Stay Humble, Work Hard, Be Kind

Alright y’all, the time has finally come!  This blog is going dormant and the new multi-muse blog is finally ready!  *Celebration plays in the background*

Because this message is long (and I know some of y’all’s dashes are about to get flooded) everything else will be under the ‘Read More.’  ^_^

Was he blushing? He was blushing! Eric felt the pink prickle across his own cheeks and refused to acknowledge it. He would not admit to having feelings in front of Mike. He would not show weakness. Mike was a shark—a hint of blood in the water and he would strike.

Ash, damn him, was already well aware, and that was bad enough. Perhaps that was why he was going out of his way to make the tea as terrible as possible, to distract his fearsome guardian and give them both a moment of time. 

“Why did ye put molasses in?!”

“I’m EXPERIMENTING, Mike, you’re just jealous of my scientific genius.”

“Ugh, just—toss it, I’ll start another pot.”

Eric went back to staring at his own hands, wound together in front of him. They weren’t as lined, as scarred, as he remembered. Perhaps he, too, was beginning to change. “That sounds like the best way to live,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the other two fighting over the jug. “Quiet. Surrounded by nature. Free to go wherever you want, whenever you want.” He sighed. Maybe he was exposing too much of himself. He didn’t really know this man, after all; there was no way to know if he, too, was a shark, until it was too late.

And yet, he continued to speak. “I haven’t travelled in a long time. Since I moved here from Vancouver, actually. And I’ve never been overseas… I have always wanted to go to Europe. See the Colosseum in person, see the Tower of London, a castle or two.”

“There’s nothing stopping you, y’know,” Ash commented, forgetting for a moment that he was meant to be distracting Mike, who snatched the jug back from him in triumph.

Eric scoffed. “The theatre maybe be gone, but it was never the only thing tying me here. I have other obligations.” Like you, he thought, but didn’t dare say it or even let it show on his face, though chances were Ash would know anyway. He knew so much.

Was it just the lighting?  Was Arthur imagining the faint flush across Eric’s face?  Willing it into existence?  Even if so, the idea sent a soft zing of thrill through him.  But it was better to go slow here.  This man was Ash’s friend, he didn't want to come on too strong, too fast.  

As he spoke, Eric’s words seemed to be filled with a sort of mournful regret that made Arthur want to reach out and comfort the other man.  It was a good way to live, but he didn’t say so out loud.  Instead he sat and listened, letting Eric talk, taking in the other’s words.

leatherandsoil​:

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.  

The Brotherhood was supposed to help people.  And in the beginning, he’d been able to pretend it was.  He’d been able to ignore the worst of it, telling himself that those they were exiling or executing must deserve it.  Elder Anders wouldn’t order it unless it was so.  Gradually, it got harder to keep believing that.  Gradually, it became clear that the Brotherhood was doing more harm than good.  

Their crimes were many.  They “appropriated” resources from nearby settlements, very often leaving the settlers with next to nothing.  Resistance in any form was severely punished; anything from “not according a Brother enough respect” to “refusal to cooperate” to “suspicion of disloyalty”-all were crimes in Anders’s eyes, and all warranted punitive measures.  It reminded him of something he’d read in the Histories-a war that involved the entire world.  The enemy powers had operated like this, demanding absolute obedience from its citizens. It felt strange, thinking that way. He knew the Brotherhood could be a force for good.  They drove raiders and ferals away from settlements, built infrastructure, restored order!  That sort of thing sometimes required a heavy hand.  At least that was what he kept telling himself.  All while doing his best to ignore the frightened glances some of the citizens threw his way whenever he walked through the settlements. 

