Writing: New Beginnings and Reliving Nightmares

    Also known as, more of Garrett and Breen.

    I've already talked about these two a lot in previous posts, where they're coming from (vaguely) and such and such, but these two bits will be about where they went. Well. The first one will be. The second one will be me messing cruelly with their lives again.

    What can I say? Writers are sadistic people.

    I had wanted to write something that would fit neatly in the middle of these two blips, but never got the inspie or motivation to do so, but I think it's sort of self explanatory.

    Though, I'll admit the second bit was mostly for you guys' sakes. The lines have always been a little blurry when it comes to their relationship but I've always known in my head how things work out eventually and figured that I had best share that with you all as well, else you get the wrong idea about them. Which would be bad.



    The Wiley’s campaign was nearing its end, with only three more weeks left to their travels. Garrett started to think more objectively, turning his mind to the near future and what he—and Breen—would do. They’d already discussed what would happen to them after this was over, and Breen sentiments had echoed his own.
    Whatever they did, they were going to do it together.
    The train car was quiet, the only noticeable noise come from the clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the tracks. Breen slept fitfully on the nearby couch and he made a point of checking for the signs of a nightmare every few minutes.
    Garrett watched the passing scenery that was bathed in moonlight under a cloudless sky. They’d been travelling through endless fields for days now and the repetition was getting dull, but he wasn’t going to complain. Their destination would be along in the next day or so and then the scenery would change once more.
    Staring out the window, he lost himself in thought, working out a plan. Although he hadn’t made himself focus to this intensity for some time, it was easy to fall back into the way his mind had been before all this had happened.
    He and Breen wouldn’t be destitute when they left here; quite the opposite, in fact. The Wiley’s’ manager had been compensating them well for their role in Ryan’s campaign, something that Garrett had never protested. By now, they both had a sizable amount saved up, having had neither motive nor opportunity to spend it.
    Location was one of the larger concerns to Garrett. The sooner they figured out where they wanted to live, the sooner they could start looking for an apartment.
    Glancing over to Breen, who’d settled for the moment, facing the back of the couch, he wondered if being in a stable location would help both of them settle enough that they would be able to start leaving the nightmares behind them.
    That was another thing to work on with Ryan. He and Breen would need something official. Anything related to an actual wedding was out of the question, but they needed for the law to recognize them as being bound to one another.
    It wasn’t so much a matter of love as one of security. They’d both found someone who knew why they’d become the way they were in each other.
    Someone who hadn’t been inside those camps would never understand. They’d always be trying to help, to make them forget things that had been cut into their hearts and shattered their souls, leaving behind only the image of the person they’d been before.
    And Garrett knew that he was for Breen what she was for him. Not a form of morphine in the shape of a person, but instead a shoulder to lean on and a hand to grip. He held her up when it she was drowning just as she pulled him out of the darkness when it began to overwhelm him.
    There would be a lot to consider in the near future, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid to look ahead.

~~~~~

 

    Subconscious anxiety made him a light sleeper, assuming he slept at all. Granted, his sleeping habits had improved since he and Breen had gotten their small flat, but that didn’t mean they were normal by any standard.
    His haunted dreams had grown less frequent, soothed by her presence by his side throughout most the day and into the never-ending night. Garrett had found that the smell of her skin and the steady beat of her heart had a far more calming effect than the alcohol that he had once drowned himself in.
    When he would wake in the middle of the night, remembering his sister and the fate she had suffered, he would seek out Breen where she lay within arm’s reach across the bed. He would find the pulse point in her throat and when he felt her heartbeat unfaltering against his fingertips, he was able to rest easy again.
   Tonight, though, it was not a dream that awoke Garrett from his uneasy slumber.
   This time, it was reality that jerked him from unconsciousness.
   The intrusion to their apartment might’ve gone unnoticed, unheard until it was too late, but the window they used for entry, the one adjacent to the next building, had a horrible squeal when budged that could wake the dead.
    And Garrett was far from dead.
    He sat up, heart in his throat, as he heard the sound of heavy footsteps from the living room, also the location of the complaining window.
    This couldn’t happen again. Not to them.
    The bedroom door was thrown open wide and Garrett didn’t bother trying to locate the knife he kept in his bedside table drawer. They filed in, six men with black helmets and matching tactical gear, bearing matte black rifles he knew to be military issue. They took up a crescent-shaped line at the end of the bed, weapons held ready to discharge.
    If it had just been him, he may have tried to fight them. If it had just been him, he would’ve preferred to be gunned down than be taken again.
    Breen, dead to the world at his side, though, kept him from doing anything rash, just as he’d held himself back two and a half years ago when they’d come for him and Sharon
    The soldiers weren’t making any aggressive movements, probably receiving orders from someone on the outside through the headset built into their helmets.
    Slowly and with purposeful movements, Garrett reached over to gather Breen’s limp form to himself, letting her head fall against his shoulder.
    He could barely see in the darkness of the room, but his fingertips found her face, brushed along her cheek and then tangled in her loose hair. He was grateful to the drugs recommended by the local psychiatrist that she’d decided to try after months of urging. She would remain asleep for several hours to come, a fact he knew well from experience.
    It would keep her from reliving this nightmare along with him, and that was enough.
    Escape was impossible, and fighting had never been an option, so Garrett made use of the only avenue of opportunity left to him.
    He remained aware of the soldiers, the silent spectators from the shadows of the room, and then bent his head until he could hear Breen breathing.
    Surrendering entirely after another moment, Garrett shut his eyes and just focused on her, on how her dark hair ran like silk between his fingers, how her skin always seemed a few degrees cooler than it should’ve. He knew of every scar that had been inflicted on her and could only pray that maybe they were just here for him.
    They’d been through that hell once, but he would bear it again if it meant she could go free. It was the least he could try and do for her.
    She was all he had and even though nothing about them was perfect, they loved each other, in whatever dysfunctional ways they had left. They were both broken, shells of who they used to be, but neither of them would’ve had it any other way. No one else would’ve understood.
    Garrett heard the soldiers shift. He pressed a kiss to her temple and refused to let go. He would protect her as long as he could.
    The sound of a discharged projectile—not a bullet, he realized—was the last thing he heard before something sharp pierced the skin of his throat and the world faded to black.

 

    Personally, I like how the second one turned out. My apologies about the cliff-hanger (I am trying to work on that...) but it's Garrett's reaction to the inevitable that I enjoy. He chooses to spend what he thinks are going to be his last minutes of freedom not fighting, but holding Breen. As he said, she's all he's got anymore.

 

    Sorry, I'm on the tired side and anything romantic tends to warm my heart, even if it's my own writing. The endings of the two bits sound like they echo each other, don't they? My bad, but I don't really feel like changing it right now.

 

    I hope you liked these blips that are a bit more fleshed out than my previous Breen and Garrett scrawls, and I would love to hear your thoughts if you've got any to give.

 

    Ad astra per aspera.

   To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Of Teammates and Being Seamless

    Well, this cropped version of my Jaz scrawl turned out to be only 400 of the original 1,300 word-count, and I apologize for it, but I'm just not personally comfortable sharing the rest of it, not because of the risqué-ness of it, but because of why Jaz even agrees to it and such and such.

    It's complicated, as some of my writing tends to be. I believe that a writer always has those story ideas that they have justified to themselves. The character's actions and reasons have been justified with their the writer's mind, but when they try and share it with others, it's almost impossible to impress this same reasoning upon them.

    Onto the scrawl itself.

    I have written Jaz before and I've always admired her character, because she always puts up a strong, confident, and almost cocky front while she pours her heart and soul into protecting the things that are most important to her.

    The mission mentioned in the first two segments is one that is either a war-ender or a war-avoidance technique... thing. I've not really worked out which it is. This is also my second run of this idea, as this version was easier to do the 100-word segments with.

