Rune’s favorite part of the summer festivals was the arrival of people from different divisions of Anglia. There were those from South Command, bright and excited to use the Roman language with her. Central were much more to themselves, and in watching them mingle among their sister branches considered they were more reclusive than the North. Perhaps she had grown bias.
That, and she had yet to really meet anyone from Central.
“Who’s that?” Rune tilted to whisper to Becker, watching the slender Bijou lady speaking with Gabi and Maxinne. She had dark hair, pinned in an intricate swirled bun which peeked out from under the pillbox hat on her head.
“That’s Beatrice, from Bostwick. She operates one of the largest cities in Central.” Rune glanced around the pub, unsure how no one else seemed to notice her. “Would you like to meet her?”
“No, it’s alright.”
“No?” She heard his grin.
“I just didn’t recognize her, is all. There’s a lot of new faces.”
“Always gets crowded. Come on, let’s sit at the bar.” he moved ahead, slipping past idling groups before Rune could protest. Every table was packed, not an empty chair to be found, yet not so many lingered at the bar.
“Earl Becker,” a call caught them as they chose their stools. Rune peered around him finding Beatrice of Bostwick hurrying over. She was stunning.
She was small and narrow, like Gabi, with a complexion that reminded Rune of cream. She had a long face, pale and smooth, with eyes painted dark to match her hair. Her hat and smart tailored dress were the same dazzling shade of emerald. Instead of a rectangle, she was built like two triangles stacked on their heads. The skirt belted in to show how tiny her waist was. Her legs were long, longer still in the black heels.
“Well,” she regarded Becker with a surveying look, up and down, “it’s been awhile, Earl.”
“Beatrice,” he nodded. “How are things in Central?”
“What, you and Lexikon still aren’t talking? Maybe if you bothered to visit you would know.” Playful. Rune had never heard anyone tease Becker, especially not like this. The way she pursed her red stained lips, thin brows lifting, teetered on flirtatious. Becker hummed.
“If he wasn’t in constant need of assistance, perhaps I could find the time.” Sarcastically soft, sporting. He looked at Rune, “you haven’t met my assistant, have you?”
“Oh," Beatrice's face twisted, "They didn't."
“It’s alright. This is Rune Vitale. He’s joined from Rome to help strengthen the alliance.” Another oddity. Becker never used the word ‘strengthen’ or anything of the like when referring to Rome.
“From Rome?” Beatrice’s voice pitched in wonder, batting long lashes. The color of her eyes was dark and deep causing Rune to fumble to meet her handshake. “Which state?”
“Italia.”
“Oh! Beautiful.” Beatrice stepped closer, doe eyes fixed in Rune's. “Your country, although you’re not bad yourself, soldier.” Her wink caused heat to grow in Rune’s face. She smiled brilliant white teeth, gloved hand fixing the lapel of Rune’s blazer. “Becker, he’s adorable. Why have you been hiding him?”
“I thought, of all people, you would have heard by now.”
“Oh really?” She tilted her head, hand hooking on her hip. “You think Lexikon talks about anything that goes on up here? I heard about the alliance, that we brought some officers in from Rome, but I didn’t know about him.” Her smile returned, giving a squeak. “I could eat him alive.”
“Go easy on him, Beatrice. I still need an assistant, after all.”
“Well of course,” she regarded Rune with the same, slow head-to-toe gaze. “I read you loud and clear, Earl.”
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Late to the Artbreeder train, but took a shot at some main oc’s for The Last Line
From left to right,
Becker, Rune
Fuchs, and Lexikon
Fairly happy with them (especially with reworking Fuchs’ design) and Artbreeder wasn’t too bad to work with, once you get the hang of it. Honestly, really fun to play around with. I’d recommend it, especially if you’re like me and have face-blindness when it comes to your oc’s.
As someone not entirely familiar with horses, I’ve been trying to scale exactly how big Becker's horse, Hades, is...
Honestly pleased with the results.
Becker is 6'2, which means this girl is not only insanely strong and intimidating, but the biggest scammer in the country. If you're not Becker or are prepared to bribe her with Blackberries do NOT talk to her unless you’re Rune.
Life in Königsberg isn’t easy. There are more days of cloudy storms and snow than anywhere else in Anglia. Winters are long and harsh, leaving very few days of sunlight. For those stationed there, it causes an issue in getting the adequate vitamins and nutrients to live a healthy life.
Coal was the answer.
No, not coal used to burning. Coal is a nickname for the bitter, dark hardcandies given out to soldiers to help balance these deficiencies. It is advised to take at least 1 coal with each meal in the summer, 2 in the winter to keep one healthy. Said to have a sharp, deep bitter taste, like burnt coffee, and a hint of woodsmoke.
