badwolf-gallagher88

[badwolf-gallagher88]

him again

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Ahhhhh I thought it was just me!!

My own stages of becoming ever so slightly (very very) smitten with Pedro:

1. Urghh why is everyone going on about this guy and the Mandalorian. I hate Star Wars, Star Trek is so much better (I do still believe that)

2. Tried watching the Last of Us but gave up five minutes in because I didn’t like the goriness

3. not sure what to watch on Disney+, well I guess I’ll give The Mandalorian a try there was so much hype it can’t be so bad.

4. By the end of Season 2 absolutely loving Grogu but also admits to self I lowkey love Din Djarin and Pedro’s voice is amazing (would let him read me an audiobook any day)

4. Sees Gladiator 2 premier and how nice Pedro appears irl

5. Buys Mandalorian lego, the entirety of my instagram is just interviews with Pedro, absolutely loves the one where he’s gifted a fox

6. finally decides to try The Last of Us again, spends an inordinate amount of time wondering how one gets invited to a premiere or how one can meet a very particular actor at comic con and wishing one didn’t live in Australia where the only famous ppl you can ever meet were on Home and Away

7. admits that yes, she is a ~bit~ obsessed with Pedro Pascal (&reads smutty fanfic about him, while thinking very deeply about his hands)

My slippery slope of falling in love with Pedro Pascal...

At first: "I'm not really into Pedro Pascal."

After watching the Mandalorian, seeing him out of the helmet: "Awww...I'm so in love with his character in this. Great actor! Although he's objectively an attractive guy, still not my brand I guess."

After watching a series of different funny and cute interviews and seeing him drunkenly winning awards and being so relateable: "Aww he's such a sweet teddy bear! Look at his stunning cute lil smile! Still...ugh...still a non-lusty kind of attraction. Nope...no."

Seeing him in The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent : "More like the unbearable weight of Pedro's big dick energy....I mean...you know...he's got charisma is all I'm saying."

When he laughs and says "I'm your slutty internet daddy" : 😳

When I see promos of him in Gladiator II : 😳 😲 (slutty legs....no thoughts ...just...slutty legs, big arms, armor...dear god).

Carefully fixing his sister's gown on the red carpet, crying and talking about how he loves his family: 😭 😍

Two episodes into The Last of Us: OKAY OKAY I ADMIT IT, I NEED DICK FROM THIS OLD MAN.

Folks, I need a support group. Please help.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

i fucking LIVE for david tennant's side profile seriously LOOK at this man fuccking Hell

[badwolf-gallagher88]

"But what of our king?" "Your king?" "Has no one informed you?" "Informed me of what?"

[badwolf-gallagher88]

hear me out: Pedro Pascal as the Argentinian in Moulin Rouge

[badwolf-gallagher88]

people on pinterest are so creative, I love them

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Pedro Pascal - The Mandalorian Chapter 15: The Believer

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 30 - Author's Choice (Regency AU Part 2)

Final day of @phantomkinoc13's November Writes, and I'm super proud of having completed every day! Thank you for such great prompts. Part one of this story here:

It took Lord Halbrand some time to discover the whereabouts of Celebrimbor’s gallery. After traipsing through countless corridors, weaving through numerous guests and an attempted short cut through the gardens that left him more lost than before, he eventually entered the long, high-ceilinged room.

Its walls were a rich red, decorated with gilded sconces. However, the colour was hardly visible, for upon each wall were more than ten-fold as many paintings as in other parts of the house. The ceiling was iron-bordered glass, and during the day sunlight would have filtered through, illuminating the artwork. By night; however, the room was lit simply by hundreds of shining candles. 

Initially, Halbrand was so stunned by the architecture, he barely registered that Lady Galadriel was not already in the room. Noticing her absence, he pulled his watch fob from his pantaloons, grasping it by the velvet green ribbon. He leaned towards a candelabra, noting the hour was still before midnight. He supposed Galadriel would arrive when she could; he could not expect her to predict his own over-punctuality. If he was honest, he welcomed a chance to observe his host’s collections. 