    In the original idea, Jaz went alone on the mission, completed it, but got knocked on the noggin' hard enough to lose her memory. Haydn was a member of another country/city-state, and thus not always seen as being one of the good guys, but showed up later, after Jaz found her way home accidently, to see if she remembered him. (She didn't, but that's beside the point.)

    The names mentioned in segment four-- Zack, Dan, Kano, Des, and May-- are the people that Jaz puts everything she has into protecting. Zack and Dan were here original team members, back when she was younger, but they left on a long mission without her and she, well, grew up. Kano and Des were a couple of younger soldiers underneath her, and May was her... I'd say best friend, but Haydn more suits that role. Girl friend, then.

    Oh, actually, I just found a bit from the original storyline that I'll put in after the 4, 100 word segments, where Jaz and Haydn are talking shortly before she leaves on what she sees as a suicide mission. The style is a bit odd, just as a warning.


    Jaz knew they would never see it coming. Masks were her skill, lies were her trade, and pain was something she’d learned to bury a long time ago.
    Her teammates knew she was one of the best at deception, and that would work in her favor when she seemingly disappeared from their lives. They would believe, after she was branded a traitor, that she had been playing them the whole time.
    Haydn would see through the cracks in her mask and know how leaving them destroyed her from the inside. The world would get her confident smirk and nothing more.

    Whitecourt hadn’t intended for two of them to carry out this mission at first. And Jaz hadn’t wanted another to suffer the same fate she had accepted with only a moment’s deliberation.
    I will give my life for these people.
    But she and Whitecourt had agreed, upon further analysis of the information they had, that it would have to be a two man operation.
    She’d spent two days poring over the files of other black-ops members, searching for a candidate. She had ruled out some due to attachments; families, wives, fiancées, anything of the sort. Women she ruled out altogether.

    When she and Haydn had been assigned to work a month long operation together with no prior warning, Jaz pretended to not know how the idea had reached their superiors, all the while having been the one who chose him.
    She couldn’t have anticipated how flawlessly they fell together, though.
    Within a couple of weeks of working, eating, and sleeping in the same, closet-sized apartment, he was reading her mind as well as she had learned to know his.
    The language with which they communicated was one all their own. Messages were sent between them by way of unconventional methods.

    He was suited to Jaz in a way no one else had been before him.
    Zack and Dan had always been protecting and shielding her, Kano and Des always looking for her guidance as their team leader and superior. May’s heart had been too innocent and naïve to comprehend how Jaz worked.
    Haydn had used that first week they spent together to sort through her mannerisms, her habits, her priorities, just as she did to him, and the end result was one unexpected by both.
    It felt like the first time she’d ever been on equal ground with her teammate.


    Sorry if those are a bit disjointed... I was still working out what I wanted to write about when I scribbled them last night. Onto the original scrawl.


   all i want is to not be left alone tonight. let me spend my last night on earth in the arms of the man i love and blast the consequences because i cannot do this. i can't do this, i can't leave you, i can't leave them, but i'm going to. i will. i took an oath. i will protect my family and my country.
   you always have a choice. you don't have to do this.
   don't do this to me, haydn. you promised. i promised. we don't get in the way of loyalties. we knew that from the beginning.
   i can't let you walk away knowing that you're not going to come back.
   i know. i know. but i have to.
   no you don't. you don't have to do this, jaz.
   i made a promise, to my people and my village. this could stop the war if we succeed, haydn. i'm not so selfish that i would condemn this country to another lifetime of war because i couldn't let go.
   so, what, you wish we had never met?
   i didn't say that. don't twist my words.
   then what are you saying, jaz? are you just going to throw me away now?
   never, haydn. i can't let go of everybody else, i can turn my back on my teammates and walk away without telling them goodbye, but i couldn't do that to you. i could have. i could've just gone on this mission and not have come back without ever seeing you, but i didn't. i didn't, haydn, and the proof is my standing before you now. do you get it? do you understand?
   tell me, jaz.
   i-- this is probably the loudest declaration of my feelings i will ever manage, haydn. because i love you enough to tell you goodbye and to have you know i'm doing it. nobody else, haydn. i told no one else goodbye. they all got a last day, none of them the wiser, and they won't see me again. they'll have that last day that i spent with them, but the knowledge that i didn't say goodbye. but i'm here to say goodbye to you, haydn. am i making any sense?
   you are, jaz, don't worry.
   i don't want to die, haydn. i don't want to go in there knowing i won't make it out to see you all again, but i'm going because i have to. i have to do this so that none of you have to sacrifice yourselves in the same way.
   you don't have to say anything more, jaz. i've got it.
   i need you to do one last thing for me.
   what is it?
   i need you to let me go, haydn. i have to leave in three hours and i don't want for you to try to stop me. let me say goodbye, haydn, then forget me. move on with your life, to someone else who can actually be with you.
   no.
   haydn--
   no, jasmine, i won't, because i believe that you're good enough to come out of this alive. you can walk away from this mission alive, jaz, but only if you believe that you can.


    Huh. So the mission was to stop a war. Fergot that bit.

    That's about all I've got the moment, then. I did write more Breen/Garrett, but I'll hold that one in reserve until I either extend it or write another, earlier section to explain where things have jumped to.

    Thank you once again for your time and I hope you found these little blips to be vaguely interested. Feedback tends to make my day, so don't be afraid to drop me a note, either here or on the OYAN forum to PenWielder62.

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty.

Writing: Tatsuo and Shard

    Maybe one of these days I'll actually write something that isn't at least vaguely romantic, eh? But, to quote Aragorn, "It is not this day!"

   I can't rightly remember the inspiration for Tatsuo and Shard. It probably all started with the very first line that Shard utters. I tend to do that. Growing a story idea out of a simple line of dialogue, that is.

   There isn't much to tell about this scrawl that isn't explained within. The dragons are at war with the elves and Shard -- or Shardallian, as her people call her -- is a prisoner at the dragon king's castle. Please know that none of the other elves are quite like Shard, making her something of a curiosity not only to her own people, but to the dragons as well. I won't detain you on rambling details any longer.

   Wait, hold on, one more thing to say. If you've read my post entitled "Jaq", please note that Tatsuo and Shard's story is in no way related to Jaq's.


    “You want me dead? Then do it yourself, coward. Drive the knife into my heart with your own hands. I dare you.”
    She slammed the weapon into his chest, eyes burning with rage. “If you can’t work up the gut to do the deed yourself, then don’t kill me at all!”
    With that, his short prisoner turned and stomped away, hissing to herself under her breath, leaving him standing with a dagger in his hand and the eyes of the room on him.
    The dragon prince growled low in his throat, fingers tight around the blade’s hilt. One day, the elf would pay for her impudence towards his person.
    But he would never be able to make her pay with her life.
    It wasn’t because of her usefulness as leverage against their enemies, nor because she held any information of importance, but because she’d made his mother laugh.
    He had no remembrance of his mother laughing when he was a child, not even of her smile. But when this golden-eyed prisoner had been captured and brought to the palace, his mother had been captivated with her from the start.
    The first time the elf had made her laugh had been during a meeting involving both his parents and many of his father’s councilors. Tatsuo had made a passing remark as to the elf’s, Shard’s, heritage, if only because she was far from the elven norm. She had heard him and, in front of the entire room, had shouted many choice words regarding Tatsuo’s own bloodline.
    He and his father had been ready to tear her to pieces when Mother had started to laugh. Not quietly, either. She had been almost in tears, gasping for breath, as if it had been lying in wait for years, awaiting such an opportunity.
    The dragon-kind had been flabbergasted. Shard had been smug.
