#;; because he was first druid and his own druids turned against people so quickly?

[lclthlcved]

Just to say those who commented on my post: Yes valid :clap: I do understand the situations are different and kagha's deal is like, a whole thing in and of itself

I was more trying to compare how he's like "yes i love everyone, nature peace love harmony is needed" but then Random drow walks up, says they need help, there's no evidence to prove they're doing *literally anything wrong* Halsin is just like " go kill your own kind because i know you dont care about them. "

i really want to know if the line changes at all if you not lolth-sworn because if you aren't lolthsworn drow then it really does say *even more* that it's not just about lolth-sworn drow, but specifically drow in general which again i think is really interesting but also o u c h

[wtl-archive]

Intermission 02: We don’t have many days.

Black waves slammed against the sand as thick grey clouds loomed overhead, the gentle hues and warmth of sunny day nothing but an ancient, forgotten memory to the Withered landscape. Low rumbles in the distance signaled a coming storm, a common occurrence these days, but for now, the beach was calm.

Connie watched the tides, her head and arms resting on her knees, as Steven sat behind her and braided her hair, humming the tune to a song she could no longer recall the lyrics for. She tapped her left foot in tempo with the melody, with each tap of the metal limb stirring up a puff of sand.

Steven worked his fingers through the soft pink strands of Connie’s hair, weaving a path they had woven a thousand times before and he hoped would weave another thousand more. Her hair was smooth and clean, unlike the matted, dark curls atop his own head, but he’d given up managing his hair a long time ago. For now he settled for tying it up to keep it out of his face (and out of any corrupted gem’s grasp). His pace slowed as a patch of silver peaked through all the pink.

She took notice of his change in pace. “What is it? Is something stuck in there?” She turned just enough to lock eyes with him, careful not to pull the half-finished braid out of his hands.

He shook his head. “No. It’s just… more of your hair is gray. More than the last time I braided it, I mean.”

“Oh c'mon now, a few gray hairs isn’t the end of the world,” she teased, “I didn’t think that you of all people would be so shallow.”

Steven didn’t return any of her playful attitude, instead offering a low grumble in response. He quickly finished the braid then asked, “Do you know how long it’s been since it started going gray?”

“I’m not sure." She spun around so that she was facing him and leaned back on her hands. "A few decades maybe? I don’t really keep track of the time anymore.”

“547 years, 6 months, 18 days.” He said, his voice unusually cold.

“Umm… what?” Connie stammered, visibly startled by the specificity of his answer.

He dug his hands into the sand and sighed, “It’s been 547 years, 6 months, and 18 days since I first noticed your hair was turning gray."

"You’ve been counting all this time?”

“Since I realized what was happening, yes,” he nodded. As for how many months or even decades had gone by without him noticing the changes to her hair, well, he’d rather not think about it. “And you haven’t given it a second thought, have you?”

“Why would I? That’s what happens when you get older. Your joints get stiff, and you get wrinkles, and your hair loses its color.” she said, crossing her arms defensively, fully aware of where this train of thought was taking the conversation.

“But I don’t, Connie, that’s just it!” He jumped up and paced back and forth, kicking up sand with every step. “My hair is still brown! It’ll always be brown!” he shouted, pulling his curls dramatically with both hands. “Besides these bags under my eyes, I don’t have any wrinkles! I can still run miles without getting tired! It’s been, what, five, six thousand years, and I still look like I’m 35!"

"Steven, I know we’re not aging on the same timescale but–”

“Connie, please! I…I’ve…” he half-yelled, half-sniffled, tears rolling down his cheeks, “I’ve watched too many people die, Connie.” He got down on his knees in front of her and gently held her hand. His next words were barely audible. “I can’t watch you die too.”

￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣

Read all the pages in order here.

Blog Info

Oh! It's depression! :D

I think what's funny about this is that the entire plot in the Monster Line is jank exclusively because of the one sentence Druid says in this one intermission giving a specific number of years/months/weeks/days passed to Connie and his (canonically incorrect but still somewhat in the ballpark) offering of a range of time that had passed across his life, and if it weren't for that rookie writer mistake I could've had a much more flexible timeline. I could retcon it cause it's not like most people would notice, but this is an archive.

Unrelated to that, Druid's speech is so formal here, it's fucking weird. It sounds like how *I* would talk lmao not how he should talk, but I don't think I had his aggressive country accent established until a little further into the project. This is why Sven is easier for me to write dialogue for, he talks the same way I do for the most part.

Writer Credit: NugatorySheep

[demonprincezeldris]

The Holy War is brought into term quickly and violently because of that night. Months turned to years. Years turned to decades. And still, the fighting raged on.

Eventually, the Demon Clan was sealed away. But Zeldris, he remained outside of it. A young Mage by the name of Merlin had kept him in a seal of her own that protected him from the one the goddesses put in place. He saw as a sort of little sister figure. She'd never hold the same place in his heart that Meliodas had, but... she reminded him of the little one, in a way. They both had the same boundless curiosity of the world.

Years passed. He considered trying to open the seal for awhile, but... his people were SAFE in there. The war would not rage on. So he would wait until Brittania could accept them, and he would release them then. There was no shortage of reincarnated goddesses, after all. Especially in the druid clan. Thousands had been killed, many by him, personally.

He tried not to think about how many of those had been forced into the fighting, how many innocents he had mowed down trying to avenge his fallen brother.

Centuries passed by, Merlin having long paused their time as they researched how to go about their goals. Merlin wished to interact with Chaos directly, and find the human prophesied to control it. Train him, coach him.

And Zeldris... Zeldris sought to bring Meliodas back to life, back to HIM. He wanted nothing more than to hold the little one once again. And this time, he wouldn't let him go.

He'd been living in Danafor, acting as their Grandmaster. It gave him access to plenty of resources and research that he could squirrel away, no one being any wiser.

He'd been granted a special room in the castle to use as his lab. At first, he'd been offered a tower, but refused, far preferring a basement room for the fragility of this process.

Centuries. It had taken him CENTURIES. But he'd finally figured out how to recreate Meliodas’s body. In a barely transparent tube, he created a thick environment of liquid miasma, and inside of it, attached to tubes that gave it nutrition, hydration, and magic, grew a fetus. Genetically identical, all Zeldris need to do now was go to the capital of the dead, find the little ones soul, and, when it was ready, feed it into the developed body.

Zeldris pressed his forehead against the glass, eyes slipping shut. "Soon, little one. I'm almost done, and then I'll bring you back. What's a few more months, right? I'm sorry I've taken so long."

Some more months passed. When he was about ready to be born as an infant (Zeldris wanted to wait until he was just a little bit older, first, so his soul would return to an appropriately aged body) he left on a "Top Secret Mission" to find his soul.

He'd only been gone for a day, traveling by horseback, when he tensed, whirling around to look back at the horizon. The *unmistakeable* feeling of demonic miasma coming from Danafor.

Had something gone wrong with the body?? Had the tube broken?? But it shouldn't leak that quickly! Even if it was shattered, it wouldn't be THAT strong!!

Fuck this, even without flying, he'd be faster on foot. He left the horse in an old travel stable and SPRINTED towards Danafor, covering miles in moments.

Holy Fucking Shit

This wasn't the process gone wrong, this was the work of a demon! And, if he wasn't mistaken, the signature belonged to FRAUDRIN!

Ugh, he couldn't worry about this right this second, he couldn't even worry about the fact that everyone was dead, succumbed to the dragons, or the miasma, he didn't know. Right now, he needed to check on his lab, make sure everything was alri-

No...

The castle had been leveled, and in the rubble, stood Fraudrin was curiously hunched over a shattered tube, the liquid miasma seeping into the ground. He poked the slime covered babe, the soulless body giving one last feeble twitch before dying.

"What have you done???" He yelled, rushing forward. Maybe he could- he could salvage this somehow??

"Pr-Prince Zeldris!" He practically yelped, shocked as his majesty fell to his knees, trying to put the body back in shallow basin left, barely half a foot of the miasmic liquid left in the glass clinging to the bottom, slowly seeping out. "No no no no, come on, come ON, please!"

But it was to no avail, and Zeldris knew that. He let out a whimper, crumbling a little as he pulled it back against him. "I was so close..."

"I... What?"

"I WAS SO CLOSE!!!"

Fraudrin flinched back a little as Zeldris whirled around on him, still cradling the body. "I WAS BRINGING HIM BACK! I WAS ALMOST DONE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! I ALMOST BROUGHT MELIODAS BACK TO ME, AND YOUVE RUINED EVERYTHING!! 3000 YEARS OF WORK, AND YOU KILLED HIM AGAIN!!!!"