He made a quick lap of the room, before settling on a chaise in the centre. Before him were various works of art, hung in the style of the Paris salon. He remembered the layout from his grand tour, the halls of the Louvre a splendorous sight. That was before the turmoil and Bonaparte of course, and now no Englishman dared set foot in the country. His eyes reaching upward, they eventually settled on a large history painting, depicting Artemis at her hunt. She was dressed in perfect white, bow in hand, deer at her feet. The creature, he thought at first, was the victim of her arrows, until he realised it instead slept, ever at her loyal service. Artemis’ hair was crowned with laurels, and he found himself remembering the way Galadriel’s hair had like been crowned with white feathers. She was unlike this Artemis in her physiognomy, but Halbrand could not help but see a certain similarity in the steadfast, teasing gaze.

He glanced around the room, as if hoping his musings would conjure her in actuality. She had not; however, appeared, and a quick glance at his watch simply revealed his impatience.

He returned to analysing the artwork, noting the portrait by Thomas Lawrence that Celebrimbor implied had caught the High King’s interest. The sitter, a pale, delicate woman, stared into the middle distance, a hint of joy on her lips. Her dress was pale and frothy, her hair dark and airily painted. The artist’s skill had captured a kind of dynamism, elegantly imbuing the woman with characteristics that clearly marked her as a relation of the High King. Yet, there was something of Celebrimbor’s pointed face and sparkling eyes there also, and a glance at the engraved frame revealed the sitter as a relation of both men.

Halbrand sighed, certain that this painting would result in some kind of petty dispute. 

As he did, the clocks throughout the house finally struck twelve times.

He glanced around, everywhere his eyes seeing a ghost of pale white. For a moment, he could see the strands of her pale hair as she fled from him in a field of flowers. They rode their horses along a beach, away from prying eyes. They picked strawberries in the sun. He teased her as they played at speculation, surrounded by friends, but for all the world alone.

“My Lord Halbrand, does something ail you? You look quite put out?”

Momentarily, he thought it was she who had spoken, but quickly came to his senses. Celebrimbor stood in the doorway, a look of puzzlement upon his face. 

“No, my friend, nor at least nothing ails me that you should concern yourself with. You have not seen Lady Galadriel coming this way, have you?,” he questioned.

Astonished, Celebrimbor replied quickly and to the point.

“Why no, of course not. She left almost a full half hour ago - the High King has been called away upon urgent business. The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond were tasked with accompanying him. I believe they will be leaving London for their country estate this very morning - Egad! Have I said something amiss, Halbrand? You look incredibly pale.”

He took a seat once more upon the chaise, his legs feeling slightly unbalanced. It was not shock, but rather disappointment that troubled him. The adrenaline had built up quite substantially as he waited, and to have it pulled away, as if a cloth from a table, left him quite unsteady.

Celebrimbor watched, concerned. He was uncertain whether to pass on the letter that rested in his coat pocket. Galadriel had foisted it on him as she left, urging he pass it on to Halbrand, with all confidentiality. 

His friend’s reaction had confirmed his suspicions of some kind of rendezvous, and he did not want to upset Halbrand further. He knew the events of last summer had not been easy on the man… But still, he dreaded encouraging a connection that was so rigidly opposed by all quarters. Then again, he equally dreaded the wrath of Lady Galadriel.

His fingers brushed the black superfine of his coat as he reached for the letter, and Celebrimbor realised they were trembling. He forcibly steadied them, approached his friend, and placed the letter upon his knee. Halbrand glanced up, question in his eyes.

“She desired I give it to you. I have no idea of its contents - though I may suspicion a guess. My friend, I urge you… The High King’s wrath… By gods, sir, be careful.”

“I know, Celebrimbor. You cannot deny it was she who re-instigated this, this… well I don’t precisely know what. Perhaps her writing will reveal all. But yes, I won’t take the same risks again.”

Celebrimbor clapped him on the back. He glanced up at the painting of Artemis that Halbrand had previously been studying. “Jolly good, isn’t it? Paid a pretty fortune, but really quite something. Glad Gil-galad has no desire of acquiring that one for his collections. I assume I’ll be saying good night now, Halbrand. Leave you to your letter… But pray, remember caution. I would not repeat my words, but for all I support your cause you cannot deny the dangers. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my friend. And thank you.”

A few minutes later, Halbrand followed Celebrimbor from the gallery, gripping the still unopened letter in his hand. 