(Excerpt beneath the cut)
Snow was heavy again on Königsberg, daylight shortening to mere hours introducing Rune to what the settlement called Coal. They were the size of small candies but in no way tasted pleasant. They were bitter, turning to powder that left a strong acrid taste lingering in the mouth. Becker persisted at least one was consumed at each meal.
He dropped the open pouch down on the table top, her face crinkling at the taste already forming in her mouth. “Vitale,” he warned, looming at the end of the table. With the Romans gone, she took up eating her midday meals with Becker, alone at their own table.
“Becker.” She whined, sitting back from her plate, “I don’t want to take any more.”
“You have to. They’re good for you.”
“They don’t taste like it.” She mumbled, grimacing at the small, black chunk he plucked from the bag, setting it on her plate. “Nefas, really?”
"They aren’t meant to taste well, they’re meant to keep you well.”
“I’m already well.” She watched as he took his own, tossing it into his mouth to begin cleaning up his place. He never looked at her while eating one, fine muscles in his face creasing his cheeks and brow at the sharp, rancid taste. As it stopped crunching between his teeth he grabbed up the last of what was in his glass, quickly downing it to clear his throat.
“Take it before I get back. That’s an order, Vitale.” He half coughed, moving away towards the exit to stack his plate. Scrunching up in her chair she glared down at the black rock. There was still a film in her mouth from breakfast, yet to find a better way to eat them. Chewing them up filled the mouth with powder, yet sucking on them prolonged the terrible taste. Pressing it around her plate she considered raking it into her pocket to throw out among the gravel outside—
“Vitale.” She jumped at his voice, suddenly there again, “I’m not waiting any longer. We have just enough time to walk back to the office before we’re late.”
“Becker, I don’t want to. They’re disgusting.”
"A temporary problem.” He began gathering up her plate, plucking up the Coal to put in her hand, “The sooner you take it, the sooner it’s gone.”
“And I’ll have to take another one at dinner.”
“And again tomorrow just the same. Take it.” Standing there he eyed her, head tilting in warning.
“Why do we have to take them? We didn’t before.”
“During winter, it is mandatory for everyone in this settlement to take them to prevent falling ill. You were not issued them when you first arrived because where you’re from, you gain adequate sunlight.”
“We have to take these because there isn’t any sun?” Sitting up straighter she was almost angry, “That’s stupid.”
“It’s stupid not to do as you’re told for your well-being.” He nudged her hand, “Take it before we’re late.” He neither moved nor looked away from her until she reluctantly placed it between her teeth, clenching her eyes as the taste became an odor, filling her nose as it cracked and crunched as she chewed. Groaning she covered her face with her hands, sure she heard him chuckle before turning away. Swallowing it down she coughed, shaking her head to avoid gagging, “Come on, Vitale.”
As if she could flee the taste she snatched up her hat, breaking from their table to follow.
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Some Hurt/Comfort, Drunken Tomfoolery after Becker gets shot and has a bad reaction to his body trying to rapidly heal from exposure to radiation saturated territory. Rune is freaking out and trying to sneak them back home without Møller or Fuchs finding out
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The truck's engine whirred, coasting to the shoulder of the dirt road. Becker swayed behind the wheel, clinging to it as he focused intently through the windshield. He grimaced with the brake, desperately grabbing the shifter. There wasn't enough strength in his grip to lower them into the next gear.
Rune clamped a hand over his, helping him get it there.
Eventually they rolled to a stop and she shoved them into park. It was hard to tell if Becker was pale. She watched him, worried he'd keel over on the steering wheel. He certainly didn't look good. Slouched in his seat he kept a hand over the bloody stitches in his middle, eyes gaping, half lidded and blank. If not for his labored breathing, he could have been dead.
"Becker," she touched his shoulder with a bloodstained hand.
"One minuet." He wheezed.
She wasn't sure why she needed to keep hold of him, as if she could catch him from death. Had she been too slow in stitching him up? Had he lost too much blood? It was spread through his white undershirt, dark and wet. Some had even soaked to the thigh of his pants, black against the dusty green.
We're all alone. She glanced to the mirrors and ahead. There was no one else on the road. No villages, no houses, no trucks. Just overgrown fields of bright yellow canola flowers. Thorn's men had been ordered to go ahead. And Rask? Gone the moment the Rus sprung. The coward.
"I'm alright," he croaked. She turned back to him, looking none the better. Sitting up, she pulled a knee under her as if being taller helped somehow. His brow wrinkled, blinking rapidly as if surprised by the pain. "I just need a minuet." he took deep breaths between sentences. "Can you drive? If you can, we should trade places."