    And that had been the end of the confrontation. As cruel and heartless as the dragons were made out to be, the remarkable display of emotion from their normally serene queen was something to be encouraged, not stamped down.
    Since then, Tatsuo had born many of the elf’s tongue-lashings just to see the amusement on his mother’s face. He never encouraged it, of course, but Shard often found fault in things he said and had no issues in letting him know.
    Today, she had blatantly disrespected not only himself, but his father, grandfather, and their mental health in front of several of his father’s generals and advisors.
    He had threatened to kill her on the spot if she didn’t control her tongue, and her fiery words had been the end of it.
    And in the last few moments, he had realized he’d never, ever be able to kill the source of his mother’s joy.

  
    Did I mention this would be rather short? I do have a fair amount more written, but, as per usual, it skips about a bit and it's old, meaning I would have to edit through it. Yeesh, editing. Writer's worst enemy and best friend.

    Thank you so much for reading and should you have any feedback, I'd love to hear it. Also, as I stated on my last post, OYANers without an account enabling them to leave comments can feel free to drop a note on PenWielder62's profile feed.

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Lindsey and Sean

    Lindsey and Sean are fresh off the press, this likely one-shot bit for them having been completed not ten minutes ago. I haven't written something of this length in one sitting in a bit now.

    The inspiration for this one is a bit humorous, actually. Last night, I watched the latest NCIS episode, titled Shabbat Shalom, and I'm not going to give away any spoilers, but suffice it to say there were some rather devastating losses. Those devastating losses provided for one aspect of this idea, but the spark was struck this afternoon when my mother accidently knocked one of my favorite mugs onto the floor, breaking it.

    I ended up going dumpster diving in our trash can for the pieces because I wanted to put it together again (yes, only after she'd already thrown it away) and in the process, Lindsey and Sean slowly manifested.


    Sitting at the island in the kitchen, Sean listened as his mother talked to Miss Angelo, able to piece together most of the conversation despite only having one half of it.
    “Of course, Margaret, I’ll send Sean over,” she was just saying, and he lifted his head from the laptop before him in anticipation of a task, despite the hour.
    It was nearing one in the morning and they’d gotten word via Miss Angelo that their neighbors, the Donovan’s, had both been shot and killed in a deliberate attack on their lives. Their daughter, Lindsey, hadn’t been home at the time, as she’d been at the library, and had been the one to call 911 upon returning home.
    The call from Margaret Angelo, Mr. Donovan’s secretary, had come an hour ago while she’d been at the hospital with Lindsey. Sean’s father had since gone to bed, exhausted from his long day, and none of his brothers had yet returned home for summer vacation from college, so it was he and his mother still awake, unable to sleep with the weight of the news they’d received.
    While he had never been particularly close with the Donovans – they’d had one female child and he had his brothers to play with instead – his mother had often asked Mrs. Donovan over for coffee and to talk, so their families could be said to be good friends.
    “I’ll call you as soon as he gets back,” his mother assured once again, her voice soft and tired, and then she set the phone back in its cradle.
    Sean closed the computer’s lid, putting it to sleep, and waited for her to speak her request.
    Lily Bracken’s face was lined with her grief over the loss of her friend, but she was beyond the point of tears for the moment. Her son knew that it wouldn’t remain that way for long in the coming days as they readjusted.
    “Margaret said that Lindsey left the hospital half an hour ago and she’s not answering her cell phone. She probably went home, but Margaret is unable to get away from the hospital right now. She would like for us to run over and check if Lindsey made her way back to the house or not.”
    Sean frowned, thinking. “Aren’t the police still there?”
    “Likely, yes, but it’s doubtful that they’d try to stop her from going inside if she shows up and Margaret wasn’t sure who to call to check with about Lindsey.”
    “Alright, I’ll run over real fast.” He got to his feet and went to kiss his mother’s brow before going to find his coat.
    The woman followed him to see him safely out the door. Sean knew she would’ve gone herself, but she wasn’t about to go out in her bathrobe and slippers in the dead of night to face the police.
    “It’ll be okay, Mom.” The young man assured with a partial smile before he opened the front door and stepped out into the cool night air.
    Cicadas were out in full force, their familiar cadence from his childhood creating a chorus he’d learned to ignore. He walked down the front walk to the connecting sidewalk and turned left toward the Donovan house. Even from here, five houses down, one could see the flashing of the lights atop the police cars illuminating the trees and surrounding homes.
    Sean wondered for a brief moment if they were even going to allow him inside, but knew that he would at least have to try. If Lindsey got in, then it would mean they’d ascertained that the shooter or shooters had long since fled.

    While he’d seen his share of crime shows, none of them had really prepared Sean for the site that awaited him when he stepped into the Donovan home through the remains of their front door.
    Bullets had chewed up the walls and décor until it hardly looked like the home he remembered from accompanying his mother on her last visit just a week prior.
    “Lindsey?” He called cautiously, forcing himself to walk through the shattered glass from a table in the entryway that crunched as he stepped on it.
    The policeman he’d spoken to had informed him that she’d arrived twenty minutes ago and they’d given her access to the house, aside from the part where the shooting had taken place, in the living room.
    He stopped at the entrance to the living room, which was cordoned off with yellow-and-black police tape, and listened for any sounds of Lindsey’s presence. There had been no lights on upstairs when he’d looked while outside, so he assumed she was still downstairs.
    The sound of a drawer being opened drew Sean to the kitchen with slow footsteps. It seemed wrong to make too much noise right now, both because of the deaths that had occurred mere hours earlier and because he didn’t want to startle Lindsey.
    Miss Angelo had given no comment as to her emotional stability right now, but Sean figured it was going to be something near what he would be feeling if it were his parents lying dead in a hospital right now. The thought alone made his skin crawl and he focused on making his way through the destroyed home to the surviving Donovan.
    The only lights on in the kitchen were the ones over the sink and stove, but they were enough.
    Lindsey was rummaging through her mother’s desk that sat between the kitchen and dining room, but her movements were sluggish, almost unfocused.
    “…Lindsey? It’s me, Sean Bracken? Mom sent me over. Miss Angelo called and she’s worried about you.” He approached slowly, trying not to liken this to an encounter with a spooked animal.
    She didn’t seem to see him and her high, curly ponytail fell forward as she bent to check a lower drawer. Sean had always wondered how long her hair would be if it didn’t curl so tightly.
    “Lindsey?” He tried again, coming closer but keeping his movements slow.
    The young woman, barely eighteen if he remembered correctly, murmured something that he didn’t catch even as she seemed to find what she was searching for.
    The super-glue in her hand didn’t make sense to him, but it probably held some significance to her grief-addled mind. He was standing directly in her way when she straightened and turned to continue with whatever mission she seemed determined to carry out.
    Sean hadn’t recalled how pretty Lindsey had gotten in the past few years, but he was remembering it very quickly when face to face with her.
    “I have to fix the mug,” she whispered, but her gaze wasn’t on Sean’s, instead staring straight ahead, through him.
    “What mug, Lindsey?”
    “Mom’s mug. She must’ve dropped it. It’s her favorite.” The young woman replied and Sean was quickly coming to see how unfocused she was.
     Her eyes, usually very bright and annoyed when directed his way, were dull, and her face was almost entirely blank. Sean tried to think how to handle this situation.
     “How about this, Lindsey. I’ve got some good glue at home, so we’ll collect up the pieces and go to my house so we can fix it there.” The words would’ve been patronizing in any other situation, but they were needed in order to get his message through.
    “Mom and Dad will be worried if I’m not here,” Lindsey said with little inflection, but she made no move to sidestep him to continue to her goal.
    Sean found himself tongue-tied again and he ran an agitated hand through his hair. He didn’t want to lie to her about her parents, even if she didn’t remember any of this conversation, but he didn’t want to have to remind her of the truth.