[badwolf-gallagher88]

between Game of Thrones and The Mandalorian, it appears Pedro Pascal has a thing for spears and I for one am not complaining

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 29 - Holiday

Before him sat three boxes: one silver, one gold, and one bronze. 

Upon his fingers were three rings, which Sauron slowly removed. He flinched slightly, feeling the power drain away, yet he was not burdened by the discomfort. He knew that no triumph came without sacrifice.

Narya, with its stone of purest red, he encased in the box of bronze. The metallic inlay illuminated the stone, glowing with energy. The box he tied with a scarlet ribbon, its velvet surface agonisingly alluring.

Dearest Celebrimbor, he inscribed the label. That would please the old fool. 

The ring of gold, Vilya, inlaid with the rich, sapphire-blue stone, he placed in the gold box. The colour was set aflame, a sea as rich as those that lay before Valinor. Its ribbon too was blue, twined with metallic thread that created a sparkling, rippling effect.

Gil-galad, he wrote simply.

He took his time with Nenya. First, Sauron polished it to a shine, taking especial care of its luminous mithril. He then ensconced it in a delicate, silver-wrought silk and placed the ring into the remaining box. Tied with a ribbon of pure silver, the final parcel was delicate, opalescent and shone with the light of the stars.

My Lady Galadriel, he wrote. May this light live as long as your own shines. My star in the darkness.

He collected the three gifts, then traversed the halls to where the great tree sat. It almost reached the arched ceiling, the pine needles brushing the grey alabaster walls here and there. Decorations hung from the branches: dried fruit, snowflakes made by elvish children, stained glass ornaments wrought by the smiths. A star, crafted in the forges of Celebrimbor himself crowned the top of the tree. Light filtered through glass fragments in the metal, causing it to glow, and reflect beams of sunlight upon the walls.

Already, a large pile of gifts was stacked at the tree’s base. Idly, he wondered which may be his own. He cared little for their content, but a gift would confirm their suspicions were few. He was curious whether she would inscribe his name upon a present - not his true name, of course, but a favourite among the many he had borne. 

He did not place all three boxes together under the tree, rather separating them. It would be more enjoyable to watch the surprise thrice, rather than merely once. Galadriel’s gift he placed in the centre, a silver crown upon a throne of gifts.

“Is that one mine?”

She stood in the doorway, watching him. He had heard her approach, but feigned his surprise nonetheless.

“Perhaps, my lady. Would you wish it to be yours?”

She frowned slightly, evaluating the stacks of presents. From her position, she could see neither the gold nor bronze box. Her gift appeared unique. 

“I think I would be overly optimistic were I to hope so. Yours is already under the tree, Halbrand.”

He glanced lazily about, until his eyes landed on a gift wrapped in deepest black. A gold band traversed its width, but neither the size nor the shape revealed its contents. Despite his suspicions, he pretended uncertainty, replying that he had little idea as to which was his own.

By this time, he had come to stand in the doorway beside Galadriel. His response was rewarded with a look of pride - she wished to surprise him, and he would not spoil her fun. It did not mean, however, that he could not have some of his own. He smiled willingly, satisfied with the plan forming in his mind. He turned to leave, but could not resist the temptation of beginning his teasing. 

“I must go, my lady, there is much to prepare. And remember, no peaking.”

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 28 - Secret Relationship

The hall was long, an elongated tent that ran a good many paces over ground. The air was tinged a golden yellow - light filtered through the thick fabric of the construction, creating a warm, glowing atmosphere.

Daenerys sat upon her throne, listening to the reports brought her by the Dothraki outriders. There was little news of interest; Khal Jhaqo roamed the Dothraki sea searching for Drogo’s former Khalasar, but remained at enough distance to not be considered a threat. There was rumour of a new Westerosi king; the Usurper supposedly dead. She held little store by these accounts, it mattered not who was on the throne, so long as they were not Targaryen.

However, she feigned interest, and met Ser Jorah’s eyes over the Dothraki’s shoulders. His expression was neutral, carefully restrained to show no feelings.

She sighed, and her response gladly encouraged the outriders to finish summarising their news. When they concluded, Dany dismissed herself. 