"Yes," she nodded. "I can drive." She had never driven a truck as large as the two ton, but there was enough open road to learn and he needed help. He released a sigh as if relieved to hear it.
“Alright,” turning his wrist, he pointed to one of the levers in the center of the cab, "pull that, please."
Please? She frantically did so, acting quickly to keep an eye on him. He must be dying. Nodding he took a series of deep breaths.
"Parking brake," it was a soft laugh, lifting the hand to smear back his bangs. "After you, Orderly Vitale." she quickly opened her door, stepping out as he drug himself over. Waiting to make sure he made it, she shut the door before scrambling around the hood. Clambering into the monster of a machine, she checked to make sure he was alright. "Will you hand me that?" he pointed to her door.
Against the underside of the dash was a sling, his carbine tucked inside, pointed beneath the dash. Carefully, as if it may bite her, she pulled it from the sleeve. Tarnished wood, whittled with lines, it was heavier than it looked. He took it from her, grunting as he rest it, barrel down, against his leg. Next, he grabbed his field cap from the dash, only then sitting back.
"Do you remember the way?"
"Most of it." She worked the clutch, removing the parking brake before shimming the shifter into gear. "You have to stay awake to make sure I'm right."
"I will."
He did, at least for as far as she needed him to. About an hour outside of Königsberg she recognized where they were. She promised she knew the way and he seemed to take her word for it. Stretching his legs out and resting his head back, he pulled his cap low over his face. She never stopped checking the stain on his shirt. Making sure it wasn't spreading.
The tense frown never left his face.
By the time they rolled into the fortress walls it was midafternoon. Thorn hadn't beaten them by much, truck still running in the bay. "Becker, we're here." She announced, fighting with the shifter to park. By the time she got the stubborn brake set and killed the engine, Becker still hadn't moved. She watched his chest, making sure he was breathing.
Technicians asked them to step out, assuring they could take the trucks from there.
"Becker, we have to go." She tapped him. He took a moment to rouse, eyes fighting open as his head moved to look around. "We made it."
He nodded.
Swiping wildly at the door he mumbled something, sure it was another language. Clear he was moving on his own, she rushed to get out. The door clanged into someone. "Hey! Watch it!" They barked.
"Sorry."
No, idiot, you have to act fast. You're the one in charge. She cleared her throat, pushing on the door to leap out.
"Shouldn't you know not to get so close? It's a running truck." It was her best attempt at impersonating Becker, his unforgiving tone. The soldier glared, but took a step back. "I hope you can handle them with more sense."
I'm so sorry but I have to hurry. Brushing past him, she rounded the hood finding Becker kicking his door open.
Everyone was already staring, standing around curious to see why the Earl wasn't driving. It was the one thing he had asked her. Not to let Møller find out.
"Oi! I doubt anyone has orders to stand around slack-jawed. Let's go, we aren't winning the war like this." At her bark they hurried to find anything to look busy. Becker threw himself out of the seat, missing the sidestep but managing to land on his feet. "Atata, careful," she hissed.
"What?" He stumbled back against the truck as if he didn’t know who she was. She reached around him, pulling his pack from the floorboard. It looked as though Hanari was having just as much trouble. The graceless scout misstepped the end of the sister truck's bed. Kuebrich scrambled to catch him, the other scouts crowing exaggerated laughter as they worked together to drag him off.
The technicians stood baffled, watching the circus act.
Vitale was surprised Becker managed as well as he did on his own. Passing the barracks and starting towards the bridges, he seemed perfectly fine to the passerby. She stayed beside him, arranging the pack on and off her shoulder to hide the blood stain on his shirt. It was the blue-banded communication officers she had to look out for. They would pry the most, and she knew Becker was right. If Møller found out, there wouldn't be an end to his questioning.
"Shit," Becker yelped, or something like it. She scrambled to catch him, barely keeping them on their feet. He swayed as she pressed against his shoulders, straightening him back up. She glanced up and down the street. Empty. "Was that an earthquake?" His voice grew loose, vowels gliding together as an accent grew into his words.
"Afraid not. Here, let me have your arm." His balance was shot, leaning on her and staggering to one side. She had to constantly pull at him to keep them from wandering off. As close as they were to home, she still worried someone would see them. It was the same in Rome, too. No matter where you went, word spread like fire in an office.
He tugged her to a stop. “What is it?” She breathed, worried at the grimace on his face. Already sluggish, he moved achingly slow to look down at himself. She did as well, watching his hand pull away from the wound, damp with fresh blood.