"I-I-I- um, no I didn’t- I didn't mean- I didn't know-" Fraudrin hadn't meant to, he hadn't! He'd been curious at first, then angry some human was experimenting with demonic energy! He hadn't known there was something ALIVE in there until he'd broken the glass, and the fetus had slid out, and what was he supposed to do at that point??

Zeldris couldn't be bothered, too consumed, too blinded by the rage, the utter DEFEAT of LOSING HIM AGAIN.

And he snapped.

Torrents of darkness swirled around as he screamed his anger and loss, destroying everything in its path. Later, he'd regret it. Later, he'd be sorry that he'd destroyed everything that was left. Later, he'd wonder if there were any survivors he'd killed. Later, he'd be sad he killed a former teammate for a lapse in judgement. Later, he'd hit himself over not trying to salvage what research he could.

He swaddled the dead baby in his cloak, not able to part with him just yet, and trudged out of the hole. Zaratras found him a few days later, overlooking the smoldering remains. Nothing but ash and darkness was left.

"Young man! Are you hurt? Come, tell us what's happened, we'll get some food and water into you. Is that a child? How does it fair, I'm sure we can find something for- Young man?"

Zeldris turned slowly to look at him, face hollow and exhausted. "He's dead." He whispered, tightening his arms around the bundle. "My little brother is dead."

"Oh, heavens..." Zaratras whispered, eyes darting between the hollow eyed man and the baby he now knew to be dead in his arms. It was so small... perhaps it had been premature, and unable to handle the world, even BEFORE whatever happened went down. The poor guy was obviously still in shock, and he was quick to usher him away from the edge.

On the way back to Liones, after Zeldris had buried him in a little Glen he just knew he'd like, he explained in brief detail that the annihilation of Danafor was the result of him losing control of his magic in a rage upon finding the little one dead. Zaratras was shocked, asking if, perhaps, he might be a little bit... delusional? He'd been trying to be delicate, but that kind of power was unheard of!!

Then Zeldris simply glanced at him and sighed, picking a twig off the ground and inspecting it. "What kind of damage do you think I could inflict with this?"

"Oh, I... I suppose a swat may sting a little?"

"Hmm... What about making a canyon?"

"Pardon-?? GOOD LORD-"

Zeldris brought it down towards a mountain, dividing it in two with just that simple flick. Zaratras gaped and Zeldris discarded the stick easily. "Looks can be deceiving, Sir. I'm strong. I got angry. That's all there is to it."

Not even a month later, he was branded the sin of Wrath. At least Merlin was there. So was Gowther, which was a shock. Then he realized he didn't have his memories and ah... yeah, that tracks, with his lucks.

The sins were formed, and he was made their captain. Shadows, this was reminiscent of the old days, with the commandments. It was comforting, in an odd way.

The first time they'd seen the black tears that adorned his face every time he activated his magic, was when he fought Escanor to convince him to join. He'd knocked the man flat on his ass within a minute, stunning all of them.

He began his attempts to bring Meliodas back once more. It took a couple of years of prep, but though he'd lost the physical research, he was much more knowledgeable than he was when he started this journey.

He was writing away at his desk, the purple glow of the tube cast over the lab. Soon, he'd be ready to retrieve his soul again. He left Merlin to guard over it this time, not willing to take any chances, and departed once more.

The Capital of the dead was easy to find, harder to enter. But a couple of kids gave him a clue, and he smiled, connecting the dots.

Memories of the dead, huh? Worth a shot.

He laid down in the barren field, hands behind his head as he brought back the memories he'd kept carefully tucked away, for the most part. He loved them, but... they hurt. Remembering what he'd lost that day.

Laughter rang through his mind and he smelled the sudden flowers, felt the wind sweep around him, before dissipating. When he opened his eyes again, the landscape bad changed, filled with giant crystals and tinted skies.

The land of the dead.

He sat up, looking around, and began his search. He knew he probably didn't have much time.

"Meliodas! Meliodas! Are you here? Meliodas!"

"Big brother!!"

He whirled around at the voice and beamed as he caught the bundle in his arms, lifting him up. "Oh, little one, there you are! I missed you so much!" Meliodas’s golden hair tickled his nose as he nuzzled closer, looking up to beam at him. Zeldris’s chest hurt, he knew he was dead, but he looked so ALIVE!

He would be soon.

Zeldris squeezed him tightly, shaking them back and forth a little as Meliodas gasped and laughed. "Alright, sweetheart. I need you to do something for me, ok?"

"Wha?"

"Stay with me, I'm taking you home with me."

His eyes got big and wide. "You can do that??"

He nodded with a smile, nuzzling their foreheads together. "That's right, little one. I figured out a way to bring you back!"

"Woooowwww!! Big Brother, you're so smart!!"

He smiled softly and took a moment to just hold him, before inhaling, exhaling, and letting himself begin to return to the land of the living. He felt his body begin to disintegrate, and Meliodas gasped. "Zel Zel, your skin!!"

"It's alright, just hold on to me, DO NOT let go, ok??"

"But you're hurt!!"

"I'm not, I promise, just don't let go!"

"Ok..."

His vision left him, and when it returned, he was back in the field, a little blue orb held against his chest. He smiled, feeling its gentle, pulsing warmth. Meliodas couldnt sense much right now, a disembodied soul having only their sixth sense to feel the world, but he knew Zeldris was there, his presence as comforting as always.

Zeldris put him into a special container he and Merlin had devised, to ensure transport went smoothly. It looked like a clear glass ball, but Meliodas would be safe inside until he could transfer him to his new body.

He began the trek back to Liones. The body would be almost, if not completely, ready by now. He opted to hold the ball, rather than carry it In his bag. He did put it into a small, velvet sack, just so it'd

He was not expecting to return to all of the sins, as well as Zaratras, inside his lab. Merlin shot him an apologetic look, but she had not budged from where she'd put herself between them and the tube.

"What is going on here??"

"We could ask you the same, Captain. What the fuck is that?" King growled, pointing at the tube.

"...It's none of your concern." He said slowly, eyes narrowed as he slowly inched around them to Merlin.

"It feels dark, what have you been up to behind our backs??"

"I already said it's none of your concern."

Ban spoke up this time. "It's demonic, isn't it? I know a demonic signature. That feels similar. What are you doing with that kind of magic?" His eyes narrowed. "And what's in the bag?"

"None. Of. Your. Con. Cern."

"It's my hypothesis, you're trying to resurrect a demon. Is that correct?" Gowther tilted his head, and the others turned back to look at him. His silence spoke volumes.

"Zeldris... You're a good man." Zaratras stated. "A kind man. I'm sure this is all just one big misunderstanding. Why don't we talk about this?"

"Snatch!!"

Zeldris’s eyes widened as the bag flew out of his hands into Bans. "No- Give him back!!" It was too late, he'd already rolled the ball out of the velvet, looking at it curiously.

"Him?" There was a little blue ord inside, darting around frantically. He'd sensed being yanked away, sensed the sudden lack of his brother. Bans eyes widened. "Is this somebody's SOUL??"

Diane, shrunken, having used one of her pills, gasped loudly. "Captain, wha- how did you- what did you DO, what-?"

"GIVE HIM BACK!!!" He snarled, before he was immobilized by King's Guardian. It was a temporary hold at best, but it was all the time Zaratras needed to take the orb. "To unnaturally trap a soul is a crime against the world, and cruel. I don't know what has come over you, what is manipulating you, what you're DOING, but I won't stand for it. We'll figure out how to help you later, your mind obviously isn't right." He tugged a knife out of his belt and jabbed the tip against the glass, shattering it.

"NO!!!!"

The soul zipped around the room in a panic, and Zeldris tore free of guardian, ripping its arms off in the process. He lifted his hands and let out a pulse of his magic. Immediately, sensing him, Meliodas flew back over and Zeldris caught him, holding the orb close in his palms. "It's ok, it's ok," he murmured, unable to help himself, even as he knew he wouldn't be able to hear him. "I'm here, I've got you. It's ok, Meliodas, Big Brother's not going to let anything happen to you, little one."

"Big... Brother?" Escanor whispered, as stunned as the rest of them. Zeldris looked up with a glare. "Yes, you fools. I'm bringing him back to me." He hissed, hunching over his soul protectively.

"Oh, Zeldris..." Zaratras started pitingly, as he remembered the cold babe from a few years before. "It is cruel to revive the dead. Only the Demon clan could do it half accurately, with their connections and control over souls, but- oh stars, is that why you're trying to revive a demon?? To make it put the soul back into your brother?? The body will have long since decomposed, I'm sorry!"

Zeldris hissed at him wordlessly. "No, that's NOT why Im- it doesn't matter, it's not your business!"