Rising from her throne, she spent a moment arranging the fabric of her dress, slowly and purposefully. She had, in the remaining dullness of the report, decided upon teasing as her sport for the day. She stepped from the plinth, and made her way along the length of the hall. Ser Jorah had moved down to the doorway, preparing to escort her from the tent, as he lifted the entrance flap to one side. As she exited, she ensured she brushed against him, pleased to hear a sudden intake of breath.

Smiling to herself, she made her way into the baking heat of the day.

It was a short walk across to her own tent, a construction of pale pink, and the interior resultantly had a warm, womb-like glow. Daenerys ordered she would not be disturbed, and settled upon the mountain of furs piled to form a place of rest. Then, she prepared most certainly to be disturbed.

The wait was painful, and longer than she may have wished, but eventually the bright heat of day flared in her vision, before it was blocked again by the knight, bent to enter the enclosed space.

“Did anyone see you?,” were her first words, whispered almost gleefully. The adrenaline of secrecy was infectious; Ser Jorah smiled his response, bowing slightly.

“No, my lady.”

“Good,” she replied, reaching for his hand and pulling him down upon the furs. She laughed at the way he struggled to sit gracefully, looking with false horror as his knees creaked slightly.

“Why, Ser, are you becoming an Old Bear? Never mind, I know you for an old bore truely - why would you not look at me earlier?”

“I did look at you, Khaleesi. I looked long and hard.”

She raised an eyebrow at his adverb choice, winning herself a smirk. 

“Verily, Jorah, you would not betray the slightest feeling. Am I boring you? Or was it those wretched outriders and their loathsome report?”

He shook his head, replying it was neither. “I do not wish to compromise your reputation, my lady.”

“Don’t be such a fool. You know I have no reputation to compromise. If I did, I wouldn’t be sitting there listening to such tiresome drivel. No, Ser, I think you are playing my own game. You were teasing me, were you not? Teasing me right before all my loyal servants, and not a single one of them is smart enough to notice.”

He leant toward her, and she let him kiss her momentarily, before pulling away.

“Two can play at that game, Jorah. You never know who may come in, see you lying prostrate on my floor…” she pretended to tut, though her expression gave her away. He kissed her again, and this time she didn’t even try to escape.

When he released her, she kept her hand on his arm, question in her eyes. “How do you do it, Ser? You school your features as if there is no thought behind your eyes, no longing, no desire. Sometimes I wonder if I have but imagined these moments, and that there is nothing between us. It is quite disconcerting - and makes my teasing look quite childish.”

He reached for the hair that hung by the side of her face, and twirled it dextrously between his fingers. For a long moment, he was pensive; thoughtful and thoroughly distracted. Finally, he answered.

“It takes practice, Khaleesi. Many, many hours of practice. And I will be glad of the day it is a secret no more.”

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 27 - Kidnapped/Captured

The rope burnt into Elrond’s flesh, searing his wrists and rubbing them red. He stumbled slightly, tripping on the tree roots that littered the forest floor. They lay concealed under rich green moss and leaf debris, lying in wait like the bodies of shipwrecked victims under dark water.

Adar, pulling the rope over his shoulder, turned to glance at the struggling prisoner. He tugged especially hard, almost forcing Elrond to lose his footing once again.

As Elrond staggered his next couple of steps, Adar jerked the rope once more. Desperately unbalanced, the elf fell to his knees, in order not to occupy a position any more humiliating than that.

Privately, Adar smiled.

“We camp here for the night. So your pathetic little mind doesn’t decide running to the pretty little she-elf is the best idea, I will be ensuring you cannot act on such impulses.”

He grasped Elrond by the shoulder, shoving him so his back was against a tree. Quickly, Adar bound the elvish commander. As he stepped back to admire his hard work, he was met with a defiant glare from the younger elf. His hair fell into his eyes, still marred with the blood and sweat of battle. One particularly deep cut slashed directly down his cheek. 

Adar knew the wound should be treated, but despite his status as prisoner, he still feared his captive’s wrath. Elrond was reticent to understand the need for alliance in a war such as this, and deeply mistrustful of Adar’s children. His hatred of the Uruks was rivalled by few - and the Uruk's love for those who did not welcome his family limited. He had already expended much of his patience with the lady Galadriel.

Still, what must be done could not be avoided.