“It’s alright,” he whispered.
“You busted your stitches.”
"Sorry," apologies sounded strange from him. Weary. Unsettling. She didn't like it. Hurrying them on, his staggering became shuffling and, then, stumbling, heavier against her the closer they got to the house. It was amazing he they arrived with him still on his feet.
"Can you stand up for a moment?"
"Oh, yeah," and he did. She rushed to dig through his bag for keys, a mess after the scramble to mend him up. He stumbled forwards, as if to catch his balance, planting face first into the side of the house.
"Becker," she winced, finding the keys. He pressed back, brow pinched, regarding the wall with an offended glare. Unlocking the door, she helped him inside. "You're going to bed."
"The sun's still up. There's reports."
"Something is wrong with you. Either you can go to bed, or we can go to the infirmary." That shut him up. She locked the door, dropping the bag to help him to the bedroom. He caught the doorframe, doing his best to keep his knees from going out from under him. She heard him swallow, watching him blink widely. "Becker?"
He wasn't as quick to answer.
"I'm alright," he swayed forwards into another step. She led him to bed, carefully sitting him down. "Thank you, Vitale." It sounded a lot like a goodbye.
"I'm not leaving," she scoffed at the idea. "You're in no condition to be by yourself. Not to mention I need to redo your stitches."
"Yes ma'am," he pulled his cap off, tossing it onto the nightstand. "There's a kit in the washroom." He strained, as if to get up.
"Madre di Dio –I'll get it. Stay still." she pressed him down before scurrying to find the kit. On a shelf beneath the wash basin she found an old, metal medical kit, akin to something one of the medics might have carried. It surprised her with everything it held, equipped for any type of wound. She grabbed a towel, filling a bowl with water before returning to the bedroom. He hadn't moved.
"I think I have everything I need. Do you want to lie down?" He watched her arrange the kit, frowning at the bowl.
“What’s that for?”
“You’re bleeding, and now that we’re not outrunning radiation and Rus, I can properly clean it.” She glanced over, his gaze unfocused but not looking any happier. From a daze he grabbed her wrist, a spring of an action as quick as a viper. But his fingers didn’t dig. Careful in bringing her arm closer, he studied her arm, thumb smearing at the bruises there.
“Are you alright?” he asked, the process of lifting his face to her almost causing him to teeter backwards.
“They’re just bruises. What do you think I’m made of?”
“Is that it?” A smile crept over him, humming a chuckle. “You’re the brave one when I get scared?”
“Don’t patronize me.” She slipped free, avoiding his frown as she spread the towel over the bed.
“Hm?”
“You weren’t scared,” the idea caused her to kiss her teeth. “You’re an Earl, you don’t get scared.” He watched her work without a word, crease working in and out of his brow. “Now, come on, let’s get your stitches in order. Shirt off and lie back.” There was a delay, his hands fumbling to find the hem of the shirt. Discomfort splintered across his face as he peeled it off the stitches. She helped him pull it over his head, hanging it over the corner post. Squinting over a shoulder, he blearily did his best to lie back over the towel.
The wound was strange.
Fleeing the Rus emission city, she had watched his skin try piecing itself together around the bullet wound. Like something unnatural, days of healing happening in moments right before her eyes. It had been a fight to get the bullet out before it healed around it. Now the wound was an odd state of partially healed. Uneven like the surface of a sponge.
“I was scared,” He mumbled, almost slurred. “I wasn’t quick enough. Careful enough …I almost lost you.” His eyes were already closed, voice fading as he went limp –fast asleep like a drunk.
That's what it is. Radiation drunk.
She finally pulled her stare from him to work on the wound. Starting with removing the old stitches, she worked quickly. It was much easier without the jostle of the truck. Flushing what wasn’t healed, she stitched what needed it before bandaging him up. He so little as flinched. Pulling the sheets out from under him, she did what she could to cover him up, letting his boots hang off the bed.
He had been right about the reports. What they had seen from the Rus needed to be sent up the flagpole. Møller needed to know about the bombs, the traps, their threats. Removing her boots at the door, she drug their packs into the office, lighting a candle to sit at his desk.
She wrote down everything, marking through the binder of maps as she went. The Rus had lured them in. The false ground which hid their trenches underneath, men ready and waiting below. How they pulled men to their deaths, suffocating them in the floors of thick mud. They had an entire network under there. A city. A maze. Filled with traps and equipped with weapons one of them had seen before.
A shiver ran through her, still able to feel them pulling her down into the dark. Frightfully strong. Ruthlessly violent.
