ares-cozy-cuddles

[ares-cozy-cuddles]

Die reis

By arescozycuddles (aka me)

The tale spoke of a queen, though none could remember where she ruled, nor even her name. Some claimed she was a god, a creature crafted out of the heavens and set down in a world so cruelly different from in a world so cruelly different from his own as a punishment. Others insist she was but a mortal, a Woman who walked their lands. Come!! Children of sinners Listen to the tale of a daughter, a wife, a soldier, a butcher, and a Queen!!

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“Warriors! Daughters, Sisters, Mothers, and wives, hear me! Today is the day we end this bloody war. Today we write the end to a decade of fighting and bring our men back to their families, where they belong. The time for rest, love, and happiness is right around the corner, but we must finish the work. I swear to you, that on this day, we fight for our homes, families, and land! For all we hold dear!”

As the war cry settled, Queen Luminaita’s hand brushed against the intricate golden tribal tattoos that traced from her neck down her arms–each line a memory, each curve a story of her people’s resilience. Her short tight black curls framed a face etched with determination, rich tan skin marked by ten years of waiting, leading, and surviving. She saw her daughter in her mind—-not the child she’d left, but the young woman she’d become. And Ishfaq, her husband, is waiting with their daughter. The thought of returning to them, of reclaiming the years this war had stolen, burned like molten steel in her veins. The darkness wasn’t just the absence of light—it was a living thing, breathing with malevolence. Luminita’s energy absorption ability rippled around her like a membrane of hungry darkness, drawing warmth from the sleeping Sust before the first touched flesh.

When the attack began, it was less a battle and more a slaughter. Axes dropped like silent executioners. The first line of Sust soldiers never even stirred—their throats opened in wet, bubbling whispers before they could draw breath to scream. Spear tips punched through bedrolls, pinning sleeping men like grotesque butterflies. Bones splinter. Intestines spilled out in a steaming coil.

The dragon moved with surgical precision. It did not roar or breathe fire, instead selecting targets with cold intelligence. Its massive jaws would simply…lift… and the entire section of the camp would vanish, men torn in half, their last moments a horrified instant of understanding. Light manipulators bent reality itself, creating shadows that consumed sound, swallowing the wet gurgles of dying men, the desperate scrambling of those beginning to realize death was already among them.

Queen Luminita moved through the carnage like a specter, each touch draining not just lie, but ho, e—leaving behind husks that had once been soldiers The battlefield was still churning with violent life. Bodies littered the ground like discarded dolls, some still twitching, others frozen in their moments of terror. Queen Luminita’s footsteps left dark imprints in the blood-soaked earth, her golden tribal tattoos seeming to pulse with an inner light that cut through the gray dawn.

The secret hut stood incongruous amid the carnage—a fragile wooden structure against the high stone wall, somehow untouched by the destruction around it. Her fingers traced the wooden door, energy absorption capability humming beneath her skin. Inside, a single crib stood empty save for a single infant. Pale. Crying softly. A boy.

Without thinking, she lifted the child. Her hands—hands that moments ago had torn through enemy soldiers—now cradled the infant with impossible gentleness. She instinctively rocked him, a soft humming rising from her throat. The lullaby she’d sung to her daughter years ago. The baby’s crying softened. His tiny hand gripped her finger, so trusting. So innocent.

The prophecy whispered in her mind like a poisonous wind: “A son shall rise. A son shall burn. A son shall break what generations have built.” her people’s seers had been clear—this bloodline must end. Here. Now. But when she looked down, the baby’s eyes met hers. Not with fear. Not with hate. Just, innocent recognition. Her hand trembled. The capability to drain his life force hummed just beneath her skin. One touch. One drain of energy. And her kingdom would be safe. Her family would be safe. Her daughter flickered in her mind. Ishfaq’s gentle smile.

What would they think of her if she murdered an infant?

Her voice—low, rich with generations of memory—began to sing. Not a war song. Not a lament. But a lullaby from Boriken, her mother’s island, a melody older than the conflict that surrounded them.

“Duerme, mi nino,” she whispered, her tan fingers expertly wrapping the infant in a soft cloth, binding him securely against her chest. Each wrap was precise, a warrior’s movement—-tight enough to feel safe, gentle enough to not restrict breathing. The song spoke of green mountains rising from turquoise waters, of winds that carried stories older than kingdoms, of ancestors who watched from beyond the veil. Her mother’s voice echoes in her own—tales of brokenness, of survival, of resilience. “Where the water kisses the stone, where mountains breathe their ancient ton,” she sang, her tribal tattoos seeming to shimmer with each word, “sleep now, little one, far from war’s harsh drone.” The baby’s eyes grew heavy. His breathing synchronized with her heartbeat—a rhythm of survival, of unexpected protection. Outside, the battlefield continued its brutal symphony. Inside this small hut, something else entirely was happening.

Each stone step felt like walking toward her execution. The baby—wrapped tight against her chest, utterly defenseless—continued sleeping, breathing soft and rhythmic. “Duerme, mi nino,” she sang, the words catching in her throat, “where the mountains whisper secrets, where the wind carries the tears of mothers…” Her tears weren’t graceful. They were raw. Ugly. Rolling down her cheeks and catching on the golden tribal tattoo, turning the intricate markings into wet, glistening paths of sorrow. “Sleep, little one,” she whispered, then sang again, “Sleep where the stones remember, where the blood of generations flows like rivers…” Her tears fell onto the baby’s wrapped form, each dropping a silent apology. “Forgive me,” she whispered in her native tongue, her voice breaking. “Forgive me.”.

