but it was not especially wild either. And yet the ocean decided that it was one of those days when one or both of them would go in the drink. This time, it was Ford.
Stan watched a strong wave crash across the prow and sweep Ford overboard, wondering when his brother had relaxed his vigilance enough to let such a thing happen. Maybe his age was finally catching up with him, or perhaps it was the comfort of being in his home dimension. But Stan suspected that Ford never would have allowed this to happen when he was in the multiverse, where it would mean probable death.
As the waters flung Ford overboard, Stan almost laughed at its disregard for the man’s dignity. Ass over tea kettle, Ma would say - whatever that means, Stan thought. That association drew his mind to a different time and a different ocean.
The boys lounged in the late afternoon sun after a day of swimming, ice cream, and more swimming. The highlight of the day was finding and dissecting a dead horseshoe crab. The task had captivated Ford for the creature’s strange anatomy and Stan because he thought it was gross and cool. Ford was now boring Stan with facts about the dead crab being a living fossil and using copper instead of iron to carry oxygen. Stan was actually somewhat interested in Ford’s explanation of why the creature’s blood was blue, but that would not stop him from teasing Ford for being a nerd even on vacation.
Stan scooped up the sun-baked remains of the horseshoe crab in its shell. “Nothing can stop it! The Blob!” Stan said and smiled wickedly. Knowing exactly what his brother had in mind, Ford leapt up and ran. They laughed and raced along the shore. Stan had almost caught Ford, when Ford tripped over his own feet. The two tumbled onto the sand in a tangle of limbs and horseshoe crab remains.
“What the hell, Ford?” Stan yelled. He rolled off his brother, grimacing at the crab remains smeared on his bare torso.
“Stan! We’d be grounded again if Pa heard you say that.” Ford scolded. “Besides, you were the one who thought chasing me with a dead crab would be funny.
Stan started to argue, but looking at Ford, his protest turned into laughter. His brother scowled, his glasses askew. Sand clung to his skin from where he had face-planted and bits of their biology specimen dangled from his back and sides.
“You are one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen,” Stan said, ”and I once saw a slug eating another slug.”
Ford’s scowl twisted as he tried not to laugh. After a moment, he could not contain his own guffaws. “You are so demented!” he accused, punching Stan on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s wash this off and get home.”
The boys ran and plunged their bodies into the surf. The late summer Atlantic waters were full of jellyfish and too warm to be refreshing; even so, the brothers loved to play in the waves. They swam past the sand bar to where the water was deeper. Their feet touched the bottom until a swell passed. They pushed off, enjoying the sensation of the water carrying them upwards and then back down.
The had been swimming for some time, and Stan started to feel tired and hungry. When he looked around for Ford, he was unable to find him. His first thought was that Ford had dived under the surface and would appear soon. When too much time had passed to support his initial theory, Stan began to get nervous. As he looked around and still failed to find his brother, a burst of adrenaline sent him into a panic. He spun in the water, frantically calling Ford’s name, when he heard Ford call back.
Stan’s eyesight was not as bad as Ford's, but it was not strong. He squinted at the source of the sound and spotted Ford, who had been trapped by a rip current and was already far offshore. Ford was a decent swimmer, but had never been as strong as Stan.
“Hang in there Ford! Swim out of the riptide!”
“What? I can’t… hear… Stanley! Help me!” Ford sputtered. He bobbed above and below the waves, growing tired from his effort to fight the outgoing tide.
Stan gave no thought to his next actions. His brother needed help, and he would go to him. They would sink or swim together. Stan plowed through the water as if punishing the ocean for threatening his twin. When he reached Ford, he threw his arm around his brother’s torso and commanded him to stop thrashing. Still using his wits, Stan swam perpendicular to the rip current and exited into friendlier waves. Ford was still too shaken to swim on his own, so Stan expended his remaining energy to get them back to the sandbar. From there, the two stumbled the remaining distance to shore and collapsed in the warm sand.
They lay on their backs, catching their breath in recovery from their effort and fright. At last, Ford panted, “Stanley, you could have died!”