She finished just as the sun set behind the walls. Night crept in quick, soon her candle the only source of light. Leaving the pages out to dry she considered finding something to eat. Her body ached as she stood. No longer running for her life or terrified Becker would bleed out in the middle of nowhere, she realized just how sore and stiff she was. Her arms protested as she pumped water into the sink, back and shoulders pointing out every bruise. But the water was cool, soothing as she washed her face and letting her arms soak in the basin.
Closing her eyes, she realized just how quiet the house was. In this corner of the settlement there was no bustle. No one passed this way. Silence rang in her ears leaving room for anxiety to creep in. Invisible grips digging into her limbs, hands clawing into skin.
Her breath shook as she stood, quickly splashing her face and drying herself off. Food didn’t sound good, stomach crammed with knots. She couldn’t understand how Becker managed living in such quiet. It was haunting, heavy. Uneasy she decided to check in on him, keeping the candle close in the dark. Peering into the bedroom she found he hadn’t moved.
“Becker?” She whispered, knowing how easily he startled. He didn’t wake. Inching inside she sat the candle on the nightstand, trying again, “Becker? Walram?”
His brow twitched, eyes trying to open.
“It’s me.” He only grunted, eyes closing again and face going slack. “I want to check your bandages.” She pulled the covers back, bringing over the candle to try and see.
Becker shifted, drawing in air, fighting to lift his head.
“It’s just me,” she soothed again. “I need to make sure everything is alright.” Blearily he stared, expression wrinkling in and out as if having a hard time distinguishing her. “Just lie back, I’m only looking.” He gave in as she pressed at his shoulder, protesting a with weary sigh. Carefully peeling back the top of the bandage she searched for blood. “Looks clean. I think they’re going to hold nicely. They’ll probably be sore in the morning.” Sure to straighten the bandage back out, she covered him up again.
He was doing his best to keep his eyes open. The one with the scar drooped farther than its counterpart, making him look confused. His brows scrunched when he blinked, as if it took all the effort in the world to do so. It worried her how drained he was.
He shivered.
She thought it was a trick of light, a flicker of the candle. But an uneasy frown came over him at another wave of shivers. It didn’t seem possible. Someone who lived in Königsberg, capable of getting cold? Becker never flinched at the sharpest of winter gales, but here, in summer, shivering? Putting the candle back she pressed a hand to his forehead. No fever. If anything, he was cool to the touch.
“Are you cold?” she asked, feeling foolish once it was said. It was clear he wouldn’t answer. Easing down to sit on the side of the bed, she touched the sides of his face, neck, shoulders, all fairly chilled.
More shivers, another grimace.
She wasn’t sure what caused it. Was it because he was a Shader? Because of the radiation? Because of blood loss? Regardless she knew he had to get warm. Toeing off her boots she was careful in climbing over him. He garbled something, attempting to sit up.
“It’s ok, it’s alright.”
“What are you doing?” It was half a slur, half panic, the best he could manage in his condition.
“You’re freezing cold,” she worked her way under the covers, minding his wound. “I’m going to lie down with you to help you warm up.” She did, lying against him to cover them both up. He continued to shiver, tense beside her. Boldly she turned on her side, slipping under his arm to rest her head on his shoulder. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
A disagreeing hum.
“Oh, good.” She went still, listening and waiting. Eventually his shivering lessened, even his tension easing away. It was still just as quiet there as it had been in the other room, except for him. His breathing reminded her of the way the crashing waves of the ocean echoed in the early morning. Deep and lulling. There was also his heartbeat. Slow, she frowned, dangerously slow.
Tilting to press her ear completely against him, held her breath, counting.
Thump-thump.
One… two… three…
Thump-thump.
Watching candle light dance on the ceiling, she continued to listen. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, counting, making sure the thumping didn’t get slower or stop all together. If it did, she didn’t care how angry he would be, she would get Møller and have him taken to the infirmary. Blood loss may have dangerously dropped his blood pressure. Too much and he wouldn’t make it.
“Becker?” She said, not surprised when he didn’t respond. A new anxiety wound its way in her head, no longer able to hear his pulse as hers thundered in her ears. Terrified. She was thinking about waking him again when he hummed in question. Settling her worry and steadying her voice, she whispered, “does your heart always beat this slow?”
A moment of quiet.
“Mh,” a sigh of agreement, voice vibrating deep in his chest, “…broken hearts always beat slow.”
“Oh.” She didn’t like that answer. His arm moved under her head, hand hooking around to brush over her hair.
“It’s alright,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. Except, this time, she believed it. They had made it back to Königsberg, away from the Rus, away from their strangling grip. No more mud. No more blood. Safe. He smoothed his hand over her curls, soft and slow.