He said nothing to Elrond, but busied himself making a fire and setting up camp. From the small bedroll he had brought from the Uruk’s main camp, he removed a skin of wine. First he took a swig, then tore a small rag of fabric from the frayed edge of his roughspun. He bathed the black fabric in wine, then turned back to his prisoner.

“Your wound must be cleaned. Even your kind must not risk infection. Many of our blades are poisoned.”

He crouched down, bringing the cloth to Elrond’s face. The captive pulled away, spitting at Adar’s feet.

Adar sighed, sitting back on his heals. When Elrond’s eyes met his, they blazed with fire and frustration. There was a sorrow in his gaze, an anger tinged with fear and inflexibility. A devastation at seeing his lands burnt to the ground and no way to end the disaster. The purposes of his people were being crushed beneath the feet of Sauron, but the foolish boy could not see beyond the scapegoat Adar provided.

This time, he reached out with both hands, securing Elrond’s face as he wiped away the blood with the wine-soaked cloth. His cheek was left a delicate pink, both from the wound and the wine’s red stain. The tart vinegar of grapes replaced the tang of blood, a mild, pleasant aroma.

“Why do you care?”

Startled, the Uruk looked upon his captive. Was it not obvious?

Imperceptibly, he shook his head, confused.

“I am your sworn enemy. I am of no real tactical advantage kept prisoner - you would have wished for Galadriel, or the High King if you needed information. I am a commander without an army. I am reckless, and foolish, and…” he paused, then resumed at a yell.

“MY PEOPLE, they are dying. Most are probably already dead. The knowledge of a thousand years, the findings of Celebrimbor, are all ashes, and y-you expect me to… what? Rest easy while other people fight my battles? Uruk, you are -“

He was cut off Adar’s hand across his mouth.

“I am a father. I protect.”

He said nothing else, but removed his hand, and Elrond did not speak for some time. Adar came to sit behind him, his back resting against the rough planes of the tree.

In the darkest hour of the night, when even the stars fade into its inky blackness, Elrond believed Adar to be sleeping.

“I had no father,” he whispered, unaware that his words were heard.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005) dir. Joe Wright

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 26 - Favourite Trope (Enemies to Lovers)

Once upon a time, someone wrote a story where everyone lived happily ever after.

Lady Galadriel had never believed that story, and had begged Mélian to tell it differently. She did not want to hear of the battle that was won by bravado and courage, nor the fair maiden who gave her heart to the selfless knight.

She wished the battle to be won by cunning alone, by a warrior maiden bent on revenge. When Mélian refused to read her that story, she decided to write it herself.

-

“Daydreaming again, my lady?”

Despite the separation of the gaol cells, Halbrand’s voice carried easily, echoing around the chamber. Galadriel opened her eyes, staring up at the Númenorian columns and elegantly curving arches. She did not deign to move for him, nor answer; she simply listened to the way his breathing intensified.

“I thought we were past hating each other, Galadriel? Did I not save your life, for the small amount of value it appears to be worth?”

Again, she did not answer.

He murmured a curse under his breath, and went back to brooding in silence. After she had waited long enough to ensure his uneasiness, Galadriel finally replied.

“We saved each other.”

She sat up, eager to watch his response. For a moment, a look of joy crossed his features, before dissolving into indifference. She then stood, coming to rest against the bars that separated their respective cells.

“When I was but a child, I was told there would always be a man who would come to save me. Countless tales of how heroic men would join together, to fight the enemy and undo the evils of the world. And I would the pretty maiden, trapped in her tower, and whoever rescued me first would ask for my hand in marriage. And I would accept, for not every she-elf can be Lúthien. 

“I have never wanted that to be my story, Halbrand. I am a warrior for a reason, and it is more than purely revenge. Fiord was my brother, but he is dead. I am alive. And I cannot live a life where I may as well be dead. 

“It is not what I choose…”

Suddenly, she trailed off, disconcerted by his proximity. Halbrand now stood opposite her, separated only by the metal that divided their cells. Yet, he remained nonchalant, encouraging her to continue.

“Go on, my lady.”

“I know not who you are, nor who you wish to be. There is something you are hiding and will not reveal; it matters nought. I cannot work with you if you are my…”

A strangled noise escaped from her, as she felt the dagger press against her neck. She had not noticed him take it from her.