“You too, Poindexter,” Stan shot back.
Both boys remained quiet for a time as their breathing calmed and they enjoyed the sensation of being safely cradled by the sand.
“Thank you,” Ford said.
“I told ya once, I told ya a thousand times. Wherever we go, we go together.” Despite his nonchalance, Stan felt a warmth in his chest from his brother’s gratitude.
Years later, when Stan pulled his brother from the tides of the multiverse, there had been no thanks. Not until he had sacrificed everything he could, down to the most stripped down shell of what comprised Stanley Pines, had he known his brother’s genuine, heartfelt appreciation. He did not begrudge the delay, and he would not have changed any of his actions (except perhaps losing his temper during an apocalypse).
He now knelt beside his brother on the ship where they were living their childhood dream. This time, Ford had not flailed or punched upon his rescue. Once Stan’s strong arms had hauled him back to the trawler, Ford helped to pull himself back onto the ship. Stan gently clapped his brother’s back as Ford hunched over on hands and knees, coughing and vomiting seawater onto the deck. Ford leaned back on his heels, gripping Stan’s shoulder with one hand and wiping his mouth with the back of the other hand.
“Thank you, Stanley.” Ford’s eyes were soft and his grin was warm.
Later that evening, the two watched the blazing sunset over the expanse of the ocean. “Stanley, do you remember when we were kids, that time you chased me with the horseshoe crab?”
“Yeah, as I recall, you tripped and got that goop on us both. It’s funny, I was just thinking about that earlier today,” Stan replied.
“Yes well, I was a bit clumsier at the time. In my defense, I was being pursued with a rotting carcass. I don’t know what brought that specific episode to mind. I guess it was because you fished me out that time too,” Ford chuckled.
In that moment, Stan realized the answer to his earlier question. Ford had finally relaxed his vigilance because of Stan. Not only was Ford no longer alone, but he was with the person who would always protect him. Stan grabbed his twin in a bear hug.
“I will always get you back,” Stan promised, then layered the truth in bravado so as not to be too mushy. “You’re lucky to have a hero like me around to rescue your clumsy ass.”
The brothers laughed and gripped each other tightly. They then retired to the cabin to rest up for the next day’s adventure.
Hamilsquad HIGHSCHOOL AU Ref Sheets!! Burr included because he is part of the hamilsquad argue with the wall!
AAAAAAGH THE GIRLS ARE NEXT!
the girls will be here.. tomorrow.. jeje..
Band of Brothers alternative episode titles:
Episode 1: The Dude From Friends Is Angry That He Is On The Wrong Show
Episode 2: Winters is a Badass, Your Argument Is Invalid
Episode 3: Winters is God, He Cures The Blind
Episode 4: Bull’s Big Bad Adventure (also known as: People GIF The Shit Out Of James McAvoy)
Episode 5: A Wild Jimmy Fallon Appears!
Episode 6: You Will Fall In Love With Doc Roe
Episode 7: Kleenex
Episode 8: How To Be Prettier Than The Entire Female Population By David Webster
Episode 9: When Liebgott Cries, You Cry
Episode 10: The Most Emotional Episode You Will Ever See In Your Life Especially When They Start Playing Baseball And When The Veterans Come On You Will Cry A Fucking River And When Dick Winters Comes On You Will Feel Like Dying Because These Men Own Your Heart Forever
THE CINEMATOGRAPHY OF BAND OF BROTHERS, AN EDIT ☆
“find your personal peace and solitude in a turbulent world.” — richard d. winters | song: comfortably numb guitar solo by pink floyd
"Why." It slips out of his lips before Arthur's dignity can catch up with his tongue and spare him, at least, this last shame.
Agravaine scoffs. "Your father bartered my sister's life for an heir. He was the mind behind her murder, but you were the hand." A shake of the head. "I'd sooner die than see you on her throne."