That wasn’t what he wanted though.  He didn’t want to be feared, didn’t want people scurrying out of his path, didn’t want alarmed mothers summoning their children inside for some pretended reason just to get them out of his sight.  He would never harm one of these people!  And yet…what if one of them were hiding a synth in their back room?  What if one of these families had a member that was a ghoul in their garden shed they kept secret for fear of them being exiled…or worse?  He’d only gone into battle against Super Mutants-hulking brutes with a mind only for killing.  He’d distinguished himself greatly-mowing down an entire swarm and then switching to hand to hand when he’d run out of ammo.  People still talked about the body count, about how he’d spiked the warlord through the neck with a steel post.  Jack…didn’t really care for those details.  He hadn’t done it because he enjoyed killing them; he’d done it because two of his squad’s power armor fusion cells had ruptured from a nearby explosion, rendering them immobile. He’d sent his squire running for reinforcements and prepared for a last stand.  But people only ever talked about how he’d “kicked those monsters’ ass!” and “fucked them up real good that day.”  

He’d managed to keep under Anders’s radar by, surprisingly, being himself.  Humble, hardworking, quiet.  Anders had, more than once, urged him to accept the adulations as “due tribute to a member of the Brotherhood.”  Jack had politely rebuffed him, citing only doing his duty or the entire Brotherhood deserved the credit or not a hero just a man.  Looking back, maybe he should have bit the bullet and faked some enthusiasm.  Because now they were suspicious. 

He’d heard them talking-heard his name, “worried”, “treason”, “lacking”, the phrase “test his loyalty”.   That had been enough.  There was an upcoming mission two days out.  He’d been tapped to run point, and now he knew they planned to force his hand.  Put him right up front where he would have to shoot to kill.  To flush out those that were hiding from them, the invaders.  To gun down those attacking and the ones retreating.  He couldn’t do that.  He wouldn’t do that.  So…he made a plan.  

Said plan should probably have involved more thought than sabotaging three out of four of the vertibirds and stealing the fourth one.  But he’d been short on time.  He should have grabbed weapons.  Should have grabbed their weapons really.  Especially the grenade launcher someone had fired up his aircraft’s arse.  But he’d gotten away.  For now.  Oh sure, they’d pursue him.  If for no other reason they’d want their aircraft back.  And as far as he was concerned, if they could find it they could have it.  He planned on being far far away from it as soon as he landed.  And to that end, he kept the bird in the air as long as possible.  Longer than he should have, considering he only started worrying about landing when he smelled smoke. 

“Shit.” he cursed, looking around for the parachutes.  “ Fuck.”  He’d planned on landing, getting into power armor and walking on out of here.  That no longer looked possible.  He was panicking now.  The aircraft was tilting downwards, gradually picking up speed.  He needed to get out.  Right the fuck now.  He desperately pulled on the chute, hoping he got the straps right, and flung himself out the door.  

He didn’t have the altitude to wait until he cleared the aircraft before he pulled the ripcord.  He was lucky in the respect that the bird was rapidly accelerating towards the ground and didn’t snag the billowing chute.  However, that was where his luck ended.  

The vertibird exploded. 

Jack’s cry of pain as the shrapnel tore into his body was lost in the din of the blast.  He was far enough away that none of the fire caught him, but the shockwave sent him spinning out of control.  Yanking on the control cords did him no good, he was going to crash into the trees. Hard. 

He remembered seeing stuff like this in old pre-blast movies.  Someone parachuted out of an aircraft, the parachute got caught in the trees, and they could either cut themselves free or climb down to safety.  Well, as it turned out, the movies had lied to him.  The trees managed to slow his fall some, but they in no way stopped him.  He hit the ground like a load of bricks, unconsciousness rising up to meet him like a crashing wave.  

The first thing he discerned when he woke up was pain.  Pain in his side, pain in his legs, pain everywhere.  Mentally he fought the urge to just slip back under, to just let all of it go. Call it determined, call it stubborn, but he didn’t want to die.  Not out here in the wilderness at any rate.  Except…he didn’t seem to be out in the wilderness.  He was on something soft…a mattress?  And pillows.  Carefully, Jack began going over his extremities.  Toes wiggle?  Check.  Fingers twitch?  Check.  Breathing?  Painful as all fuck, but check.  He opened his eyes.  Oof.  Bright.  He closed them again, then cracked them.  Better.  He could see a ceiling.  He was in…a cabin.  Settlers?  He didn’t know of any this far from any large settlements.  Slowly, carefully, he rolled his head to the side.  There was a man on the other side of the room.  So…a settler.  A kind soul then.  He opened his mouth, tried to speak.  Nothing came out.  He closed his mouth, swallowed around the parch in his throat, and tried again. 

“Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” was all he managed.  Well.  That would be a spectacular first impression.  

While keeping an eye on his patient, Arthur kept himself busy in the large, one-room cabin by prepping supplies.  The man was an unexpected mouth to feed, and he wanted to get a head start on making sure there was enough for everyone.  He fixed up meat for jerky, started some additional jars of fruits and vegetables for preservation, and began boiling more water.  At his feet padded three dogs, excited by the mixture of smells - Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.  On the nearby windowsill D'artagnan lazed, his long tail swishing slowly.  The tomcat feigned indifference, but his gaze slid between Arthur and their guest with shrewd interest.  Constance and Anne had settled themselves at his patient’s feet and were purring softly.  It was a good sign, Arthur thought.  The animals weren’t upset by him.

He’d been at the stove for most of that day, stepping away only to see to his animals or check on his patient.  He’d just sealed up a jar of pickled eggs when the sound of speech had him turning to look at the bed.  The man’s eyes were open and staring at him.  Blue and brilliant… like the oceans back home used to be.  Pushing aside the slight pang of homesickness, Arthur grinned.  Collecting some dried fruit and a jug of water, he moved to a chair beside the bed.  “Glad to see you’re finally awake.  Let me help you sit up… see if we can get some liquid in you, alright?”  Then, without really asking, he was leaning over the other man and gently pulling him into a more upright position, resting him against the headboard.  At the man’s feet, Constance and Anne made mewls of disapproval at being jostled, but settled back quickly enough.

leatherandsoil​:

Dias had been suspicious for a long while about how he would be received when he arrived.  He knew how Rome tolerated failure (not at all) and what she thought of her soldiers that ‘went native’ (outright disgust).  So it came as no surprise at all when Governor’s Agricola’s men tried to kill him. It still hurt though.  On a physical level (the more skilled of the three got him good in the leg before he dispatched him) but it hurt his spirit as well.  He’d dedicated his entire life to serving Rome as a soldier.  He’d bled and fought and very nearly died more than once for his country…and he was repaid by a literal stab in the back.  Well…nearly so.  Now he was on a horse and riding as though the very Furies pursued him. Gods, but he’d wanted to be done with this.  Tired, so tired of being chased.  He’d so dearly hoped for rest when he’d arrived back.  It was not to be, though, and it very nearly broke his heart.  

Where was he headed?  Back to the abandoned garrison?  No.  Pursuit would look for him there.  Back to Arianne?  Also no.  He had no wish to bring pursuit to the kindly woman’s door.  Into the wilds?  That seemed the safest bet, strangely enough.  He would lose his pursuers in the rough terrain and any passing hunters or travellers would (hopefully) mistake him for a Pict.  So he pushed the horse hard, trying to avoid the way he had come from.  

His anger held him for a while.  He gnawed on it, like a hungry wolf on a bone, used it to urge himself onward whenever the pain in his wounded leg threatened to overwhelm him.  And when his anger gave out, he used his stubbornness.  He’d come so far, fought through so much, he would not be brought low by treachery. He would not.  That…got him a bit further.  But finally his determination gave way and he was left with only desperation.  He did not want to die.  So he would cling to the back of his horse and get as far away as possible before he admitted defeat and let himself slip into shock.  Every time the horse halted, he gave it an encouraging kick in the ribs with his good leg.  That worked for a while, but eventually he couldn’t even manage that and he simply sat slumped in the saddle.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been like that, asleep (or unconscious?) in the saddle, but eventually exhaustion got the better of him.  That, combined with momentum when his horse came to an abrupt stop, saw him falling to the ground with a wet thud.  Water.  He had landed in water.  Face up, thankfully, or he might well have drowned despite it being little more than a shallow stream.  More splashing, and…someone speaking?  A hand on his shoulder with a gentle shake, and the voice again, speaking to him. 