    Why couldn’t Mom have come? He asked himself, watching Lindsey helplessly.
    “I’m sure everything will be fine,” he said at last. “Let’s just go see my mom, okay? Leave the glue on the counter and show me where the mug is.”
    Lindsey responded to the command with listless movements, placing the object in her hand on the stone countertop before leading him around the island in the center of the kitchen to where the remains of a white mug lay. It’s ivory shards were decorated with colorful outlines of flowers that Sean could see appealing to a woman.
    “Can you get me a plastic Tupperware, Lindsey? I want to make sure I get everything.” He asked, crouching down beside the shattered glass to begin gathering the pieces up.
    Thankfully, the Donovan’s had the hard plastic flooring instead of tiles, so it was in several large pieces with a few smaller chips that meant it shouldn’t be too difficult to put back together.
    He wasn’t sure it would ever hold liquid again, but he would make sure it at least looked like it had in its ‘glory days’.
    A clear Tupperware was placing next to the mess on the floor and Lindsey knelt to begin placing the mug’s remains into it. She was being careful, but with the proximity, Sean noticed how her hands were shaking and goose bumps covered her skin.
    He just needed to get her back home before everything came crashing down and she snapped. Mom would be more suited to deal with the fall out than he would.
    It didn’t take long before the destroyed mug was collected. Sean spotted a familiar jean jacket laying on the dining room table that he picked up for Lindsey.
    “Where’s your purse, Lindsey?” He said, drawing her gaze to him.
    She regarded him blankly for a long minute, arms crossed over her stomach. “In my car. Sean, I’m cold. Why is it cold in here? Mom hates it when it’s cold.”
    He didn’t say it was because the front door and living room windows had all been shattered by gunfire, merely offering her jacket to ward off the chill.
    When he started for the front exit and Lindsey didn’t follow, even at prompting, Sean returned to put an arm around her shoulders and guide her forward.
    Outside, the police didn’t question their departure. The chief that Sean had talked to on the way in wanted to know where she’d be at, and after giving the man their address, Sean asked that an eye be kept on Lindsey Donovan’s car. It was parked not too far down the road and the officer agreed to do so.
    Lindsey didn’t seem to notice the exchange, but Sean could feel her beginning to tremble beneath his touch and hurried them on home.
    The tears were just beginning to pool in her eyes as he directed her up the front steps.
    With much more coherency than she’d been showing in the last ten minutes, Lindsey looked at him and croaked, “My parents are dead, Sean.”
    Any words he might’ve tried to muster got stuck in his throat and he merely nodded.
    Lindsey began to cry as he eased the front door open and led her inside by the hand, the sound of her sobs drawing his mother in moments.
    “Lindsey—“ she said, her own voice breaking as she held out her arms for the girl.
    It was the only prompting she needed and Sean watched as Lindsey buried her face against his mother’s shoulder and was finally overcome by the night’s happenings.
    Turning, he closed and locked the front door, then went silently to the kitchen with the container of leftover mug. He wasn’t going to do anything with it at present. Lindsey might want to rebuild it herself sometime in the future, otherwise he would’ve started right then and there.


    And that's that.

   As for other news, those who have enjoyed the Kelsey/Marks bits I've written in the past might be excited to hear that I am considering a continuation scribble for them, though I can't promise how many more of such blurbs I've got left for them. One or two more, for certain.

   I hope you enjoyed this particular scrawl of mine. Please feel free to leave feedback and if you are an OYANer on the forum, you can always drop a comment on PenWielder62's profile page thing with your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading.

   Ad astra per aspera.
   To the stars, through difficulties. 

Writing: Ianthe and Isra

    I was just going through my hard-drive and realized that I had more of Ianthe and Isra than I had initially assumed and, since I really enjoy these two, I decided to post it.

   Maybe I'll get around to posting something aside from writing one of these days...

   Ianthe and Isra were inspired by a Japanese manga I read quite a while ago, placed in a desert with a quite different storyline, but my brain was churning anyways. After all was said and done, I had a pair of twin sisters, the older of which is Isra. As the elder, she is the 'chosen' of the two. She will be the one to inherit their father's duties as the tribal leader upon his eventual death. Ianthe, though she seems a good deal older, is the guardian. She appears older by necessity. She must have her wits about her at all times in order to protect Isra from anyone who would harm her.

   These bits begin shortly after, while traveling in a caravan, Ianthe and Isra are captured by the militants beneath Malika, a woman who rules over a rather vast area, left to her by her husband upon his death a handful of years ago. And, as you will see, Ianthe decides to sacrifice herself one last time for her sister.


     Ianthe gripped the edges of her cloak, holding an arm out to shield her sister from the dark eyes of the woman reclining before them.
    “What do you want?” she asked, injecting every ounce of strength she could muster into her words.
    “You are the chosen sister?” Malika, leader of their captors, did not appear to have heard Ianthe’s question, as she voiced her own in a liquid voice.
    Ianthe nodded. She had already ordered Isra to play along, don’t say anything, and to let her handle it. Because, in truth, Isra had been chosen when they were born. Isra would be the one to inherit everything from their father upon his death. Her own role would be to protect her sister until that day which she wed.
    But it was a simple matter to fool someone not of their tribe into believing that Ianthe was the superior of the two. All it had taken was a switch of the cloak and rapid-fire instructions to Isra before the horsemen had reached them.
    Even now, she still wore the deep amethyst dyed cloak of her sister, and the other her own sand colored one.
    Ianthe drew out of her thoughts to again inquire, “What do you want with us?”
    Malika drew to her feet with slow movements, pacing over to stand before the younger woman. 
    “You two will be inducted into my clan,” the woman stated bluntly.
    The guardian balked.



    “I will stay here,” Ianthe told Malika in a low tone, meeting the older woman’s eyes. “But in return for my complete cooperation, my guardian must be returned to my father.”
    Hooded eyes studied her for a long moment. “Tell me why this is.”
    “Why I would give myself up?”
    Malika inclined her head.
    “Because I am the only one that would satisfy you, and it would be more beneficial for you to have one cooperative captive as opposed to two who would fight you every step of the way.”
    “You have a valid point. And all you require is your guardian being returned to your father’s tent?”
    “Yes.”
    “You are a brave chosen; I have known few others who would do what you do for your sister.”
    Ianthe smiled grimly. You do not know the half of it. “It is the least I can do after stealing her right to have a life of her own.”
    The monarch nodded again. “Say your farewells then; I will have her delivered on your father’s doorstep, and in turn, you will remain here as long as I desire it, and none shall come in a foolish attempt to rescue you.”
    “Very well,” Ianthe murmured, turning to face her little sister.
    Isra’s eyes were wide, and the guardian could tell she was struggling to keep her composure.
    Kneeling before the young woman, Ianthe dropped her voice to a scarce whisper. “Isra, you must heed my words, and do not deviate from them. Do you understand?”
    She received an unsteady “I am listening, Ianthe. Speak what you will.”
    “There are two things you must attend upon reaching Father; the first, do not allow him to attack your escorts, but do not allow them to depart until Father has written, in his own hand with the Iparsha dye, that you have arrived and are safely in his care once more. Give the letter to them and they will return it to me. The second is that you must convince Father to abandon all hope of rescuing me. Do you understand, Isra? Father must not attempt to come after me. I do not wish to see how hard the hammer would fall upon our tribe should we break my pact with Malika.”
    “But, Ianthe—“
    “No, Isra. He must not come after me. You will return, marry the man who holds your heart, and forget me.”
    “I will never forget you, sister,” Isra whispered, tears filling her eyes despite her struggle against them. “Neither you, nor all you have sacrificed for me. Thank you.”
    Ianthe could see the underlying gratitude for the protection she had provided for the better part of their lives.