"It is, I'm afraid. As both a druid and a grandmaster, it is my job to ensure the balance and order of Brittania are kept in check. Bringing back the dead is one of the worst taboos one can do!"

"Don't make me fight you, Zaratras. I don't want to. I don't want to fight any of you, but I'll not let you get in the way of bringing him back to me!!"

Ban hadn't spoken this whole time, but he put his hand on Kings shoulder when he started to reform his spear. "You found a way to bring someone back from the dead?"

Zeldris flicked his eyes over to him, before back to Zaratras. "...Yes."

"Could you repeat the process?"

"......Yes."

"Would you help me bring someone important to me back?"

"BAN!!!" King snapped and Ban scowled at him. "Get off your fucking high horse, man, as if you wouldn't do anything to bring YOUR little sister back!!"

"I wouldn't summon- revive- whatever- I wouldn't involve a DEMON to do it! Not when a demon killed her!"

"I AM A DEMON!" Zeldris finally snapped, letting his mark swirl into existence, unable to keep it contained as his stress grew. "I am a demon, alright?? I'm not reviving a demon to do the job for me, I can attach a soul to a body just FINE on my own! I'm reviving a demon, because that demon is my little brother! I held his body when a goddess broke into our home and stabbed his fingers into his chest and burned all seven of his hearts! I held him as he whimpered and bled out and clung to me! And I vowed I'd avenge him, but I wasn't able to, so when the rest of my people were sealed away, and the goddesses vanished, I devoted everything I had into figuring out how to bring him back! 3000 years, do you understand that?? 3000 years it took me to manage it, and I was so CLOSE in Danafor, before everything was lost and his body died before I'd ever had a chance to return his soul to him! I will NOT let you stop me! I WILL bring him back to me, and if you all try to make sure I don't, then I will SHOW YOU what it means to rain Hell, do you understand me???"

They stared in shocked silence. Zeldris growled wordlessly again and flicked his fingers, binds of darkness wrapped around the others and shoved them up against the wall. They cried out and struggled, but Zeldris walked over to the tube, now that they were out of the way. "Merlin. Perfect Cube."

She nodded, snapping her fingers so that they and all the equipment were placed inside of the cube. He let the others go, and they rushed forward, pounding against the barrier. It was between them and the door, too, so they couldn't leave. Zeldris glared at them over his shoulder, and walked forward, gently releasing the soul so he could use his hands. Meliodas settled at the crook of his neck, and he got to work.

King demanded he stop, right this instant!

Diane and Zaratras pleaded with him to stop.

Ban and Escanor tried talking to him, telling him just wait, hold on, before you start, what's all going on?

Gowther watched, curious as anything.

Zeldris ignored them all, working tirelessly. It took almost two hours, before he let the liquid miasma in the container start turning into air. Meliodas’s body remained floating in place due to the magic in the chamber.

Finally, he opened it, the purple mist rushing out with a hiss. Zeldris caught the naked body as it fell from its position, holding it gently, delicately. He set it out on a cot and started to check all its vitals, assess it, make sure everything was, in fact, going smoothly.

He was more than satisfied with his work. Indeed, this body was a perfect, genetic replica, down to the cute little mole on his elbow! And everything was in order! Pulse, breathing, organs, eye movement, muscle contractions, all of it! 3000 years of research and work to pull this off, and it WORKED! Attaching souls was a sinch, it may be Melasculas Forte, but demons as a whole were adept at it, and he'd practiced (maybe not always morally) to get especially good, just for this day!

He lifted the soul off his shoulder, and smiled. "Alright little one. It's time. I can't wait to get to hug you again."

"Zeldris, NO!" Zaratras tried once more, even knowing he wouldn't listen.

He gently pinched the soul, pulling out the thread. A gentle weave, and the blue thread hummed. He let go of him, holding onto the thread as he found the tether point in his new body, tracing a finger down his chest, gently pulling golden threads from each of his seven hearts. He pulled them together so they all connected at their tips, the gold merging together, and he brought the blue over, gently guiding it in.

The blue fed into the gold, and the gold into the blue, until all eight threads bore a swirling mix of the two colors. Zeldris smiled in satisfaction as he gently pushed the soul into his mouth, the threads fading into his body as the glow of the soul spread through his entire body before fading away.

A moment later, his eyes fluttered open, and he looked up, his first sight being his big brother. He smiled tiredly and made weak grabby hands at him. "Zel Zel..." He murmured, and Zeldris gave a little sobbing laugh, obediently picking him up and holding him gently against him. "Hello, Meliodas. Welcome back, sweet thing."

He yawned, his adorable little fangs catching the light. "'M real tired..."

"We'll, you've just been born, so it would make sense. Would you like to sleep?"

He hummed and nodded, nuzzling against him, and yawning once more. "You'll be here when I wake up, right? It was really scary, when I woke up in that weird place without you."

"Oh, yes baby. I'll never leave your side again, I promise."

"Mk... Love you, Zel Zel. Missed... you..." His eyes slid shut and Zeldris curled around him. "I love you too, Mel Mel." Exhausted, he also fell unconscious, trusting Merlin to make sure they'd both be ok. Besides, the sins... he didn't think they'd really do anything.

The perfect cube faded away, and they stumbled forward. "Zeldris-" Zaratras started, before noticed he was very much not awake. "Merlin, is he-??"

"Asleep? Yes. While demons as a whole can manipulate souls, soul threading is an incredibly complex and strenuous skill. Doing it wrong has massive back lash for both the performer and the recipient. On top of that, he offered forth a good half of his raw life force to his brother. He'll recover both his energy and life with time and rest, but for now? He is beyond exhausted. He's walking the edge of death from over exergation. His plan had been to go through it a little slower, but then you all threw a fit, and he had to rush it along."

"But- it's not- natural-" Zaratras started. "He shouldn't have- he should have just accepted."

"Would you 'just accept' of Gilthunder died in your arms, because your sworn enemy murdered him in his own nursery?"

"No!! I-... Oh."

"Besides that. Life and Death is more complicated than druids typically give it credit for. The domain of Demons IS Death. For 3000 years, Zeldris has been the one person keeping that balance in check, by managing corrupt and malevolent spirits. If anyone would know the ways of Death and rebirth, it would be him."

"...His brother is very cute..."

"He would burn the world down for him in a heartbeat. Leave, all of you. He's in no state to argue right now. When he wakes, we'll explain the true purpose of the Seven Deadly Sins to you."

Ah this was so wonderful to read!

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Everyone cries (but only because they’re stupid), they go home, and Leon wins a lot of money :)

Merlin’s Angry Magic Reveal, part 5 (final part)

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4

TW: Lots of death again I suppose (you’ll see what I mean)

The gang watches on in amazement as Merlin calls lightening strike after lightening strike, seemingly unbothered by the chaos around him, and the power he was displaying.

Merlin really wasn’t kidding when he said they should be scared of him. Damn.

They worry for a moment, and Lancelot has to hold Arthur back, as they notice the first of the three enemy sorcerers step into their line of sight. But they calm quickly when they see Merlin look towards her and nod, before going back to the battle at hand. If he trusted her, then they would to.

Elyan points to her and shouts at everyone to keep a tight grip on the horses as they see the ground beginning to shake, the ripples in the mud heading towards them at an alarming pace.

“Brace yourselves!” is shouted by Leon moments before it reaches them, and all of them are thrown to the ground violently.

No one is injured, but they are dazed, and it takes them a few moments to right themselves again. The next time they look out, a frenzied blue fire is ripping into those closest to Merlin, and dissipating into the air around him.

Now with some space, it would appear that Merlin had taken inspiration from his new found friend, and the ground shakes even more violently than before (though this time much more contained, The Gang doesn’t feel even a small tremor where they stand).

Gwen speaks up quietly, but still loud enough that everyone can hear her over the shrieking:

“Gods above... how long has he been able to do that?”

Morgana answers her:

“The Druids don’t fuck around. They did say he would be The Most Powerful Warlock to Ever Walk the Earth, I guess we should’ve seen this coming.”

Everyone nods distractedly, but no one can tear their gaze from the scene in front of them. The ground snaps shut with one last rumble, over half the army having disappeared, and they see the remaining soldiers turn to flee.

Every one of them gasps in shock as vines burst from the ground, and begin to rip the deserters to shreds. None of them thought that Merlin was the type to kill someone who had their back turned, but like he said earlier... he was pissed.

Suddenly the battlefield is near empty, and silent. They’re distracted by the slight tilt of Merlin’s head, and the distant sounds of howling wolves (no doubt summoned to take care of the last few soldiers), so don’t see the frenzied King sneak up on him before it’s too late.

Arthur takes in a sudden breath when he notices and begins sprinting towards Merlin, no one holding him back this time.