“…safe, I promise.” the man said, lifting a sword.  This was the end then.  He could not run, had no strength to fight. So he would be struck down by a nameless brigand in the middle of nowhere. Hopefully the gods would have mercy on him and grant him a quick death.  But the killing blow did not come.  Baffled, Dias forced his eyes open and saw the man cutting at the reins which…were wrapped round his arm.  

Oh.

The man finished cutting him free from the offending leather and his arm fell back into the water with a splash.  Dias tried to open his mouth to speak, but nothing happened.  Swallowing through a parched throat, he tried again.

“Thaaaaaaaaaaa….” he tried, but gave up.  A grateful smile would have to do. 

Well… the man was smiling.  Or, was it a grimace?  In the waning light it was difficult to tell.  Hoping for the best, Arthur re-sheathed his sword and knelt down. “Come.  You and your horse are welcome by my fire.  I have fresh water and a rabbit which will probably be a bit cold by now.”  He chuckled a little, and stooped to help heft the man to his feet.  He honestly wasn’t sure the other could walk, so he lifted his unexpected guest back onto his horse and then steadied him with a strong arm.  “This way.”

It really wasn’t far.  Even from here he could see the flickering of his fire faintly.  Once they were back at his camp, Arthur settled he stranger by the fire with a fresh canteen of water, put the rabbit back to roasting, and quickly saw to the horse before taking a seat himself.  “You have injuries?” he asked, trying to assess the other in the flickering light.

Arthur had watched the news with horror that day - October 23, 2077.  And then he’d died, along with countless others.  But you can’t kill an immortal - not permanently.  He awoke several days later in the rubble of what had been his RV.  The days that followed were like something out of a nightmare.  The radiation from the bombs was doing unspeakable things to people.  Arthur tried to help where he could - and sometimes he was thanked.  But more than once he was stabbed in the  back for whatever food or supplies he had on him and left for dead.  Humans.  So many of them out for no one but themselves.  But each time it happened, he got back up and kept trying to help.

He also tried to help the animals, poor creatures that had no idea what was happening to them as their bodies became irradiated.  Arthur did what he could for them, feeling his patron god’s power in every act of kindness he performed.  It wasn’t much, but it was something.  And so the world moved forward - in the ways that it could.  Arthur put together a small caravan - just himself and the animals he managed to gather along the way.  He took care of them… and bred them for selling.  After all, even an immortal needs to earn a living.  It wasn’t long before he became well known in the area as an honest trader with the best livestock around.  Unfortunately, it was word of mouth like that which had ever Raider gang in the area trying to take his livelihood away.

It was the third attack that did him in.  Literally and figuratively.  He awoke from a gunshot to the head, to find all of his animals either dead or stolen.  He got them back, of course.  And left a VERY blunt message for other raider gangs in the area.  Then he took his animals and left.  At first, he didn’t know where he was going.  Just… away.  He didn’t want to deal with humans anymore.  He just wanted his animals, and maybe a plot of land for himself… as far away from civilization as possible.  It took a lot of traveling, and a lot of trouble, but although the gods had been relatively silent since the bomb, Arthur could still feel Hermes guiding him to what he was looking for.

Then, one day, after several of trekking through the remains of what had once been a lush forest, he found it.  A small plot of land seemingly untouched by the fallout.  It was perfect.  So Arthur got to work.  He built a small cabin for himself and housing for his remaining animals.  The dogs and cats were remarkably resilient to the radiation; his hooved companions weren’t so lucky, but they seemed to have stabilized, something he was grateful for.  The chickens were more aggressive, but still seemed to accept him.  All in all, the farm was an odd one, but he thanked both Hermes and Pan for their help in leading him here.  This was the life he was ready for now… even if it had been thrust upon him so suddenly.