There is so much Arthur wants to scream at him. A defense for his father -he loved her-, defense for himself -I was a child-, but he's rendered speechless by the realization that all these months at his court, his uncle had not been on his side for a single day. He's followed plans of this man, he'd killed on his advice, he'd questioned the loyalty of friends who deserved better than that. On a traitor's word, he'd left his walls unprotected as the snake grew inside them.
"You will not get away with-" His heroic, if empty, threats are silenced by the gag that Cenred returns to his mouth, a bored expression on his face.
"We should just kill him and put his head on a spike on the inner wall. That will stop the peasant resistance quick enough."
On his knees in his own hall of ceremonies, Arthur has no idea of the state of the fight outside. He'd ordered his men to surrender, to spare their lives at least, but some refused the order and kept fighting in the streets. And for some forsaken reason the people of Camelot joined them.
When all he can see are streaks of smoke rising in the thin darkness of the evening, shades of orange painting pictures on the ceiling, Arthur can only imagine the carnage that is being consumed in his streets. The mere though pierces through his chest like a spear.
"Let the peasants die if they want," Agravaine waves a hand. "Believe me, I wouldn't mind killing my nephew right now either, but we need to secure this allegiance and his head might be our only way there."
"Yes, Morgause mentioned," Cenred stalks lazily to the long table of the feast he interrupted. He searches among the plates for a piece of dried fruit, then takes off one blood-soaked glove to toss the treat into his mouth. "Why is it that we need this wizard, exactly? I've seen what a single High Priestess can do; I can only imagine what a pair of sisters could achive." Agravaine looks pointedly at Arthur. Cenred rolls his eyes, and gathers for himself another sweet plum. "He's going to be dead in a few hours anyway. What does it matter what he hears?"
"You know it's not the magic that we lack, it's legitimacy," Agravaine seems, at least, as disgusted as Arthur feels. Except, he leans against the table to stare down at his bound and gagged nephew, so maybe not that disgusted.
As long as they're toying with him, at least, they are not toying with Guinevere. That is the one thought that keeps Arthur's spine straight through the humiliation: that his wife was sent to the dungeons with distracted orders, along with other prisoners of lower rank, men and women both, so maybe, just maybe, she could live through this ordeal. If it is Arthur's time, maybe it doesn't have to be hers as well.
"Legitimacy? They are blessed by the Goddess and I am the rightful king," Cenred scoffs.
"Not of Camelot. But fear not, Morgana has the claim to the throne, it is not the succession line that is in question." With the tip of the same dagger he'd used to cut the cape off of Arthur's shoulders, the clothes off his chest and back, leaving him in trousers and linen shirt, Agravaine points to the windows and the screams still rising beyond them, coming muffled into the air of the room. "The prophecies of old are the problem. They still have power over the Old Religion folks. You think the Catha were the only ones who turned on us? You think the druids will be the only to refuse the priestess' call? This is only the beginning."
"The Cathas are a dying breed and the druids have never seen a fight in their lives, who cares on whose side they choose to make their stand?" The fruit's seed is spat on the floor. It echoes against the tall walls and the broken bodies of the soldiers who died trying to save their king. "They will see that we cannot be stopped soon enough, and then-"
"Can we not?" Agravaine interrupts. "It is way too early to make such a bold claim, my lord."
Cenred meets Agravaine's eyes very slowly. He picks a small morsel of cheese, swallows it with lazy abandon and then picks at a piece of something left between his teeth with the nail of his little finger. "This wizard?"
"A fraud, most likely," Agravaine shakes his head. "Claims the throne of First of the Dragonlords, but everybody knows Uther put an end to that kind long ago. Still, rumours have spread and now many of the magical creature believe him to be the mythical Emrys. The greatest sorcerer to ever walk the Earth. The right hand to the king of prophecies."
"If you truly think him a fraud, then why do you suppose we need an allegiance with him? I cannot understand this. Why cannot Morgause and Morgana just kill him?"
"A fraud on our side is better than the true thing in hiding. So long as Emrys doesn't side with us, we will meet opposition from those who interpret it as his hostility. We need his support, if we are to turn all of magic against Camelot." Then, because Cenred arches a brow dauntly at him, Agravaine scoffs. "Furthermore, there is no hint as to who this person could be, or where. This is our chance for a meeting, and we must open it with a tempting offer, just in case."