The King of Camelot shouts his warning too late as the sword pierces Merlin’s back, and is forced with a shove out through his chest.

The sorcerers in front of him stare on in shock, too far away from Arthur for him to be paying them any attention.

He pulls his sword out as Merlin’s attacker stumbles back, and cuts him down without a thought, without looking away from Merlin for even a second.

He collapses on the floors behind his friend (could he really call him that after last night?) and begins to beg (begging who, he isn’t quite sure. Anyone that would listen, he supposes) :

“ No.... no no no, Come on Merls, don’t do this to me. You promised.”

He has to hold in a pained gasp as he turns Merlin over, and is struck with horror as he realises the exact resemblance to the vision from four days ago.

The blank stare of Merlin’s eyes, the blood from his mouth. All identical.

Arthur is so wrapped up in his shock, that he doesn’t notice The Gang finally catching up, and gathering around him.

Everyone is in shock, painful cries escaping them. Both at the death of their friend, and the sporadic breathing and sobs of Arthur.

Lancelot pushes to the front, and kneels on the other side of Merlin, taking his already cold hand in his own and whispering to himself (to Merlin) :

“Come on.... come on, Merlin. You can do it, you’re immortal remember. Come on.”

After what felt like forever, the forgotten sorcerers push through the crowd. Everyone is too shocked to notice the intrusion.

The girl takes in a deep breath, and whispers:

“Emrys...” before crouching next to Arthur, and tilting her head, as if waiting.

She looks up to her two companions, and they nod at her, seeming to all be agreeing on something. She swallows and looks back towards Merlin’s blank face, reaching towards the hilt of the sword at his spine.

Leon and Elyan jump into action, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her back:

“What are you doing?!” and “Don’t touch him!” are shouted simultaneously as they grip her, but she looks back in annoyance before replying sharply:

“I’m trying to help! How do you expect him to wake up with a great big bloody sword through his chest?”

This seems to get Arthur’s attention, and he looks up for the first time, eyes red and cheeks wet as he stares at her in confusion.

Her annoyance fades, and she gives him a soft look as she explains:

“He will be fine, I promise. But he won’t wake up if he’s just immediately going to die again. His body has to heal before his soul returns to it. We need to take it out.”

In Arthur’s state of shock and grief, it takes him a few moments to fully register what was said, but he shakes his head and looks back at her, before saying in a quiet, shaking voice:

“He’ll come back?”

All three of the sorcerers nod slowly understanding his grief, and the girl reaches for the hilt of the sword once again, slowly this time.

“Do it.” from Arthur prompts her to grip the metal, and pull it from Merlin’s body with a sickening squelch.

The whole gang grimaces as it come away slick with blood, and try not to look at the floor as the puddle around him begins to expand even quicker than before.

Everyone stares at Merlin with bated breath, waiting and hoping (well... the gang is hoping. The three helpers don’t seem too worried) for any sort of movement.

After what seemed like hours, Merlin’s eyes blink slowly, and he brings in half a shuddered breath before coughing violently, and rolling off of Arthur’s lap and onto the floor, onto his hands and knees.

The Gang stares in shock as their previously dead friend coughs and splutters, blood flying from his mouth, before he collapses down onto his back, clutching his chest:

“That bloody hurt.”

Gwaine is the first to begin laughing, not necessarily out of humour, but an adrenaline crash mixed with a no-longer-dead friend will do that to you sometimes.

Merlin stares up in confusion as everyone joins in, some hysterical (and probably still in shock), and some just quietly chucking at how stupid they’d been.

Percival is the first to catch his breath and speak:

“Are you telling me... that after all that worrying... we literally just had to pull the thing out of you, and you’d be fine again?”

Merlin shrugs as best he can from his position on the floor (made even harder by the fact that one of his hands was being gripped by Arthur, the other by Lancelot) and replies with a smirk:

“I guess so. I told you I’d be fine!”

Everyone shakes their heads in disbelief, and Lancelot stands, pulling Merlin and Arthur with him. Merlin is quickly engulfed in a tight group hug, the sorcerers having just managed to escape and standing off to the side, staring on in amusement.

Arthur is the last to pull away, and Merlin’s now free arms wrap around him without hesitation as he buries his head in his friend’s (?) neck:

“I told you. Nothing can keep me away from you... at least not for too long. Pull it out a little quicker next time, yeah?”

Arthur laughs quietly and pulls back, pressing his forehead against Merlin’s before quietly replying with a smile:

“Bold of you to assume I will ever allow this to happen again.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to laugh this time, and the both of them ignore the confusion on everyone else’s faces (as far as they were all concerned, that comment came unprompted out of nowhere).

Arthur coughs slightly and pulls back, his face flushed, seeming to remember that they were surrounded by their closest friends.

Merlin rolls his eyes before also stepping back, and giving Arthur a pointed look:

“Don’t look so embarrassed Arthur. I’m pretty sure this lot knew before we did.”

He doesn’t give Arthur time to reply, instead looking around at his friends with an exhausted, but shining smile on his face:

“Time to go home, I think.”

~

The journey back to Camelot is relaxed, and full of smiles. Arthur spends the whole journey glued to Merlin’s side, and Leon spends the whole journey with a self satisfied smirk on his face (if they get their act together at some point in the next 2 weeks, which Leon has absolute faith they will, then he wins a lot of money).

They had invited the three sorcerers to join them, but they declined, saying they had been missing a long time, and wanted to get home. The Gang provided them with some spare clothes, and helped them catch some of the enemy’s horses, (who had miraculously not run too far during the battle) before sending them on their way with an open invite to visit Camelot any time they would like.

They rush home, but they aren’t nearly as tense and desperate as they were on the way out, so it takes them an extra day to get there, not that any of them minded. 

Once Merlin had gained a little of his strength back, he reached out to the Druids who remained in the city as advisors, so that the council could be updated on the state of things.

The people were told that the King and the Inner Council had been successful in their mission, and would be returning home within a few days, victorious.

The meeting they got at the gates to the city was astounding. Banners and flowers and declarations of celebration surrounded them all the way from the city walls, to the castle, and even the Council seemed in a good mood (a rare occurrence).

They were especially happy when Arthur dumped a dented crown, and a slashed and bloody cloak on the table, announcing that the opposition had no heir, and if they moved quickly, the neighbouring Kingdom would be absorbed into Camelot. Arthur, King by Conquest, had almost doubled the size of his kingdom. 

He sent out half an army, along with Leon, Elyan, and Lancelot, within the week. They took medical supplies and food, as a show of good faith to the commoners. The first month or so would be spent clearing the kingdom of any supporters of the fallen king, and spreading compassion and help. Once that was complete, Arthur would go there personally, to greet his new people (and probably sign a lot of paperwork, but bleugh).

Merlin and Arthur are sitting back in their comfy chairs by the fire in Arthur’s chambers, when Arthur casually mentions gifting the new land to Merlin, and making him King. Or at least Lord.

Merlin looked at him indignantly, it had only been a few days since they got back, and they were both still exhausted, but he replied with such vigour that you would never have known that he’d died barely a week prior:

“Absolutely not. I don’t think I would make a good King, Arthur. And I don’t want it anyway. I’d be weeks away, and everyone I care about lives here. You can’t get rid of me that easily, especially not after such an emotional confession.” He raise an eyebrow and smirks as Arthur flushes, looking to his lap:

“Shut up.” 

The conversation hadn’t been had yet, but neither felt awkward about it, they both knew the truth. After Merlin woke up again, it felt like time had reset, like once more they had all the time in the world. Neither of them are great at talking about their emotions, and both were prepared to wait until the moment seemed right, until they both had the right words.

Merlin laughs at Arthur, before absentmindedly reaching out a hand towards him. Arthur takes it without question, and looks back to Merlin, face serious, but loving:

“I meant it Merlin. I love you, with everything I have. I would give all of it up for you, the crown, Camelot, everything.”

Merlin smiles, blushing, and stands, pulling Arthur to stand with him.

They still grip hands, and stare into the blue of each others eyes as Merlin’s voice echoes in Arthur’s head:

“I love you too. I told you Arthur, this is where I belong, with you.”

Both of them ignore the tears gathering in their eyes as they lean forwards. They meet in the middle, in a slow kiss that has both of their hearts jumping.

Merlin wraps his arms around the King’s waist as Arthur lifts his hands up to rest against his Sorcerer’s chest, pulling at his collar slightly. 

They pull away slowly, needing breath, but not willing to part as they once again find themselves resting their foreheads against each other:

“Merls, you'll stay, won’t you?”

Merlin responds without even a second of hesitation, a fond smile on his face:

“Forever.”