    I've always intended to write more of these two, so maybe in the coming months I'll get around to it. There is a good deal that happens to Ianthe while she resides in Malika's court, which I've been meaning to start pinning down.

    In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed these blips and thank you so much for reading! Comments are always welcome.

   Ad astra per aspera.
   To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Nuada and Argyros

    Would you look at that? I actually have something else to post for Nuada. Actually, technically speaking, I have had more to post, but until now, it hasn't been very much.

    I sat down this afternoon to work on the bit that follows directly after the section I posted earlier this month. Be warned that it's a bit choppy; my groove is off when it comes to writing anything of length or quality.


     The diner they’d been instructed to meet Mr. Stafford in was run-down and not a name brand chain restaurant, meaning it was likely a family owned business. Nuada had seen worse in the past several weeks of her life though, and parked the car alongside an old pickup that seemed familiar to her.
    The silence in their vehicle was deafening once the radio was turned off along with the engine, and Argyros was the first to break it, as he had so often in the past few days.
    “Stafford said to meet him here?”
    Nuada didn’t afford him a glance as she twisted around to grab her messenger back from the back seat. It held most of her dad’s information along with her own findings over the years. “Yes. Gram’s Burgers, Alcair, Indiana.”
    He shrugged in her peripherals and got out of the car, stretching to try and remove the kinks from his tall frame.
    Getting out herself, Nuada could feel the ever present aches making themselves known as she stood up, but she resisted the urge to stretch as well. Instead, she locked the car and slid the keys into her pocket.
    Taking in the red Ford pickup once again, she identified it as Mr. Stafford’s 1989 F150 Ford. Also known as his pride and joy. Nuada held memories of that green truck from when she was just a child.
    Turning her attention to the diner, she led the way up the steps and in the front door. Argyros came behind and frowned at the smell that greeted them once inside.
    “It smells like grease...” He said under his breath, and this time Nuada’s gaze flicked his direction for a moment.
    After she pressed down the comeback that came to mind, she quickly located Mr. Stafford at a table with several other people, most of which she had no memories of.
    One was Harold Johnson, who she knew to be a good friend of Mr. Stafford, but Nuada’s gut twisted when she realized who it was sitting with her back to the room.
    Stafford noticed them in the relative emptiness of the restaurant and rose.
    “Nuada, it’s great to see you.” He said by way of greeting, and she shook his hand, almost numb with shock.
    Maggie. What’s going on here?
    “It’s been a while, Argyros,” the older man continued, sincere but it was clear he was relieved to see the two of them. “We were beginning to wonder if you guys had gotten the wrong diner.”
    Nuada forced her mind back to the present, straightening her shoulders, and her chin rose from its lowered position. Ten people at the table, a mixture of men and women, Maggie and Mr. Stafford not included. Maggie still hadn’t turned around to face them and somehow, Nuada wasn’t surprised.
    I wouldn’t be feeling too chatty at this point either.
    She wasn’t an idiot though. Nuada had a good understanding of her feelings and knew that anger was kindling inside of her along with the sharp sting of betrayal.
    “I’d love an explanation,” the young woman said after a moment, not bothering to even attempt at pleasantries. “First of all, to the purpose of this meeting, and second, Maggie Titus, what in the world are you doing here?”
    Argyros touched her shoulder and she could see that he was winding up for a calming speech already. She wasn’t wrong.
    “Nuada, there’s a lot to talk about that you don’t know, alright? We need to talk about Dad, what killed him, why it killed him, and—how Maggie is involved in all of this.”
    She tightened her jaw and addressed her friend. “Are you going to stand up and look at me, Maggie? Because sitting there is not going to change the fact that you lied to me.”
    “Have a seat, both of you,” Mr. Stafford said, warning in his tone that Nuada ignored along with his request.
    She was tired. She was sore. She hadn’t eaten much since the day prior, and she had no idea what was going on. Why was Maggie here? What was her purpose? Had she known all along—
    “You knew where he was, didn’t you?” Nuada said, even as her best friend for a decade turned in her seat to meet her gaze. “All that time. And you were keeping in touch, weren’t you?” She looked to her brother. “Which means that you knew as well.”
    The answer was in both of their eyes and it was a blow that Nuada had wished wouldn’t come.
    Her laugh was bitter as she rubbed her forehead before she face Maggie again, her throat tight.
    “You know what, Maggie? I actually thought for a long while that maybe, just maybe, I had one person on my side. One person, and you were it, Maggie. Mom died, Argyros left, and Dad hardly noticed I was alive, but you were there,” Nuada took in a breath, determined to speak her mind. “You were there, Mags, and yet you were lying to me the entire time.”
    “Nuada, let me explain—“ the other female tried to explain, rising carefully from her seat at the full table.
    “No.” She bit out, voice hard and uncompromising even in a moment of brief unsteadiness. “No. I’m done with explanations from you. I’m done with all these lies. My life has been nothing but lies and I am done.”
    Silence reigned around the diner table’s occupants. Mr. Stafford appeared ready to intervene and Nuada forced herself to ignore the pain on Maggie’s face at her harsh words.
    Forcing her eyes away, she looked to Stafford. “I would like to get some answers, Mr. Stafford, but I want them to come from you.”
    The man nodded, his features grim and she could only imagine what he might be thinking.
    “And I want him,” the young woman jerked a thumb at her brother where he stood only a few paces away. “Out of my car. If there isn’t extra space, he can buy himself a new ride.”
    “Nuada, come on, we need to talk about this,” Agryos protested, stepping forward and she rounded on him.
    “No, you are done talking. You and her. Both of you have done your utmost best at stabbing me in the back and I refuse to spend my time second guessing everything that comes out of your mouth.” An angry fire kindled in her silvery eyes that caused him to close his mouth.
    Her hand tightened on the strap of her messenger. “What motel are you all at, Mr. Stafford?”
    “Roadside Inn, just down the street, back towards the center of town.”
    She nodded once, a sharp movement. “I’ll meet you here in the morning and we’ll talk.”
    “Alright. I’ll be here.”
    Nuada turned on her heel and began walking back towards the door. “Get your stuff out of my car, Argyros, or you won’t be seeing it again until tomorrow.”
    “Nuada—“ she heard Maggie call and she couldn’t help herself. She paused and looked back at the other woman, taking in the tears in her eyes.
    “Please come back?” Her friend asked, voice shaky. “Please? I didn’t want to hurt you, but it was better for you this way.”
    “My father is dead, Maggie. My mother is dead. My brother left. And you lied to me for years. How can you know what is good for me?” Nuada’s voice was flat and unaffected as she worked to wall up her heart against the one person she loved most in the world.
    She left to the sound of Maggie’s first sob. Argyros was silent and angry as he retrieved his gear from the front seat and trunk. Nuada refused to flinch as he slammed the door and stalked back inside.
    As she slid into the driver’s seat, the girl felt moisture fill her eyes and knew that what she usually did when she was this upset was call Maggie.
    Her head ached as she started the old Mustang and backed out of the diner’s parking lot to find the motel even though she just wanted to drive. Drive far, far away and hope that the pain would stay behind.


    I shall now be abnormal and put a note between bits. Between this blurb and the next, there is either a handful of weeks or months that occur, and during that time, something happened that caused Nuada to allow an uneasy alliance between herself and Argyros and Maggie. Granted, Maggie is not in this scribble, nor the one I'll put in after it, but just be aware that she is part of the vague acceptance that is seen between Nuada and Argyros.


       Nuada hung her coat on the back of the bathroom door, wincing as she moved her shoulder. Her boots scuffed the floor as she moved back to look in the mirror, taking in her ragged appearance... and the blackness spreading beneath her skin. It was in her veins, working its way up her neck now.