Years passed… decades.  Every now and then, Arthur would leave the farm in search of animals to help keep the gene pool fresh, but that was it.  He never stayed in populated areas for long, and always made sure he was never followed.  Life was… tolerable.  And then the unthinkable happened.  He was out in the fields, collecting fresh mutfruit when he heard the sound of an engine!  There wasn’t anything visible in the sky, but the noise could be nothing else.  Then the tone changed, turning into a high-pitched whine… right before there was the sound of an enormous explosion that shook the ground beneath his feet.  For a moment shock kept the man in place, but he knew he needed to find out what had happened… and why.

So, with a small pack of supplies slung over his back, Arthur took one of his horses and went out in search of the source.  About thirty minutes due south, he found the crash sight.  It was a vertibird!  He hadn’t seen one of those since before the war - hadn't even known any still existed!  Then he found the body.  Or rather… the man.  He was still alive!  A small part of Arthur warned against helping him… but it just wasn’t in his nature not to heal those who were hurting - be they animal or human.  So he moved to inspect the man, speaking as he went, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m here to help.  I promise you’re safe; I’m going to get you patched up if I can.”  What he said made no difference if the man was unconscious, he knew that, but words of comfort never hurt.

Kneeling, Arthur examined the man with his eyes first.  It looked as if he’d probably parachuted out of the craft before it crashed… but hadn’t made it quite far enough away to avoid all the effects of the blast.  There were obvious injuries from the crash… but also a lot of abdominal blood.  Gently, he placed his hands on the man’s body, continuing to offer words of comfort.  It wasn’t long before he found the bullet hole.  Arthur cursed and began fishing through his pack.  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I have time to get you somewhere safer.  I’m going to cut your shirt off so I can get to that bullet.”

Ash squinted at the box. “It does,” he concluded, then clambered down with teas in hand, plus the box of Yorkshire that Mike would insist on when they made the trip out to Seattle. 

Eric couldn’t say whether it tasted better or not, as he never let him have even a single bag out of the pack, but he could admire a man’s devotion to his favourite tea. “I don’t know if he introduced himself, but this is Michael Conner,” he said, gesturing to the fortress of a man across from him, cross-armed and also cross in general. “He’s… not as scary as he looks.”

At that, Mike opened his mouth to inform him that he was every bit as scary as he looked and knew just where he could stuff his introduction, but remembered that he was in polite company and shut it again. He wouldn’t say anything to upset Ash. “I can tell ‘im meself, ye puffed up—Ash! Yer supposed to put a bit o’ cold water in first!”

Smiling, now, Eric watched him wrestle the kettle from him before he could do any more damage, then shot a sidelong look at their guest. Arthur had chosen a spot where the light from the kitchen window fell just so, and in that moment he wished he had even an ounce of artistic ability. Maybe he could write about it later, instead. “So, this travelling vet business of yours. What’s that like?” He tried to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. A lifetime of adventure, going wherever he was needed. It sounded wonderful. 

Arthur wanted to say something about how he’d seen scarier-looking men who would sooner shoot themselves than their dogs, but refrained.  He knew not to judge a book by its cover.  And yet… wasn’t that what he was doing with Eric?  Maybe not exactly.  After all, these two men were people Ash knew… and seemed to trust.  And Arthur trusted Ash.  So that felt good enough for him.

At Eric’s question, Arthur grinned.  “Honestly?  There’s good and bad bits for me.  A part of me loves being able to help people all over the country.  Like I helped Ash.  And I’ve seen a lot of wonderful places and met a lot of amazing people… but sometimes…”  The vet laughed, feeling a little silly, and shrugged.  “I wouldn’t mind having my own farm somewhere.  Just me and a ton of land and lots of animals, and…”  Here he stopped, not able to help the flush that crept up his neck and onto his scruffy cheeks.  “... someone to share it all with.”  He gave an embarrassed laugh.  “But who knows when that’ll be… so for now, I travel and try to help wherever I can.”