~

Leon gets his money (which Gwaine never stops grumbling about: “If they’d held off for two more weeks, I would’ve won!”) and is very smug about it.

As time passes, Morgana’s terrifying visions start to make more sense.

Gaius and Hunith did in fact cry... three years down the line when Arthur finally requested that the Druids perform one of their binding ceremonies on himself and Merlin, their closest friends and family as the only witnesses.

(There was, of course, a larger, more public celebration of their joining, but the private affair was the important one.)

The silver crown, forged by the Druids behind Merlin’s back (as a sort of... wedding gift, Arthur would say) was used a few days later in Merlin’s official crowning. Made to look like leaves and vines and flowers and berries, truly the most Druidic, magical, nature inspired crown anyone had ever set their eyes upon.

(Arthur thought that Merlin never looked better, more himself, than when he donned the crown. But Arthur would never say that out loud, Merlin was still shy at heart, and he didn’t want to discourage him from wearing it.)

The tombstone, they discovered, was the fallen King’s. He was cruel, and cowardly, but Arthur had honour, and had the crown and cloak washed and buried in his bloodline’s cemetery. Nothing fancy, just a stone and a name and two dates.

(For history’s sake. After learning the truth about magic, Arthur swore that he would never knowingly erase history, not even his own mistakes.)

The empty chambers were obvious in the end. It may have taken three years for them to be officially wed, but their rooms were down the corridor from one another... and Arthur had a nicer bed. It only took a week or so before they were sleeping besides one another every night, and who would argue against it? Arthur was King, and Merlin had once again saved the kingdom, they could bloody well do what they liked.

They never actually figured out specifically when Morgana saw nine of them sat at the table, looking blank. Merlin was so often late to meetings, leaving the rest of them to wait patiently (or not so patiently) for his arrival. It could have been any number of times over the years.

After all their fretting, the anxiety of the war and the worry for her friend had led Morgana down a grim path. Perhaps it was because she was looking for reasons to dissuade Merlin from going? 

Whatever the cause, her and Merlin continue to work together to hone their crafts, Gwen supporting her every step of the way.

Now. Morgana and Gwen. They were a little more subtle about their relationship, but they also moved a little quicker, and were quietly bound to one another within a year of the Great Battle of Merlin’s BAMFness. Not that anyone was that surprised, mind you.

Speaking of Merlin’s BAMFness, there were definitely more shows of Merlin’s power once they got home. Despite being Court Sorcerer, Merlin was still affected by the years spent hiding and in fear (something that Arthur never quite forgave himself for), and never used his magic in public much, not if he could help it.

He used it for simple things, or when asked, but never would he allow himself to succumb to his emotions, positive or negative, and always kept tight control. The last thing he wanted to do, was accidently convince someone that magic was dangerous and evil and undo all the work he and Arthur had done.

Nowadays, after months of pestering by the gang (mainly Gwaine and Percival) to “show us something cool! Come on Merlin, you defeated an entire army, we know you can show us something cool!” , he was definitely more comfortable using his magic in every day situations.

Arthur was eternally grateful for that, he had done all he could, and he continued to support Merlin, but he knew that unless that validation came from elsewhere as well, Merlin would never be comfortable in his own skin.

BUT for now they have everything. Merthur is happy, Leon is smug, Morgwen is happy and smug, and the gang stays together, and happy, forever.

All because Merlin got depressed and angry and yelled at Arthur in the middle of the forest one day.

~

THE END 

Actually the end this time. Might be a bit anti climactic, but happy ending are a little anti climactic sometimes, and that’s ok.

I have a bunch of drafts on the go but if you’ve got anything specific you want my take on, go for it ✌️

[sapphicknightaesthetic]

Prompt #2: The winds call me back to you

Ireland had proved to be more than Eivor had bargained for. She sailed home on the wind-tossed sea, wondering if the trade routes, outposts, and alliances she forged would prove to be worth it in the end, compared to their exorbitantly high cost. She remembered Barid’s eyes, soft but desperate, pleading with her to ensure  King Flann’s allegiance with his last breath, paired with an intensity of his love for his son. He had built a thriving city all so that Sichfrith could prosper...

“...Valhalla need not be a place, Eivor. It can be a legacy…”

She thought about her own legacy. Her intention had always been a life dedicated to fighting for honor, for the glory of her people, for some measure of peace where she no longer needed to pick up her axe to defend them at every turn. But is that what England had given her? She had spent much of her energy and immense skills at the whims of others with political aims and goals, not always aligning with her own. She had placed more than one puppet king on a throne, often needing to choose between the better of two evils. Was this honor? Was this a legacy worthy of entrance to Valhalla? 

Eivor felt exhaustion roll through her like the tide, filling every crevice. She felt unsure of her place in the world, and just needed the comfort of home. Of Randvi. That was her raison d'être, as Estrid would say. Her reason for being. If she fought for the betterment of her clan, if she made connections and alliances to ensure their safety, that was all that mattered. She shook the sad cobwebs from her mind, determined to have a genuine smile for her wife when she returned. She leaned against the firm wall of the longship, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Birna shook her shoulder. “Come on Sunbeam. Home time.”

Eivor’s eyes fluttered open, she blinked sleep back to its void. “Have we docked?”

“Not yet. We’re just around the bend.”

“Thanks for waking me, Birna.”

“I’m so glad to be rid of Ireland! Those Druids were something else, eh? Giving decent Pagans a bad name.”

“Mmmm.”

“Eivor, I don’t mean to pry. But you spent a lot of time with that red haired witch...what’s her name…”

“Ciara. I did. What’s your question, Birna?”

“I’m just wondering if you made any Druid magic of your own in that wet bog of a land?”

Eivor rolled her eyes. Birna knew full well she hadn’t, though this question seemed to pop up after every major journey they undertook. Eivor had tried to tell her multiple times that she would never be unfaithful to Randvi, that she could not bed anyone for the sake of it if her heart wasn’t in it. The concept had been lost on Birna, and so the questions had persisted. 

“You know I didn’t.”

“I’m just checking. You do have a type, Sunbeam. That red hair burns like fire.”

Eivor grinned ruefully, shook her head, and turned to look at their surroundings. They were just passing the trined point in the river that led to Grantebridge, the ruins of Duroliponte looming to the Southeast. One more bend and they’d be home. She wondered if Randvi would be there waiting; she had sent Sýnin ahead with a note. The evening was well on its way, Randvi might even be asleep. She pictured their bed, warm and soft, furs piled on top of them as they snuggled together, limbs entwined. More and more, this was what she wanted. The return home was always worth it, and was always something she looked forward to, but lately she no longer wanted to return, she only wanted the simple everyday fact of her and Randvi together, because she had never left in the first place.

She watched, wistfully, as the crew lowered the sails and started rowing, this part of the river too narrow to traverse safely. Her heart rate increased as the Raider’s hut roof became visible, growing closer with each stroke of the oars. She felt a swell of pride as more of her village emerged from the lowland fog. Her village . She had built this place from almost nothing, discarded hovels of canvas and sticks. Sigurd may have claimed it as theirs, but Eivor had been the one to turn it into something to be proud of, something worth protecting. She leapt to the back of the ship’s tail, standing on a ledge. “...Valhalla need not be a place, Eivor. It can be a legacy…” This was her Valhalla, and it would never be complete without the person at it’s centre, at its heart. 

Eivor realized then that while she was proud of Ravensthorpe, Ravensthorpe, much like her former idea of Valhalla, was only a place. Randvi was her true home. She’d go wherever Randvi was, without question. Their love, with all of its storied history of waiting, longing, and hiding, was her legacy. She saw copper hair, cloaked against the oncoming chill of the evening, waiting like a beacon between the posts of the village entrance.

The ship glided silently up to the dock, and Eivor immediately leapt off, running as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her. She grabbed Randvi, lifting her off the ground in a tight embrace, spinning her around. She inhaled Randvi’s scent, spice and fire blending with earth and ink and smoke. Her heart beat Randvi’s name in fast repetition, her hands holding onto her wife as tightly as she dared without hurting her.

“My love,” Randvi whispered, as she held fast to Eivor. “How I’ve missed you.” Her hands caressed the back of Eivor’s newly shaved head, luxuriating in the velvety feel. 

Eivor couldn’t speak, she did not want to break the moment with words, but slowly set Randvi down, quickly finding her mouth and communicating everything she couldn’t say with a long, slow kiss, paying attention to the feel of Randvi’s lips, the warmth of her mouth, the teasing nature of her teeth. 

Claps and pats of hands landed on her back and shoulders from the crew as they walked past the pair. Their hearts never failed to be happy for their Jarl, for the love that she had found and fought for. For all of her sacrifice, for the enormous work she had devoted to make their lives better, they gladdened at the sight of Eivor and Randvi together. They knew how hard her road had been, how much she had suffered, often silently, from such a young age. Her happiness was their happiness, and they showed her whenever they could. Birna let out a whistle. 