    Gritting her teeth, Nuada pulled her shirt off to check the damage near the actual wound; a sliver of a cut on the outside of her arm from the attack they’d fended off two days ago. She’d been able to stave off the effect it had on her until tonight with painkillers and caffeine, but now it was starting to hurt to move it at all, which meant driving was fast becoming an impossibility.
    It was actually kind of disturbing, the way it looked. It was dark as it crept through her blood-vessels, as if it were some twisted ivy crawling through her body. Running a hand through her hair to remove it from her eyes, Nuada contemplated what she was going to do about it.
    Then, her brother jimmied open the bathroom door.
    Nuada froze, gaze on Argyros in the mirror, and a moment later her reaction was to snatch up her shirt from the sink and hold it to her chest.
    “Get out!” She said in a contained shout, aware of both the motel’s thin walls and the determination in his gaze.
    “No. Nuada, that is Fae poisoning and if you leave it unchecked it’s going to kill you.” Argyros seemed to by trying to rein in his emotions, but she could see the anger and pain on his face.


    I think that scribble is a bit revealing as to their occupation, seeing as I haven't written anything to really explain it yet. Although the way their father died is a bit explanatory, in its own way. Basically, fantastical beings that are in our day and age. Nothing magicky, but a lot of supernatural in the way of fantasy. Dragons, Fae, shape-shifters (although only humanoid, to my knowledge) and so on and so forth.

   The next bit is a roundabout introduction of someone who becomes very important to Nuada for reasons that I have yet to nail down for certain. It's also one that I plan to continue, perhaps today if I'm in the mood. Again, this is anywhere from a few days to a month or two since Nuada had Fae poisoning. I'm really fluid when it comes to the passage of time, as I'm sure you've found out by now.


    Nuada lifted her head painfully when she heard the scuff of feet on the floor, sure that her captors had returned to continue their interrogation. She had no idea as to how much time had passed since they’d grabbed her from the front of the motel.
    The overhead light fizzled on, momentarily blinding her. Even when she did recover, the world was viewed through the slits her bruised eyes left.
    Her shoulders ached and her wrists had long since gone numb from the weight of her body straining upon them.
    “Well, you look awful,” an unfamiliar voice said, loud in the silence.
    Nuada squinted through her limited vision, trying to see the face to the voice so she could know whether help had come.
    “I’m going to get you down. Here, hook your toes in my pant pockets and push yourself upwards to get your weight off your arms, okay?”
    She let her head fall backwards, letting out a shuddering breath as the pressure of hands appeared on her waist.
    “Come on, work with me,” he coaxed and Nuada roused herself enough to do as he’d requested.
    The material of his jeans was strange against her bare feet, but Nuada was too far gone to care much about it. Her legs protested as she tightened her muscles and eased herself upwards. The result wasn’t too stable, but the relief that came to her arms and wrists made tears well in the girl’s eyes.
    “Take it easy,” the voice said, quiet and almost soothing in its gentleness. “I’ve got you.”
    She felt a hand against her skin, brushing against the palm of her hand, and then her right side was loosed from the manacles. The male grabbed her forearm and pulled it forward until it rested on his shoulder.
    “Lean on me. Keep your weight off your left wrist until I pick the lock.”
    Still unable to speak, Nuada just obeyed, straining to keep herself from going limp and dislocated her arm further.
    The click came again and she dropped, but her fall was stopped by a tight embrace around her torso, holding her upright.
    “Easy, easy,” the man said in her ear and Nuada felt her toes dragging against the ground before she was eased to the floor, the back against her wall.
    Her head was carefully leaned against the concrete and the coolness of it caused her skin to prickle. Nuada sat, boneless and limp, with no compulsion to find out who had ended her pain.
    “We’re going to have to go soon, before your jailors get back.”


    And that's the extent of my Nuada scrawls for the moment. Her story is one I keep coming back to, though, so expect to see more of it in the future, as I get the motivation to write down more. I want to attempt to put more explanations in, such as the mysterious rescuer, so I have to work out how I want those blurbs to go before I can write/post any of the stuff that I have swimming in my head.

    As usual, I truly hope that you've enjoyed this and please leave feedback should you have any to give. (Finding I have comments to moderate tends to make my day, I've found.)
    As astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Garrett and Breen

    I don't even know where to start with these two. I haven't written much for them, but they've grown in my head a lot, so know that the stuff I post here isn't nearly all of it, just the stuff I felt the inclination to put pen to paper for. Er, finger to keyboard for.

   The inspiration for Breen and Garrett came from the series The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins. Mainly, the brokenness of the characters in the last book. A lot of Garrett was based on Haymitch and how he dealt with his time in the Games, while Breen started similar to Katniss and bloomed into something else entirely.

   There isn't much in Breen and Garrett's story that is humorous or light hearted. They are broken people living in a world trying to recover itself after a time of fighting, pain, and death. Breen lost both her family and herself in the concentration camp where she'd been imprisoned because of her father's role in the government. I don't know about Garrett yet, but he's experienced a lot of pain as well. His is subtler, but it's definitely there.

   My bits pick up when Garrett and Breen, rescued from the camps for some time (maybe a year?) are travelling with Ryan and Miriam Wiley on a campaign of sorts to put Ryan in charge of the healing nation. Part of their campaign is reminding the people of what the country has gone through and what they can't go back to, and they use Garrett and Breen as an example of the horrors they must escape.

   Once again, I've haven't written much for them, so there'll just be a couple blips that I have written.


    The worst part was that they didn't seem to care.
    She screamed for them to just kill her and let the pain stop, and their faces never changed, never flinched. Her tortured cries and anguished sobs never had any effect on them.
    And that may have been the worst part in Breen's pain. Not the torture, physical or psychological, but the inhumanity of it. The detachment from the belief that human life is something sacred to be protected.


    Garrett lounged in his chair on the stage, watching the crowd with a disgruntled expression.
    The head of this whole fiasco, Ryan Wiley, stood with his hands spread as he repeated a speech Garrett had heard countless times, with just a few tweaks to make it a bit different from his last.
     He was aware of Breen’s presence to his right, where she sat with her head bowed, gaze on the ground. The previous night had been another long one for her. Everyone in their campaign party probably knew it, considering the way her screams had resounded through the train in the night.
    The man squinted up at the partially cloudy sky, his head aching from the light. He hadn’t slept the prior night either, and having to be here at this motivating speech thing was eating away his nap time.
     Already having spoken his small part, Garrett was able to deduce they were over halfway done. Breen would speak right before the end, and was usually able to come up with something that portrayed all that had happened to her with only a few words. As long as it was a good day.
     A bad day could equate to a simple line about change, which Miriam no doubt had tried to get her to say at some past gathering like this one.
    He let out a silent sigh, shifting in his hard-backed chair to see if it alleviated the pain in his back.
    “—Breen Avery and Garrett Jarbow are reminders of what we cannot allow this country to sink back into!” Wiley said into the microphone, voice loud with his urge to drive the point home. “They fight everyday to regain who they were before their arrest and subsequent torture.” He turned to look back at the two, sorrow in his eyes. “Breen, would you mind joining me?”
     Garrett watched as she got to her feet to do her odd shuffle-walk towards Wiley, and noted that he, wisely, did not extend a hand to aid her.
     Most of their horrors had been similar, but some had been entirely different. His memories of those ones made him drink more. Hers made her refuse any form of touch, whether intentional or not.
     Ryan continued to talk, but the male tuned it out, mind going back to where it always did when he had nothing better to do. Every moment he’d spent in the camps that Walker wanted to use as an example had been burned into his memories, inescapable even in the deepest sleep or glass.
     So lost was Garrett in his own thoughts that he nearly missed Breen’s closing words.