"Ah," Cenred turns back to the table, taps his finger on the wood a couple times as he surveyed the spread of goods. He chooses a cup from a knight' seat - Gwaine's, Arthur's head scream, and good knows if the knight is still alive to reclaim it one day - and pours himself from a pitcher. Rich dark wine fills the goblet to the brim. Agravaine rolls his eyes at the big mouthful the king takes. "And how exactly are we supposed to recognise this great wizard?" Cenred says, licking his lips from stray drops.
Agravaine's face twists in barely contained disgust. "Well, he's going to walk in here and demand the prince of Camelot's head for himself, for one. Morgana sent word through the grapevine, that the prize is his to claime. How hard can it be to discern him, then?"
"I was merely thinking about all the times I've seen Morgana disfigure herself into an old crone, or Morgause turn her own appearance into someone else's." Cenred's steps are measured and quiet as he walks the table's edge from the sides to the center, to where Agravaine waits in front of the seats of honor. "It seems disingenuous to assume that, what, he's going to be old and decrepit and wear robes and a white beard? A staff, perhaps? Maybe a raven on his shoulder too, for flavour?"
When Cenred stops, he's just at Arthur's side and looks down on him with a pensive look. The goblet is still in his hand, and the king takes another sip. Arthur strains against his bonds, but he just as successful as another piece of cattle auctioned in the market.
"With all due respect, milord, what are you insinuating?" Agravaine asks, though there's not much respect in his tone of voice.
"Indulge me in a bit of thought." Cenred turns suddenly from Arthur, stands right in front of Agravaine. "Say this wizard is not a fraud at all. Say he is the Emrys of legends, and say that the Catha, the druids, the water sprites and the fae - all those who refused our call were right and he is not happy about this whole matter at all-," he gestures once, wide, with the arm holding the cup to the bloodied room, the scenery outside the windows, the kneeling king at last, "-how are we to know that he's not going to simply walk in here disguised as, say, a soldier? A servant? A noble, perhaps; someone above all suspicions?"
"How dare you." Agravaine has stiffened, clearly at the end of his rope, turning away from Arthur to face the other king instead, where Cenred has moved to his side now. "You accuse me of being an imposter?! I have the lady Morgana's protective sigil right here with me!"
It strikes Arthur all of a sudden, now that he stares at Cenred's calculating profile as he faces off his uncle, that he'd never seen a man of royal blood stepping into a room silently, much less unnoticed. When the attack was started, Agravaine had been sitting at his side, had waited for the perfect moment to point a dagger at Guinevere's throat and force Arthur into stillness; but Cenred, he must have been outside leading the charge, must have been with his men, and he must have entered from the main doors right at Arthur's back, right in Agravaine's face.
Yet, no matter how much he thinks about it, Arthur cannot remember the exact moment when Cenred joined them.
Agravaine has pulled out what looks like a twisted rendition of a druidic rune, and holds it dangling from his hand for the king to examine. It is made of three twigs from petrified trees, tied in a triangular shape with animal sinew and smeared with a thick, heavy substance of dark brown shade, crystalised.
Cenred looks at it with an arched brow and picks it delicately between two fingers to turn it this and that way. "So this is why nothing worked," he says.
"What-"
Arthur sees them both only by the side but that is still enough to see Cenred's eye glow gold, a brief second before Agravaine's talisman breaks off the leather string in his hand. It falls right into the cup and the wine explodes in burst of flames.
Agravaine shouts and falls back two steps. The cup is left to drop on the floor, and Arthur watches it clang against the stone floor only to spill nothing but dark, dry ashes.
The doors open to let inside an endless stream of soldiers in Essetir's colors. Cenred points to Agravaine, "Treason! The snake du Bois turns on us! Seize him!"
It is a useless endeavour, Agravaine's attempt at swaying the soldiers by turning the accusations on the men's king. Arthur watches that knowledge dawn quickly on his uncle's face, and soon the man has a sword in hand and is fighting for his life.