“You better get her to bed, Jarlskona.” Birna wrapped an arm around Petra, who had walked down to meet her wife when she saw the familiar Raven sails from her hut.

“Leave them be, love. I’d better get you to bed.” Petra wrapped an arm around Birna’s waist.

“You’ll hear no complaints from me, Petra. Good night, Sunbeam!”

Eivor and Randvi watched them leave, as Eivor sent them off with a wave. Randvi turned back around, seeing the edges of something in Eivor’s face. “What’s wrong, darling? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. I have a few cuts and bruises, nothing to worry about, my heart.”

“Thank you for sending Sýnin. I have a bath prepared. And some roast boar, thanks to Petra.”

Eivor felt overcome at the thoughtful care Randvi showed her in all things. “Randvi...thank you.” Was all she could manage. 

Randvi smiled at her, her wife was always so ready to display gratitude, a custom she never tired of, but she furrowed her eyes, wondering what was troubling her usually contented drengr.

“Let’s get you home.”

 

Randvi and Eivor sat in deliciously scented hot water. The worry and tension Eivor had carried home with her evaporated into the steam drifting to the longhouse ceiling. A satisfied smile now constantly fixed on her face. 

“This was a great idea, possibly the best you’ve ever had. And that’s truly saying something.”

“I aim to please, my Jarl.” Randvi felt self-congratulatory at the obvious change in her love’s mood. Years of observing Eivor, of seeing her come home in different states of health and happiness, of finding different ways of tending to that glorious body and soul made Randvi an expert in the proper care and maintenance of her physically ferocious wife. But one truth prevailed among her experience: Eivor always recooperated faster with a bath. 

“Are you ready to talk about Ireland?”

Eivor exhaled. “I will do my best. It still feels...fresh.”

Randvi sat up in the bath, giving Eivor all of her attention.

“You know I went to Ireland to help my cousin, Barid. And I did help, although Barid fell in battle. His High King did not heed Barid’s warnings. We were able to beat the Druids back, but I have been wondering if his death was needless, no matter how good and glorious his end. He died a hero, and is no doubt in Valhalla, but had his words been listened to, he would still be the King of Dublin, and his son would still have his father.”

“It is not up to us to change fate, Eivor. It sounds like the Nornir gave Barid a good death. What else can we ask in this life?”

“The love of the most beautiful and intelligent of women, for a start, at the very least.”

Randvi rolled her eyes and laughed, pleasure and embarrassment mingled together. When she looked back at Eivor, sorrow still crept in the periphery. “Is that all that troubles you, Eivor?”

“The Druids of Ireland are much like us, trying to carve out a life for themselves, trying to hold onto their traditions and culture, though the Christians would willingly wipe them, and us, away if given the chance. There was an extremist faction, the Children of Danu, that were causing all the strife while other Druids were forced to live in fear and even secrecy. It made me wonder if we will ever truly pacify this land. The Christians make no room for anyone else. I…I had to kill a Druid priestess who I thought was my friend, all for a Christian King who would rule over all. Was that honorable? I feel...stained, Randvi. I wonder if the decisions I’ve made in my time here are hurting our people, rather than truly helping. She was misguided, angry, she caused a lot of pain in the land there. I think King Flann Sinna saw the error of his ways in his treatment of the Druids, and he will make amends - he said as much. But these Christians...they can be false as well as unyielding. I’m not sure how far he can be trusted.” 

Memories of Fulke and King Aelfred made her skin prick involuntarily. The Norse and Danes were often met with a great deal more than suspicion and hostility, labeled as barbarians and savages for their voracity in war. But there was something honest and forthright in them as a people; they hid nothing, they lived openly and celebrated the customs and cultures of all who chose to live among them. Sharing resources through a community was their way, regardless of the people that community comprised; yet this was not the way of the Christians. From what she had seen, they feared all outsiders. She was unsure if this was unique to Anglo-Saxon Christians or not, but from all she had experienced, she was not keen to go looking for other examples. 

Randvi found Eivor’s hand under the warm water, and stroked soothingly. Her love never lost sight of the broader view and what it meant for her people. It was one of the many things she adored and cherished about her. She took Eivor’s fingers and brought them to her lips, kissing them lightly. 

“These are large questions, my love. Too large to confront in one night. But I promise I will help you as much as I can in our time come in this land. You try to take care of so many, Eivor Varinsdottir. I fear the world is too big, even for your very broad shoulders.”

Eivor felt her heart flutter. After all these years, after all this time, being with Randvi made her feel like she was falling in love with her over and over again. She never stopped falling. 

“But maybe, just for tonight, you can let me take care of you?” Randvi leaned forward, kissing one cheek lightly, then the other cheek, her nose, her chin, across her forehead, until she found Eivor’s lips, nipping lightly, until Eivor pulled her forward and kissed her with earnest desire. She opened her body, as Randvi lay on top of her in the bath, relishing the closeness after too many months apart. 

Eivor leaned her head back slightly, looking into Randvi’s eyes, darkened to forest green between her desire and the dim candlelight around them.

“Barid said something to me, before the Valkyrie came to claim him. He told me that Valhalla need not be a place, that it can be a legacy.” Eivor held Randvi’s gaze, needing her to feel how much she meant what she was about to say. “I think perhaps for me, it is not so much a legacy, as it’s you, Randvi. You are my home, my Valhalla. After all of our time in England, all of the campaigns, the politicking, the alliances we have paid for with sweat and blood, we could walk away tomorrow and I would not care. The winds always call me back to you, wherever you are.” 

Randvi felt strangely vulnerable, though deeply moved. She felt her heart race to echo and return Eivor’s sentiment. If Eivor ever left Ravensthorpe, Randvi would follow without hesitation. She used the moment to lean down and kiss Eivor again, with unashamed love and lust and pride and longing and hope. Their lives together had not been easy, but it had been worth every moment they had paid. 

She felt Eivor’s hands slide down to her lower back, holding her closely. She felt a hot rush in her center, and decided it was time to leave the bath. 

“Shall we adjourn to our chambers, my Jarl?”

Eivor smirked, knowingly. “Indeed, my Jarlskona.” 

Randvi made her way out of the bath, as Eivor followed suit. Randvi spied some new blade slices over Eivor’s body, and some fresh bruises getting ready to bloom; she’d be sure to kiss them all later. She took Eivor’s hand and led them naked to their bed. Their bed . A place she was never tired of acknowledging. 

Eivor pulled Randvi to her, wrapping her in strong, solid muscle. “I missed you, Jarlskona.”

“And I you, my Jarl.” Randvi pressed her teeth against Eivor’s neck, nipping and sucking her way along the tender flesh under her chin. She heard Eivor’s breath catch, and a gasp after she released skin from her teeth. She moved a hand, cupping Eivor’s sex, feeling the wet traces of her want on her fingers. Eivor bowed her head resting it on Randvi’s shoulder, her breathing deepening with anticipation. This fierce drengr, terror of England and Ireland, great Jarl of a proud clan, was made vulnerable and soft with a single touch. It was a power Randvi knew only she wielded, and she never took it for granted. 

She brought Eivor to the bed, guiding her down. “What would you like, darling?” She purred in a way that drove Eivor wild.

“You. I just want you.”

“I am yours, Eivor.”

And the sound of those words, said by the only woman in the world she needed to hear them from, snapped Eivor out of the worry she brought home with her. As the sounds of their love-making filled the longhouse, Ravensthorpe sighed relief, and for tonight at least, everything was well in the world.

[supercalvin]

Hello, may I request a Merthur ficlet where they’re teens during war ish times and they dance to O Children I just know you’re a potter head and thus there is no way you don’t know which scene I’m referring to 🤧 (Also I’m actually frequently on your page and we’ve interracted and I’m so fun and quirky that I decided to go anon for this one just to spice things up hoho) BONUS POINTS for soft cheek touching and sweet first kissing but whatever yk not that important 👉🏼👈🏼

This is a hilariously late reply to this prompt. Thank god tumblr doesn’t put dates on asks, because I’d be too embarrassed to post this ficlet. Anyways. I had to look up this scene lol, but it was very cute and I loved this idea. Soft cheeks kisses here we goooooooo.

ficlets

---

The radio on Merlin’s shoulder crackled, and he quickly turned it down. The forest was quiet, and Merlin’s magic hadn’t detected anything besides animals in a mile radius, but that didn’t mean he was going to let a radio give away his position. He crouched down and waited for a minute, listening to the sounds of the forest around him. The pack of supplies dug into his shoulder, but with only a mile left to go, he knew he had better keep it on his back and feel the relief later, rather than try to get it back on his sore back.