“Enemy?,” he supplied. 

“I am most certainly not that, Lady Galadriel. Most certainly. Not.”

His other hand trailed along the planes of her cheek, but the dagger kept her from pulling away. She did not dare move - nor, she admitted, did she want to. 

“I will not trap you in some unwanted fairytale, Galadriel. You deserve your freedom, for it is earned. But by the powers that be… give me a glimpse of your heart.”

He removed the dagger, grasping her wrists. He pulled her against the bars of the cell, the cold iron digging into her wrists. The pain was immediate, powerful, and she relished in it. She relished in his every word.

“You may - you may have a glimpse.” Her words were breathless, uncertain yet also clear.

And so Halbrand pressed his lips to hers, but did not ask too much. He simply took what she gave to him, and demanded no more.

When he broke away, he laughed quietly to himself. Galadriel’s expression was puzzled, so he gave her the answer she was looking for.

“I wouldn’t worry about those stories, my lady. I think that I am, in fact, the maiden in the tower. And I suspect quite strongly, that you will be my saviour.”

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 25 - Slice of Life

Dany was bored of being queen.

She was bored of dealing with the requests of Westeros, with the hundreds of greying lords who came to the foot of her Iron Throne each day. They came with such a number of requests that she could hardly keep her eyes open by their end.

She did not shirk the responsibility she had so long fought for, but neither did she enjoy the labours of the court. Unlike in Meereen, she could not choose who stood beside her. Instead, she was surrounded by all manner of fragile mæsters, reckless knights and scheming lords.

It was on the third day when one particularly tiresome lord requested lands that were not his to request, that Dany decided to flee to the country. Tomorrow, she would leave King’s Landing, with a company of her own choosing.

For one day, she would live a normal life.

And they would have a picnic.

-

They set out in the shallow light of dawn, leaving through the Lion Gates. She rode her silver mare, and beside her Ser Jorah sat atop a great black destrier. His cheeks were burnished pink in the early morning light, his hair shone copper. Since their return to Westeros, the knight had found a new array of armour, and this too was polished to a shine in the rose-tinted dawn. 

Behind them came Irri and Jhiqui. She had lent the handmaids horses for the day, as she wished them to have some reward for their loyalty. An outing was hardly a substitute for their loyalty, but it was something. Still, the girls appeared happy, and regularly turned to talk to Aggo and Rakharo who rode alongside them. Ser Barristan Selmy lagged behind, acting as rear guard, yet also taking his time to marvel in the landscape. Dany had heard whisper he was a keen observer of bird life, and suspected his sharp eyes roamed the sky for some of their number, even as he guarded against potential threats.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the hill she had selected for the picnic. They unpacked what they had brought, and ate rapidly, famished from the long ride. Lethargic beneath the warm sun, Ser Barristan began to doze. Dany’s handmaidens sat giggling with the Dothraki, until they all stood and walked off towards the nearby shrubbery. Dany struggled to conceal a smile, turning to Ser Jorah, who lay on his side beside her. He had removed his armour, and rested his head upon a propped elbow.

“You look puzzled, your Grace.”

She momentarily shook her head, but nonetheless preceded to detail the thoughts that troubled her.

“I wish every day could be like this, Jorah. I’m glad to be queen, but it can be so troublesome and tiring. I am expected to judge everyone equally but never too harshly, to smile when I am asked and show no emotion when naught is required, to act as though I am equal to everyone but above them also.”

She had unknowingly averted her eyes as she spoke, but glancing up from her hands saw a frown cross his face. 

“Go on, my lady.”

“See, even now you call ‘my lady’. It’s like you’re scared of me, scared that by calling me informally you will be punished. Haven’t we come far enough together to know that is not true? I wish I could flee the stone walls of King’s Landing, live out here where it is peaceful. We could start a small hamlet, just the seven of us. Everyone would know each other, we could grow our own crops. I could bake bread, and arrange flowers, and I wouldn’t even mind mucking out the pigs. We would be guarded by my dragons, and I’d never have to worry about threats from the North and what I can and can’t say. And I know I can’t Jorah, I know. I know, but I am so lonely…”

She trailed off, the frustration setting her close to tears. She closed her eyes a moment, attempting to calm her breathing and regain her composure. Yet, she again opened them quite rapidly.