Just as soon, he feels a tug on his shirt and he chokes into coughs as he's dragged to his feet. "Cover me," Cenred orders his men as they let him through. "This prisoner belongs to the High Priestess. Don't let the traitor get him!"
Arthur tries to see - wants to see - the moment Agravaine is overcome by the enemies, but he can only be dragged backwards so far before he starts losing his balance. When he's forced to turn to follow after his captor, he tries to understand what's happening by hearing alone. There is a lot of screeches of metal and grunts of men, but nothing more.
They are in the hallway in a second.
Cenred doesn't take him to the end of it. Instead, halfway through, he pushes against a tapestry on the wall and all but tosses Arthur through the servants door hidden behind.
He should fight, Arthur thinks distractedly; try to get free, at the very least. For what, though? The castle is overrun, he doesn't know where his knights are, his wife is still a prisoner. This man, whoever he might be underneath the face of Essetir's king, has taken him from Agravaine's hands and that is more help than he'd expected to receive, so soon after this last betrayal.
He also seems to know the layout of his castle almost better than Arthur himself. He takes turns without hesitation, navigates the labyrinth of the easement passages with ease, knows when to tread quietly for they are passing by occupied rooms and when to hurry in a quick run to gain advantage on those who must be looking for them.
At one point, Arthur hears Cenred's voice, but it is beyond a wall and it souds absolutely enraged.
This Cenred doesn't seem to notice, too focused ahead of himself.
Arthur hasn't truly used this passages in a long time - ever since he was a boy trying to evade his tutors -, but he figures out their path with the landmarks he can, until Cenred stops by a door and turns to meet his eyes with a mistrustful look. "This will be much easier if you have your hands free," he says, and Arthur tenses all muscles when he hears a horse's neigh. "Can I trust you not to stab me in the back?"
As efficiently as he'd gagged him, this Cenred frees his mouth. Arthur spits dust and saliva at his feet, and glares, but nods stiffly.
"Very reassuring." Still, the man walks around him. A sound of blade against leather, then blade against rope, then suddenly Arthur is free.
The temptation to turn and punch is strong, but he holds himself back. Instead, he grabs Cenred by the wrist when the man reaches for the door. "I can't leave," he declares. "My people-"
"What, you really think it's just peasants fighting out there?" The sorcerer shakes his head somewhat pityingly. The urge to punch him grows stronger. "Your knights never made it to the dungeons. They should have ensured a safe route for you and your queen, by now."
"Camelot-"
"-is lost. There is nothing you can do now. Go, find shelter and regroup. You have allies that will help you retake your throne, but you need to live to save your people from the shadow of Morgana's tyranny."
The man - Arthur thinks, for a second, he sees the dark eyes of Cenred turn blue before they flare in gold - makes a quick gesture of the hand, and several thuds sound off from behind the door. When he pushes it open, brazenly, Arthur finds six soldiers of Agravaine lying on the ground. Their horses, saddled and ready, huff at the new arrivals but none screeches in alarm; they just stand meekly where they are.
Bridles are offered to him. Arthur takes them hesitantly. "Go," he hears, from the back he watches running to the door of the stables. "I will try and help as I can, but you must be quick."
There is not much to say to that, so he climbs on the horse. Cenred grabs the handle of the stable doors and meets his eyes for a confirmation. "Is it true?" Arthur cannot help but ask. "Are you Emrys, and do you oppose Morgana?"
"What is it that's so hard to understand about hurry-" Cenred glares at him. "That is what the druids call me, and I less oppose Morgana than I serve you."
Something tugs at Arthur's chest, a boiling in his blood that smells like a battlefield after victory. "Why," he asks, even though something in his bones screams that it's true and right and owed to him, yes.
Cenred's whole face softens lightly, years shaved off him for a second. "Because you will be the greatest king of all, and I will do anything in my power to see it happen."
"Must be a lot of power, if you're such a great wizard."
"Technically, a warlock."