With another quick spell to ensure that no one was around, Merlin continued on his route. His boots crunched in the autumn leaves and the air was crisp. Merlin could feel the magic in the forest like electricity before a storm.

There was limited access to electricity in the forest, it was mostly used for lights and any emergency medical equipment that Gaius needed. Otherwise everyone endured without it and magic was used when it wasn’t being used to defend the camp. Before the war, the thought of living without constant electricity seemed unreal, but after three years of living in the forest and running supplies between encampments, it was hard for Merlin to remember what life was like before.

When Merlin pictured the end of the war, the only luxuries he longed for was a warm bed and a large bath. Mostly he wished for his people to be free once again.

When Merlin entered the edge of the camp, he felt the wards shimmer around his form. Although invisible to most people, Merlin could always see the magic, it glimmered in the light like dust motes in a sunbeam. As soon as he passed through the wards he heard the commotion. His hackles raised and instinctually looked around for danger, before he realized that the sound wasn’t screams of fear but rather the raucous sounds of celebration.

The supplies tent was at the back of the encampment, where it could best be protected. Merlin wound his way around the tents until he found the large green tent. When he stepped inside, he was greeted by a young Druid woman, Ferridel.

“What’s happened?”

“Oh Merlin, you’ve returned. The battalion came back with news of victory while you were gone. We’ve taken the valley.”

Merlin nodded, his heart racing in his chest. Too many questions to ask, he was left dumb.

Merlin dropped off the supplies, but he was too anxious to stay and speak with Ferridel. He rushed to the center of camp, where a large bonfire was blazing and soldiers were gathered with tankards in hand. Their coats and rifles were strewn about the benches around the bonfire. Some soldiers raised their hands in greeting, but Merlin was looking for a familiar face.

“Looking for someone?”

Merlin whipped around to see exactly who he was looking for.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, his breath leaving him in a whisper.

Arthur smiled, looking far too pleased with himself as he cocked his head to one side. “You look awful, Merlin. What have you been doing? Rolling in the dirt while we fight this war?”

“You’re an ass,” Merlin said, but his harsh words were soon softened as he engulfed Arthur in a tight embrace. Arthur’s arms wrapped around him and he could feel Arthur shake a little. Despite his bravado, Arthur wasn’t a fool. Every time he stepped onto that battle field, it could be the end. Merlin knew that when Arthur left last month, it could have been his last time seeing his best friend’s smile.

Arthur pulled back and gripped Merlin’s shoulder, “Now you look like a man who could use a nice glass of scotch.”

“You have scotch?” Merlin said.

Arthur tilted his head towards the residential tents. “Come on,” He tugged on Merlin’s jacket.

Before Merlin knew it, Arthur had gotten Merlin a warm basin of water and a large pile of food. As Captain of the battalion, Arthur was granted some privileges, and usually Merlin would tell Arthur he was a spoiled prince for it, but now the warm water felt nice and the Merlin was starving. When he was travelling between encampments Merlin usually only ate jerky and whatever bread hadn’t gone stale.

As Merlin ate, Arthur told him about the battle. He was brief, very limited in his details. Merlin was grateful. He hated hearing about battle plans but he also knew that for every positive note Arthur said about the battle, there was a price they had paid. Merlin knew that as the men celebrated their victory, they also mourned their fallen brethren.

“So where is this infamous scotch?”

Arthur smiled, crooked and sly. He opened up a trunk and pulled aside clothes that cushioned a large bottle of amber liquid. Merlin raised his brow. Alcohol was hard to come by nowadays. Merlin ran essential supplies between encampments, and alcohol was rarely on that list.

Arthur cut the wax seal with his pocket knife and poured a heavy serving for both of them.

“To victory,” Arthur raised his glass.

“To freedom,” Merlin said, and clanked his glass against Arthur’s.

The scotch was warm as it ran down his throat. He coughed, not used to the feeling anymore. Arthur laughed at him and pounded his back. They drank and told each other stories of friends and foes alike. They talked about before the war and they dreamed about afterwards. Soon enough, both of them were laughing in drunken delight. Perhaps on a different night the scotch would have made them somber. But not tonight, after an essential victory.

Music had started to play outside and Merlin could hear the shuffle of people dancing and drunkenly singing along to the music.

Arthur stood on unsteady feet, a warm smile on his face as he reached for Merlin.

“What are you doing?” Merlin laughed as Arthur hauled him to his feet.

“Dance with me, Merlin,” Arthur whined, pouting like a spoiled child.

“You don’t want to see me dance, Arthur. You know how clumsy I am.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur pouted. His hands had settled on Merlin’s waist. He was warm from the alcohol, and it burned Merlin to be this close to the sun. “You’re not clumsy when you do magic. Come on, do some magic for me.”

“You’re such a spoiled prat.” Merlin held his hands against Arthur’s chest, but did not push him away. Despite his words, Merlin was not one to deny Arthur anything, especially when he was inebriated. So he let his magic loose. Dozens of small lights filled the tent, bobbing in the air like fireflies.

“Beautiful,” Arthur said, but he hadn’t turned his head to look at the lights.

The song outside was slow, but the tune was uplifting. Arthur took Merlin’s hands off his chest, cradling one in his palm and the other he slid up so that it rested against Arthur’s shoulder. They danced, albeit horribly, but nonetheless they did dance. Merlin stumbled over his own feet and Arthur did not know how to keep a beat, but they laughed and that was more important than skill.

As the music dwindled, they heard cheers outside. Someone was speaking to the crowd by the bonfire. Then someone started playing a somber tune, the same they always played at the end of any victory or defeat. They lost men, no matter the outcome. Their mood had changed just as quickly as the songs had changed.

Merlin felt his throat close up. He reached up to touch Arthur’s face, cradling his jaw in his palm.

“Thank the gods,” Merlin said, the rest of his sentence stuck in his throat. The thought of losing Arthur was too overwhelming, any words to express it were lost to Merlin.

“I’m right here,” Arthur said, holding Merlin’s wrist, “I’ll always be here.”

Merlin shook his head, “You can’t promise that.”

“I’ll always come back to you.”

Merlin shook his head, feeling tears run down his cheek even as he closed his eyes against them. He was always an easy crier, and usually Arthur would make fun of him for it. But Arthur stayed silent this time.

“Oh, Merlin. I hate when you do this…” Arthur shook off Merlin’s hand and cradled Merlin’s face in his own hands, wiping the tears with his thumbs. “I fight this war for you… For your freedom. For your happiness. One day, I will never see you cry again.”

Before Merlin could answer, Arthur leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Merlin’s cheek and then pulled away and kissed the other, right at the edge of his lips.

Merlin gripped Arthur’s wrists, his eyes flickering between Arthur’s trying to read his expression. But he was so grimmly serious, as if Arthur was vowing that he would fight every enemy soldier himself just to protect Merlin.

“Live through this war...that’s what will make me happy.”

“I will,” Arthur vowed with a solemn nod.

Just a few inches of air separated them, but they felt like miles. Arthur looked Merlin in the eye, and then down, and before Merlin could register what was happening, Arthur was kissing him. Merlin gripped him tight, feeling Arthur’s hands tighten on his jaw.

Arthur pulled back, “Is this...? Are you alright with…?”

“And you say I talk too much,” Merlin said, and shut him up with a kiss.

***

Ficlets

[giveemhales]

Moodboards for Sterek AUs: 20/?

For @averysterekwinter day 3 (Theme: snow/ice)

Snow Day

(Plus here’s a fluffy ficlet, the rest under the cut because it got a bit long)

The first thing Stiles noticed when he woke up was that outside was white.

It was snowing, and not the drizzle of snowflakes that would melt upon hitting ground that was more usual for the area. No, there was a thick layer of white over everything in sight.

The second thing he noticed was the thing that woke him up: a text on his phone. He didn’t want to call it hypervigilance, because that implied a whole host of other issues he didn’t want to address, but even just the vibration of his phone from a single text was enough to rouse him.

It was an inconvenient habit (it was winter break and he wanted to sleep in, dammit), but he was grateful he had been roused when he read the text.

The text was from Derek and simply said Come to pack house ASAP.

Rest of fic under the cut!

He considered calling or texting to ask what was wrong, but he had gotten enough texts like that to know he wouldn’t get a response. If he wanted any answers, he would have to go to the pack house.

Stiles and Derek had been dating for around a year now, but they rarely texted. Well, Derek rarely texted. Stiles texted and Derek sometimes reluctantly replied. He wasn’t a big fan of technology. Kind of annoying considering Stiles was usually away at his campus, but Derek’s almost weekly visits more than made up for it.