The lullaby trembled now. Not strong. Not steady. Each note is a confession, each word a prayer. Her fingers–the same fingers that had killed dozens mere hours ago—now stroked the baby’s soft cheek with a tenderness that seemed impossible. She thought of her daughter. Of Ishfag. Would they understand this moment? This choice between a potential future threat and this innocent life? Her hands shook. Not with anger. Not with resolve. But with a bone-deep grief that threatened to consume her. One hand cradled his head. The other–marked with energy absorption symbols–hovered close, a weapon of potential destruction.

Wind whipped her short curly hair. Below, the battlefield stretched–a canvas of destruction her hands had helped create. Smoke. Blood. Broken bodies. The cost of war laid bare. The prophecy waited. Silent. Inevitable. One touch. One drain. And her kingdom would be safe. But at what cost to her soul?

The lullaby continued. Broken. Beautiful. A mother’s son. A warrior’s lament.

Her song changed. One final verse, soft and devastating: “Duerme, mi nino, where the sea meets the stone, where children are safe, but never their own…” In the distance, a mother’s scream cut through the battlefield’s chaos. “My child! My son! Find him!” The cry was raw. Primal. A sound beyond words—pure maternal desperation. Luminita froze. Her tattoos pulsed. She knew. The baby’s mother knew. “ find him!” the voice grew closer. Soldiers shuffling. searching. “The Queen—she took him!” A moment of terrible silence. Then a wail that wasn't human. A sound of absolute loss.

Her fingers loosened. The baby hung suspended over the wall’s edge, the wind catching his wrapped form like a pale, fragile wing. “Forgive me’” she whispered. Not to the baby. Not to herself. But to something larger. Something beyond. And then she let go. The baby dropped. Silently. Impossibly lightly. Not toward the battlefield’s brutal ground. But toward the far side. Outside the kingdom. Beyond the wall. Behind her, the mother’s scream continued. A sound of absolute, infinite continued. A sound of absolute, endless grief.

Her voice rang out, cold and absolute. No tremor. No hesitation. “Burn it all,” she commanded her army. “Spare no one.” The soldiers—moved like death’s own machinery. Fire erupted not just as destruction, but as a living thing—consuming tents, structures, and bodies. Children’s toys melted. Wounds steamed. The very earth wailed underneath the inferno. She descended the wall like a spirit—-her golden tribal tattoos catching firelight, making her look less human and more like a terrible prophecy incarnate. The child’s mother wasn’t just kneeling, she was collapsed. broken . Her body looked like something shattered and poorly reassembled. When she looked up at Luminita, her eyes weren’t just filled with hatred—they were a void. A complete absence of anything human.

“You,” the mother whispered, “have no right to cry for a child you murdered.” Each word was a knife. Precise. Cutting deeper than any weapon. Luminita’s tears continued. Not graceful. Not clean. But raw. Ugly. streaming down her face, catching in the intricate lines of her tribal tattoos—making the golden markings look like they were weeping blood. The mother’s gaze never wavered. No mercy waited in those eyes. Only a judgment is more permanent than death. Luminita knelt. Not as a queen. Not as a warrior. But something is broken. “Forgive me,” she whispered. Her voice was less than a breath, more like a wound-given sound. The mother didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just existed in her shattered grief. “You will be buried with him,” Luminita said. A promise. A curse. A mercy. Her dagger—the same blade that had carved through soldiers, that bore the markings of her tribe—caught the firelight. For a moment, it looked like it was weeping too. The blade entered swiftly. Precise. Not with anger. But with a terrible, gentle inevitability. As life began to drain from the mother, luminita’s energy absorption ability shifted. Instead of taking life, she began to pour something back. Memories. Not the horror. Not the loss. The mother’s eyes softened. She saw her son’s first smile. Her wedding day. Her mother’s hands teach her to weave. Sunlight on water. A perfect summer day when everything felt possible. Laughter. Pure, unbroken joy. Tears mixed with blood on her cheeks. Her last breath was almost a smile.

Luminita lifted the mother’s body with a tenderness that seemed impossible for hands that had just caused such destruction. Her movements were those of a mother—-careful, reverent. Each step away from the burning battlefield felt like a prayer. The ground was hard. unforgiving. but her hands—the same hands that had killed hundreds today—now dug with a gentleness that would have seemed impossible moments before. Sweat and tears mixed with the earth, turning dirt into mud. Screams echoed from beyond the wall—the last remnants of battle, of loss, of everything being destroyed. But here, in this small patch of earth, there was only silence. She found her son—-the bay she’d cast away to save her kingdom—and placed him gently beside the mother. Their bodies were sleeping. Before wrapping them, she bent down. Pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead–a kiss so soft it was barely a touch. Another to the mother’s cold. A final act of impossible compassion. “Im sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her tribal tattoos seemed to dim, as if mourning with her.

Her wrapping was a final act of protection. She used the same cloth she’d cradled the baby in–soft, warm, a last embrace. She wrapped them together, mother and child, their forms becoming one last, perfect unity. As she covered them with soil, she kissed the ground. Not once. But repeatedly. Each kiss is a prayer. Each touch is a desperate attempt to protect, to comfort, to love. Her prayer came—not in words of war, but in the soft lullaby from boriken: “Duerme, mi nino, where the sea meets the stone, where children are safe, and never alone…” her tears fell. Not just for them. But for everything lost. Everything broken. Everything that could never be made, whole again. The last handful of earth sealed their graves. A final, gentle goodbye.