     “—would rather face the horrors of that camp a hundred times over before I had to watch anyone else suffer like we did,” she spoke into the microphone, voice unsteady, like it usually was if she decided to speak.


   When the two of them were finally free to live their lives as they pleased, they knew there was no way they were going to be able to part ways.
  There were no words needed that day.
  Garrett had hoisted the one bag that carried all of their things and held out a hand for Breen to take. She'd been reluctant to take that first step off the train, knowing that they wouldn't be coming back to it.
  They had no place to go, but they had money that had been donated by supporters of the Ryans to give them something to start with.


   And that's about it for them. I think I've got more in notebooks, but considering the numerous notebooks I have got... it would take more than a little while to actually find the small scrawls I've done. So.

   I'm not going to say I hope you enjoyed it, but perhaps you found it interesting? Feel free to leave a comment if you've got any pressing issues/opinions on this drabble of mine. Thank you very much for reading.

   Ad astra per aspera.
   To the stars, through difficulty.

Writing: Marks and Kelsey

   That's his last name and her first name, just FYI.
 
   Sergeant Alexander Marks and Kelsey Delanie aren't my oldest characters and nor are they my newest and to be honest, I can't recall even vaguely where the inspiration for them came from.

   The setting is a bit abstract, and I apologize for that. It's not on Earth, to the best of my knowledge, but the war that they're fighting is similar to our World Wars.

   The cuts from scribble to scribble may be a bit disjointing, something that I've never been very good at avoiding, but when I have a bit to write, I usually just write it and skip the in-between information.

   So. Onwards we go.


    Sergeant Alexander Marks tucked his helmet beneath his arm as he made his way through the bustling hospital, attempting to find the ward he’d been directed to. His steps were heavy as he rethought how he would inform the woman he sought of her loss.
     A sign read “Ward 3”, and after a moment he pushed the door open.
     All the beds within were full, the air heavy with various odors, the strongest of which was the sterilizer they probably used to clean everything.
    “Miss Kelsey Delanie?” the sergeant called out to the room at large.
     A young woman appeared from behind a curtain, pulling off a pair of rubber gloves. “Can I help you, sir?”
     “I need to speak with you, Miss Delanie,” he said, glancing around at the wounded soldiers then back at her. “Maybe in the hall?”
     The nurse smiled, nodding. “We can do that. Hang on a second.”
     She hurried back out of sight, and Alexander heard her say, “I’ll be back to finish your examination in a minute, Patrick. The sergeant just needs to tell me something real quick.”
     He wasn’t sure how willing she’d be to continue working after he’d finished with his news. The duo stepped out into the hall, and Marks couldn’t help feeling tormented at the fact that her guileless eyes would soon be filled with sorrow.
     “Miss Delanie, I’m Sergeant Marks from the 53rd Armed Contingent. I’m here to inform you that my patrol found a family, which has been identified as yours.” It was hard to keep his composure as fear crossed her features.
     “Th-there was a mortar attack earlier. Are they okay?”
     “I’m sorry, ma’am. They must’ve been on their way to their designated bombing shelter because of the drill and got caught by the mortars. We were barely able to identify them when we found them.”
     One of her hands lifted to cover her mouth, and Marks could see it trembling from his standing point a few feet away. “A-all of them a-are---“
     “Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
     The woman tottered to the wall, shoulders shaking as a tear slipped down her cheek. “Th-thank you… for telling me yourself, Sergeant. Thank you.” Her voice caught, and a sob broke from her throat.
     “Do you need me to call someone?” Marks asked, taking a partial step forward and extending a hand towards her.
     The woman didn’t seem to hear and she slid to the floor, hiding her face in her arms.
     “Kelsey? Sergeant, what’s going on?” a white-dressed nurse appeared in his peripherals, and Marks turned to her.
     “I was informing Miss Delanie of her family’s deaths, ma’am,” he murmured, working to keep his composure.
     Tears filled the newcomer’s eyes. “Oh…oh no… Kelsey?” She crouched down to be at the younger woman’s level. “Kells, talk to me.”
     Sergeant Marks backed away, knowing that he had to return to his post, but wishing that there was something else he could do.

     “You can’t send her there,” Marks interrupted, gritting his teeth. “You know as well as I do that the journey alone could kill someone, not to mention what state the base will be in when she’d arrive.”
     “Sergeant, we don’t have a choice. Singles living facilities are maxed out, and there is no one in the family facilities has the space to take in another person.”
     “Then put her in the married section! There’s got to be someone who wouldn’t mind sharing living space with her.”
     “We can’t do that either, Sergeant. Those are nearly maxed as well, so unless you can find someone to marry her in the next seventy-two hours, she’s going with the next convoy to Delta Base. Got it?”
      His heart sank, but he nodded at the head of administration. “Thank you for your time.”
      “No problem, Sergeant. Thank you for trying to help her out.”
      Marks glanced at him. “Who said I was done?”
      Alexander shifted uncomfortably while waiting for someone to answer the door. Miss Delanie had been allowed to stay in her family’s living quarters until the convoy departed for Delta Base. Everything she couldn’t carry with her would be distributed amongst the other families or disposed of.
      The barrier before him edged open, and a woman, not Kelsey Delanie, peered out at him.
      “Oh, you’re the sergeant, from the hospital.” It was the same female that he’d seen come to Miss Delanie’s aid.
      “Yes, ma’am. Is Kelsey Delanie in?”
      “She’s here, but she’s not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone.”
      Marks nodded. “May I still see her?”
      The woman sighed, but opened the portal so he could step through. Rust flaked off the iron hinges onto the floor as she moved it.
       Inside was lit with a few emergency lamps, caused by the shortage of electricity brought about by recent bombings. He knew because his own cramped quarters were brightened by the same cumbersome devices.
      The female he sought sat on the couch with her knees brought up to her chest. Her eyes were red and there were fresh tear tracks on her face. A limp cloth was clutched in her hands.
      The sergeant approached slowly, taking a seat on the threadbare chair next to the equally worn couch.
      "Miss Delanie?”
      Her gaze flickered to him after a moment, but there was little interest to be found there.
      “Ma’am, I need to talk to you. Do you want to do this now, or maybe later?”
      “Now’s fine,” she croaked.
      “Ma’am, I’m sure you’re aware of the regulations, and that there is little extra space to be found in the base at the moment.”
      “There’s no space in the singles quarters, and none of the other families have the space nor the means to take me in,” Delanie murmured, no hint of animosity in her tone, but rather one of understanding.
      “That’s correct, ma’am. And as such, admin has said that you either leave tomorrow on the convoy headed for Delta, or…”
      She blinked at him, and he summoned up his courage to finish speaking. “There’s still a small amount space available in the married quarters. Is there anyone who you could—“
      The nurse cut him off with a slight shake of her head. “No. No one.”
      “Ma’am, you realize how dangerous of a route it is to Delta Base?”
      “I’ve helped treat enough casualties from incoming convoys to have a fair idea of the danger, Sergeant.”
      Marks shifted to rest his elbows on his knees, trying to make a decision on what he could, should, and would do. “Do you want to go, ma’am? To Delta Base?”
      Tears filled her eyes, and he looked up at the other nurse, who’d come to stand nearby, for some type of help.
      “No, I don’t want to,” Kelsey gasped out after a moment. “Everything is here. All my memories are of here. I don’t want to leave it all behind.”
       Sergeant Marks took in a breath, preparing to propose and not just a plan.

       Alexander set her bags down on the floor to their new living quarters, and stepped out of the way so she could edge past him into the small space. Kelsey’s eyes were wide and somber, but not hesitant, nor regretful, for which he was glad.
       It wasn’t every day one decided to marry a near stranger.
       The sergeant checked the clock on the wall and said, “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
       Her gaze went to the short piece of furniture, then ran up and down his frame. “You won’t fit.”