"Yet you cannot give me back my castle right now, because-?"
A flash of disbelief runs across the man's face, then it's Cenred's face again, twisted in annoyed mask. "Oh, just get going, you-"
He pulls the door open mid-sentence. Arthur sees the soldiers outside that stop on their tracks at the gesture, sees the recognition on their faces, and instinct takes over.
His heels find the horse's flanks and they are running, flying past Cenred as he gets shrouded in shadows, and they are in the courtyard, then past the inner gates, then past the middle ones. He's in the lower town faster than any regular animal oughts to be able to run and then, in a second he's surrounded by red.
Bright, rich, powerful, familiar red.
"Sire!" Leon shouts as he brings his horse up to Arthur's side. "This way."
Percival closes ranks behind them, shielding Arthur from any possible stray arrows aimed at his back. At the last gates, Elyan and Gwaine are fighting tooth and nails to keep Cenred's men from reaching the argans and raise the bridge. When they see their companions arriving, Elyan manages to get on his horse, grab Gwaine by an arm to pull him up as well, and they are all off.
They are on safe ground outside of Camelot when, with a creak, the iron bars of the gate come crashing down on their own, and the elevating bridge lifts of its own accord, closing all the way up in spite of the voices ordering to lower it down again.
Arthur's blood keeps pumping into his ears, making rumbles of his knights' voices, until they reach the forest edge and he sees it. A single horse, with a single knight in crimson cape, and sitting astride, still in the blue dress of the feast, Guinevere.
She shakes in her seat, but Lancelot is quicker and, rather than letting her jump down and run their way, he pushes his horse in a gallop to meet them.
Arthur is freezing and in shame. He dares not imagine how many bruises and cuts, how much blood, is on his person to make Guinevere - who has seen many a terrible thing - sob that way. He reaches a hand out and finds hers and the world settles in his skin again.
Camelot is not lost, the wind sings as it ruffles his hair. The earth growls in every thud of hoof against the forest floor, your rule doesn't end today. There is fire in his chest and it promises vengeance. For some reason, his mind keeps picturing lake waters for a safe rest.
"Are we all-" he cannot find it in himself, to finish the question.
Leon is prompt to answer nonetheless. "No, Sire. When we were freed from the dungeons, so were many others. We left all wounded and simple soldiers under Gaius' charge, to find a safe place to hide in the forest. They wait for us at the caves by Lake Avalon."
"Let's go, then." For a moment, he hesitates. Decades old fear clumps his throat with mud. He thinks, truly with belief, that he's going to let it die.
Then, he meets Lancelot's eyes above Guinevere's hair, and many a memory of loyalty, care and friendship submerge him. "When you split-" he asks, to all of them but to him above others, "-did you see...?"
Leon's horse huffs nervously under his rider's command. "Sire, it was chaos. It all happened so quickly, and our priority was you-"
"I saw him," Lancelot says. "Merlin was just ahead of us, with the soldiers of the front line. He was among those that broke free first. He joined Gaius in evacuating as many as possible, I'm sure."
Too sure. Too quick to reply. His horse uneasy under the clenching of his thighs.
Arthur nods, though he doesn't relax much. "Good," he says. To a degree, he might even mean it.
He's still thinking about it, though, as they run through the forest, in spite of the dark, headed to the lake.
About how the warlock got into the castle unnoticed, when the real Cenred was out there for all his people to see. How demurely he'd moved in the Hall, almost unnoticed even in plain sight. How all the serving passages had been known to him like the back of his hand.
He thinks of words spoken in the chaos of fight, a promise of greatness that rang true and well-known, repeated and committed to memory. He thinks that the last word the man spoke his way, the last address he used after my lord, sire and king, might have been another, much-used title of his.
A Cenred who was younger, a Cenred with blue eyes, glowering and scoffing and uttering, "prat."
If he's to be found, miracolously, among the refugees when no one else caught sight of hide or tail of him during the fight, Merlin - technically, his servant - will have some explaining to do that Arthur has all intention of drawing out of him.
we need more pre-evolution hearthian content