Jorah had placed his hand on hers, gently running his thumb backwards and forwards over her skin. His own skin was rough, yet he was gentle. His gaze directly met her eyes.

“You are not alone, Dany. You will never be alone so long as I stand by your side.”

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 24 - Royalty/Fantasy

When Miller was a child, he had been fascinated by the tales of knights and dragons that originated on Earth. 

He had given in to a private smile when he first arrived on the Rocinante. Fancy calling a ship after the horse of foolish Don Quixote, the knight so pathetic he couldn’t tell the difference between a dragon and a windmill. He had to admit, that if you put Holden on horseback he probably wouldn’t be much better at distinguishing the difference, but it was still a funny idea.

Nonetheless, despite having grown in years, Miller’s fascination had yet to fade. There was something almost abject about the way a knight would pledge his service to a corrupt, pitiless king.

Perhaps it was because he found the regrettable pledge of service a bit too relatable.

He had never envisioned himself as a knight in shining armour. He was more of the scrambling dogsbody - a young boy that spent so much time in service, one day he woke up and was an old man. And as he grew into that old, aching body, he came to realise he was doing the bidding of a cruel and merciless master.

Earth.

Star Helix had long been in the pay of Earther corporations, but it wasn’t until he’d been put on Julie Mao’s case that he quite registered it. In this mockery of a fairytale, men like Jules-Pierre Mao were the kings, and men like Miller did not even earn themselves the titles of knights.

Nonetheless, he’d donned his invisible armour - or perhaps that was simply his hat - and gone in search of his damsel in distress. 

Julie Mao was no helpless princess in a tower. She was a warrior maiden, riding like Joan of Arc into the middle of battle, prepared to give her life and take others. In this case, Miller felt more like Don Quixote, helplessly chasing after Dulcinea. It made no matter - he had taken up his sword, and he would not let it down until he had defeated the dragon, the corrupt king, and taken a new queen.

Lying on his bunk in the Rocinante, shortly after fleeing from Eros station, Miller laughed quietly to himself.

The foolish knight had chased his windmill, and been impaled in the process.

Part of him was disbelieving in how myopic he had been, but deeper inside, it all sort of made sense. For years he had absorbed himself in stories, seeking the answers to questions that plagued every Belter who had too much time. Why did they serve these fickle kings? Why were they always the servants, and never the masters? Who would come to save them when the great dragon arrived, and all the world went up in flames?

Turned out the world went up in protomolocule, not in flames, for all it matters.

He had lost his maiden, and almost been killed by the dragon.

Yet Miller still believed himself a knight, and if Holden was willing to fight windmills, then so was he. 

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 23 - Genre Swap

Haladriel Regency AU

At the entrance to the ballroom, the Master of Ceremonies announced the latest arrivals. The ire of boredom was in his voice, but nonetheless all heads turned at the words he spoke.

“The Lady Galadriel, the Lord Elrond.” There was a slight pause as they entered. 

“The High King Gil-galad.”

If heads had not been turned towards the entranceway before, they were now. Collectively, the ladies of the ball dipped their curtsies, while the gentlemen made a leg, bowing in reverence to their king. 

The High King’s raiment was of the finest quality, and caught the appreciative gaze of both the men and women at Lord Celebrimbor’s ball alike. His waistcoat was made out with gold filigree embroidery, his cravat tied with a perfect waterfall knot. About his neck hung a quizzing glass, and his hair was left unpowered, dark and straight.

Lord Elrond was outfitted nearly as well as the king, if his style was a little more rakish. His waistcoat was eggshell blue, his hair curling neatly about his face. 

It was Lady Galadriel; however, who drew the gaze most assuredly of Lord Halbrand. Her empire-line dress was a perfect white, and about the bodice embroidered with flowers. The muslim was of silver sprig, tied at the waist with a cerulean blue ribbon. She wore white feathers in her fair hair, fixed with silver pins. Her beauty was angelic, ethereal even. He could not look away.

For a moment, she paused in her conversation with Lord Elrond, and caught his gaze. A small smile graced her lips, before she was borne away on her relations’ arm to the awaiting crowd. The High King too dispersed among his awaiting followers, and Halbrand felt himself vanish into the ballroom’s depths once again.

“You should ask her, you know.”