       A small smile quirked his mouth and Alexander shrugged. “I’ll be alright.”
       Kelsey still seemed dubious but she didn’t protest again. She wandered into the bedroom and sat down on the bed to take her shoes off.
       Marks watched her for a minute then went to flop down on the couch. It was worn threadbare, like everything else in the small rooms, but better than the concrete floor.

[time skip]

       He lay awake until Kelsey finished her shower and came back to the bed. While Alexander knew the water would’ve been cold – they only had enough warm water for two very short showers, or one longer one – but the chill on her skin was detectable as she crawled over his legs, covered by the comforter, and moved back up to her pillow.
        Marks frowned when she began shivering intermittently, causing the bed to shake as well.
        “Kelsey,” he murmured, and paused when she jerked and drew in a sharp breath.
        “I didn’t know you were awake,” the woman replied, not rolling to face him.
        “You shouldn’t have showered again,” Alexander told her, reaching out to smooth his thumb across her upper arm, and feeling her tremble with cold again.
        “I needed to clear my head. Burn victims always give me nightmares. The cold water helps me calm down.”
        A long hmm was his only response for a long moment, before he made up his mind and caught her around the waist with one arm. Kelsey went very still but Alexander didn’t let it deter him as he pulled her across the bed so she was tucked up against him.
       The icy chill over her skin made goose bumps break out over his flesh. Alexander stifled a yelp when Kelsey’s frigid toes met his feet. As it was, a small sound escaped.
       She turned over to face him, seeming content with the proximity now. “I used to do that with my sister. She hated anything cold and cold feet were no exception.”
       “I understand her sentiments quite well,” Marks deadpanned, pushing his pillow her direction a bit so it was more easily accessible for her to use.
       The nurse didn’t scoot so she could use it though; she appeared to be happy to tuck herself under his chin, proving his assumption of her adjustment to the nearness.
       Her day must’ve been more taxing than she'd let on, because soon after Kelsey had situated herself next to him, she fell asleep.
       Still, he didn’t sleep until after she’d quit shivering and was beating the comforter in terms of warmth. Then the sergeant drifted off, quite pleased with the way the whole business had ended.

       Sergeant Marks staggered into the hospital, near-unconscious comrade slung over his good shoulder, and his other arm almost useless due to a bullet that had gone clean through.
       Outside was dark except for the explosions caused by grenades and mortars, the only things one could hear being the sharp sounds of rifle fire or a scream of “incoming!”
       The rush of the hospital seemed peaceful next to the horror occurring just a few blocks away. Alexander saw more soldiers lining the walls, most of them marked with the WW sticker – walking wounded, much like himself – which the field medic had slapped on their helmets. Jackson, the man on his shoulder, groaned, and brought Marks back to reality.
       “Hang on,” the sergeant told him, lurching forward painfully.
       It took a bit of time to flag down a nurse, but she took one look at Jackson’s wound and said, “Get him to Ward 5, sergeant, and get your injury bandaged while you’re there.”
       It was on the tip of his tongue to ask after Kelsey, but he knew this wasn’t the time. He took off at an uneven pace for the section they’d been directed to, dodging orderlies and casualties as he went.
       Ward 5 was just as busy as everywhere else was, but a nurse ushered them in and Jackson was quickly rushed away to be treated.
       Alexander was shown to a bed, where another soldier – a private, from his rank markers on his shoulders – already sat. He took the other half of the limited space, sinking into the mattress wearily. There were no words spoken between the two soldiers, only silent acknowledgement followed by mutual sympathy.
      Marks drifted between awareness and blissful unconsciousness, until he felt a tap on his arm. The soldier jerked, reflexes reacting to the possible presence of an enemy, but relaxed when he took stock of his surroundings and remembered what was occurring.
      A nurse stood before him, face haggard with weariness but she still made an effort to soften her features with kindness.
      “Let me get you fixed up real quick, Sergeant,” she requested, eyes going to his wound.
      The man nodded, pulling off his helmet and struggling to unbutton his uniform’s jacket left-handed. The healer took over with ease after a few moments and worked it over the bullet-hole in his shoulder with the aura of one who’d done it many times before.
       She got to work and Marks let himself drift again. When he first heard his name called, he thought it was his imagination.
       But when he looked around the room to see if there was anyone trying to get his attention, he spotted Kelsey pushing through a group of nurses and patients to get to him.
       It made his chest ache to see the panic in her gaze.
       She broke free of the crowd and ran the last few steps towards him. The nurse attending him had turned to see what had caught his attention, and moved out of the way just in time for Kelsey to reach him.
       Alexander wrapped his good arm around her shaking shoulders, hoping that the pain from his jostled limb hadn’t escaped his sealed lips. He could feel the dampness of Kelsey’s tears on his skin and was glad she didn’t seem to mind the filth, grime, and blood that caked his person.
       Kelsey clung to him as if she was drowning, and it took a long minute for her to begin speaking. “T-too many casualties from the 53rd,” her voice caught. “No one had seen you in a long time.”
       It took Marks a minute to be sure his voice wouldn’t crack, from either pain or emotion. “I’m fine, Kelsey, but I need you to patch me up. Can you do that?”
      She leaned back, arms still around his chest, with moisture clinging to her eyelashes. After a hesitation, Kelsey released him to explore the edges of the wound that was sending a steady trickle of blood down the side of his torso. As her slim fingers investigated, Alexander could see that she was struggling to keep her composure.
     “You got this covered, Delanie?” the forgotten nurse spoke up from a few paces away.
     “Yeah, I’ve got it, Marin. Thanks.” Kelsey quirked an uneven smile at her, reaching for the antiseptic swabs that Marin had brought over earlier and got to work.
      Alexander gritted his teeth as she cleaned, struggling to keep his arm from clenching so as not to aggravate the wound and cause excess bleeding. Kelsey was a trooper, sucking up her fears and working with swift, sure movements that probably meant she’d detached herself from the fact that it was her husband she worked on.
      Marks watched her, thinking back on how many times he’d almost been killed in the past twenty-four hours, and how many times he’d wanted to have just five more minutes with her. If he died, she’d be alone again and it was that thought that had the soldier wait until she was finishing up before leaning down to kiss her forehead.
      Tears pooled in her eyes in a moment and her hands shook as she completed securing the bandaging around his shoulder. Then she leaned forward to lean her brow against his collarbone. Kelsey’s breath ghosted over his skin and made gooseflesh break out across his arms. Marks pressed his cheek against her hair and wished that the moment would never end.
      “I have to get back out there,” he murmured, and felt her grip on his forearm tighten.
      “I don’t want you to go,” Kelsey breathed, lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Please, Alexander.”
      “No, Kells. I won’t abandon them, and you need to get back to work as well. There are others who need your help.”
      She searched his face, looking so much younger than her twenty-three years in that moment, but she stepped away to give him the space he needed to stand.
      Marks got to his feet and pulled his shirt back on, working at the buttons once more. Kelsey reached around him to retrieve his helmet and clutched it in her hands until he was ready for it. Then she lifted it to settle it on his head.
      A sad smile touched her mouth as she fastened the strap under his chin. “It suits you.”
      Alexander ran a hand over his jaw, which was rough with several days’ worth of stubble, and quirked a smile back at her. “Thank you.”
      “You will come back, right?” Again, the vulnerable child showed itself on her features.
      “If it’s within my power, I will,” he replied, smoothing a hand over her hair before walking away.


   And that's all for Kelsey and Alexander. Well, I have got more in my head, as per the norm, but I haven't had any inclination to put any of it down yet, so. If there's a particular request for more of them, I may look into it, but otherwise.

   Feedback is appreciated if you've got some to give! Thanks for reading.

   Ad astra per aspera.
   To the stars, through difficulty.