He turned, not expecting to be spoken to. His host, Lord Celebrimbor, stood beside him, smirking slightly. 

“My Lord… I - “

“Spare the pleasantries, Halbrand. Just because you’ve newly come into your fortune does not change the fact we were sitting in the same club a half hour before this farce. Why I must always host these balls, I do not know. Apparently the High King particularly favours the galleries. Three times I have caught his browsing my paintings - I believe he wants to buy the Lawrence portrait, and doesn’t care to ask. Forgive me, I am rambling.”

Halbrand shook his head, informing his host the idle chatter was not unwelcome. He would have to explore the house’s galleries himself. If they were anywhere near as impressive as the collection of jewellery Lord Celebrimbor owned, including the vast number of rings that graced his fingers, then the artwork would be something to behold. 

“As I was saying - you should ask her. The Lady Galadriel is not so unkind as not to dance with a gentleman who might ask it of her. She is very generous, you know.”

He pleaded his inadequacies once more, doubtful of the truth in his friend’s words.

“Very well Halbrand. Her ladyship approaches us; however, so do not waver if you can find the words.”

Celebrimbor was right. Gradually, Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel had made their way around the room, and now approached the two of them. 

Elrond spoke first, applauding Celebrimbor on the suitability of the ball. The host returned his thanks, and the two gentlemen began to speak of horseflesh.

“So, my lord - Are you not going to ask what our host demands of you?”

Startled, he turned to Lady Galadriel, only now realising they had been left alone in conversation. She laughed momentarily at his stunned expression, then schooled her features, fearful of offence. 

“Why, ’tis only seven words, Lord Halbrand. Though I confess, you have hardly muttered more than three consecutively all evening.” She arched an eyebrow, desperate for a response. He remained mute, thoughtful. Curious. He had not even been aware her ladyship was listening to his and Lord Celebrimbor’s conversation.

“Sir, it is not right to make a lady of the High King’s retinue beg. Is that what you wish of me?”

He could no longer keep his expression neutral. The shock finally registered, and he did not quite know why he had flushed so suddenly with embarrassment. Elrond remained in conversation with Celebrimbor, but the host glanced meaningfully at Halbrand, motioning for him to stop his hesitations. His flush grew darker, as he realised his friend had probably heard the conversation.

Resisting his desire to flee, Halbrand summoned the courage that lay beneath his crumbling facade.

“My lady, may I have this dance?”

She nodded, and he led her into the centre of the ballroom.

As the music struck up a waltz, he did not care to check she was allowed to participate in the scandalous new dance. He had seen her waltz many a time at Almack’s, and doubted she would particularly favour the enquiry. Instead, he attempted to make something of the conversation his participation had been so lacking in a moment before.

“That was not particularly decorous of you, my lady. Threatening to beg. What if Lord Elrond had heard?”

She reached up to clasp his hand, following the steps of the dance as they circled around each other and the other couples. For a moment Galadriel was silent, considering his words. Finally, she replied.

“He would not have heard. He only pays attention when I pay attention to him. And, I may have suggested Celebrimbor distract him.”

Had he not have been entwined so closely with her ladyship, Halbrand may have shaken his head, shrugged and walked away. That was why she knew what they had been discussing - she had asked their host to persuade him. Likely she had also asked Celembrimbor to distract Elrond. 

Manipulative girl.

A scowl came to rest upon his features, and he spent the rest of the dance in silence. 

“You seem displeased, my lord,” she eventually asked him, seeking to interpret his silence.

He nodded negligibly, glad the dance was drawing to its close. He could feel the delicate shape of her hands despite the layers of their gloves. Her breath fell quickly upon his neck, and every so often the feathers in her hair brushed his cheek. As the waltz’s final chords sounded, and he pulled her towards him once more, she spoke again.

“I quite fancy seeing Lord Celebrimbor’s galleries. I believe the paintings are best seen in candlelight - nearest midnight, when one can lose all sense of time and other people, and simply revel in the artwork. Of course, one never likes to go alone, but -“

She curtsied, mirroring his bow.

He led her so far as the edge of the ballroom, then Lady Galadriel disappeared into the midst of some elegantly dressed ladies. 

He was left watching the feathers in her hair, and knowing he was about to act quite foolishly.