So seeing this text immediately concerned Stiles. Pair that with the unusual snow, and he assumed the worst.

His mind whirred with different possibilities. Did a witch cast a spell? Was Jack Frost making a visit? Was some new dark Druid coming to fuck with nature?

He knew he was being a bit irrational, but he had learned to assume the worst when it came to Beacon Hills, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen actual snow at home in his lifetime. His past experiences didn’t allow him the luxury of excitement about novelties.

Overall, the combination of the unusual weather and the text from Derek calling for an emergency meeting had Stiles on edge and falling out of his bed in his haste to head out.

He didn’t have a good snow jacket so he just put on as many layers as was comfortable and a coat. He grabbed some gloves, and mourned for his converse which would surely not do well in the snow.

Stiles rushed out to his car, noting his dad had already left for the station. He was grateful to note the roads had already been cleared, as he wasn’t sure if his jeep could handle snow and ice.

He parked when he reached the edge of the preserve. They had cleared a dirt road so that they would be able to drive to the pack house, but it wasn’t an official street so the city had no reason to clear it of snow. 

Stiles understood why it wasn’t cleared of snow, but he was still annoyed. Fortunately, the snow wasn’t slushy, so at least his feet weren’t soaked. Still, his converse and jeans did little to protect him from the cold, and he walked as quickly as he could, while also watching out for any possible ice patches. 

By the time the pack house was in sight, Stiles was shivering, and ready to yell at Derek for making him come all this way when phones were a thing. 

Derek was standing in front of the pack house, and Stiles had no qualms about yelling and walking at the same time.

“Hey, jerk, there better be a good reason you called me out here, like dead bodies good reason. I am just a human without all the werewolf heat mojo, and I’m on break, so there are not a whole lot of reasons I should be anywhere except in bed sleeping right now.”

Stiles couldn’t really make out Derek’s face, but he knew it wasn’t as remorseful as it should have been.

Stiles sighed loudly and continued marching toward the house, looking down again to make sure he didn’t step in anything which would make him even more uncomfortable.

It was as soon as he looked down that he felt it, the cold becoming even colder, ice running through his veins.

He was under attack!

He looked up with a gasp, eyes searching for the assailant, for what cruel monster had thrown a snowball right at him. 

He was surprised to see that all of the pack had appeared in front of the house (damn werewolf speed), all wearing smirks of varying deviousness. 

Derek had his arm still raised, and Stiles knew he was the perpetrator (he wasn’t even wearing gloves but already had another snowball in his other hand, he clearly had an unfair advantage). 

In fact, everyone had a snowball prepared, and they were all staring right at Stiles with an evil gleam.

“Whoa! Who decided everyone would team up against me? This seems totally unfair.”

“It’s not everyone against you,” Scott said.

“It’s every man for himself,” Isaac finished for him, and threw a snowball right at Derek’s face.

And then it was chaos.

Stiles made as many snowballs as he could while the werewolves were distracted amongst themselves, thanking god he had thought to put on gloves. 

When Stiles was pretty sure he had a good amount of ammo stockpiled, he called to Scott. “Scotty, it’s snow time!”

Ever since they were young, when they had any sort of battle, whether it be nerf guns or water balloons, “It’s show time,” was their codeword to create an alliance. They would join forces and blindside their opposite.

(Stiles may or may not have been waiting his whole life to get to use that snow time pun).

Stiles began constructing a kick ass fortress as Scott ran over and began throwing Stiles’ snowballs at a pace only werewolves were capable of. 

When he popped up to check how Scott was doing, he was blindsided by three rapid succession snowballs right to the face. 

All from his boyfriend.

“Rude! And totally unwarranted!” Stiles shouted.

Derek glared at him. “It was revenge for that awful pun.”

Stiles gaped. “Oh you have snow idea what you’ve just started.”

He ducked before Derek had even thrown the next snowball.

The battle lasted close to another hour (Stiles cursed werewolf endurance), hundreds of snowballs and a handful of puns thrown.

It was at the time that his gloves were soaked through and he thought his fingers might fall off if he made one more snowball that he decided to call it quits.

He turned to look at Scott who was hiding with him behind the fortress and gave one nod. They stood up in unison, shouting their surrender with their hands up.

They were immediately pelted with a flurry of balls.

Stiles’ arms fell to his side. “Really? When we were surrendering? Do you snow snow bounds?”

The rest of the pack stared at him with blank stares.

“Fine, whatever, clearly nobody appreciates me nor understands my genius. Sorry my puns are too advanced for you all.” Stiles shook his head in disappointment and began to head to the house.

And promptly fell on his ass.

The rest of the pack burst into laughter (including Scott, the traitor, who was quick to abandon him), and Stiles glared at the sky from where he lay, cursing the world for this injustice.

Derek walked over, a smirk clear on his face while he looked down at Stiles. “You good?”

Stiles grumbled. “Yes. I meant to do that.”

Derek looked even more amused. “Oh really? And why is that?” Derek asked even as he offered a hand to help Stiles up.

“So I could do this!” Stiles shouted as he pulled down Derek with all his might with the offered hand. He knew Derek must not have been expecting it, because he actually managed to pull him down with an exclamation.

His victory was short lived, as he realized the consequences of his actions. He groaned. “God, you’re so heavy.”

“And you’re so dumb.” Derek got up on his elbows so he was slightly above Stiles. 

Stiles stared dreamily up at his boyfriend, deciding to ignore the insult. “Hey, did it hurt?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You mean when you pulled me down? Not really, I had a squishy human to cushion my fall.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “No, when you fell from heaven,” Stiles smiled widely, “Because you’re a snow angel.” He rolled them so he was above Derek.

Derek sighed heavily but remained limp as Stiles grabbed his arms, sliding them up and down through the snow in the classic snow angel motion.

Stiles rolled away from Derek when he got as close to an angel as he could and made his own, laughing the whole time. 

Derek sat up from where he had been manhandled. “Why do I put up with you?”

“It’s because you glove me!” Stiles shouted, removing one of his gloves (which at this point had become so soaked from snow that it was just making him more cold) and tossing it at Derek.

“Don’t take off your gloves, you dumbass!” Derek said, looking scandalized. Stiles couldn’t really blame him for his concern. Stiles was a human, and therefore susceptible to pesky things like hypothermia, but Derek should have thought of that before he started a snowball battle. 

Derek stood up and lifted Stiles up, hauling him over his shoulder.

Stiles didn’t really mind, since it got him out of the snow and gave him a great view of Derek’s ass.

“Just admit you’re s-mitten!” He took off his other glove and slapped Derek’s ass with it.

~~~

An hour later, Stiles was wearing multiple layers of Derek’s (dry) clothes, wrapped in a blanket, cuddling against his furnace boyfriend, surrounded by the pack.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but even if some people were needlessly cruel to me today, I had an ice time.”

The pack groaned, except Scott, who added, “Icy what you did there!”

Stiles leaned over to high five Scott.

“I will kick out the next person to make a pun,” Derek interjected.

Stiles rolled his eyes, even as he cuddled back into Derek’s side. “Ugh, whatever you say, Frosty.”

Derek glared down at Stiles, looking prepared to retaliate.

Stiles put his hands up in mock surrender. “That wasn’t a pun, that was a reference.”

“Well it wasn’t a very good one, since Frosty was a holly jolly soul.”

Stiles beamed. “Oh my god, my boyfriend knows his Christmas classics. I think I’m in love.”

“We know,” the rest of the pack responded in unison, but Stiles was too busy staring up at his boyfriend in adoration to care.

~~~ 

Later that night, when they laid together in bed, Stiles looked up at Derek, and his fondness shined bright. “I love you.”

Derek looked back at him, equally fond, and smirked and said, “I know.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted to hit him for ruining the moment, or kiss him senseless for quoting Star Wars. He did neither, because he couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

“You mean, you snow?”

The ensuing slap on the back of his head was well worth it.

[author-morgan]

Title: The Hands of the Queen Pairing: Bárid x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Reuniting with old friends brings new woes. Contains spoilers for the Wrath of the Druids DLC. @angstygunslinger​ come get Eivor’s brother cousin.

“DO MY EYES deceive me?” You query, watching the Norsemen disembark the longship at the docks. Norsemen in Ireland were not a rare sight, but those bearing the sigil of the Raven clan are. He steps onto the wharf, cool blue gaze darting around the new land —Dublin. Despite the long years, Eivor Varinsson is unmistakable, even if the last time you saw him was as children. You turn back to your apprentice, motioning for her to take leave with the basket of herbs and flowers —you would see the poultices and elixirs made after a reunion with an old friend. “Eivor!”

He spins on heel, eyes widening and lips curving upward beneath his golden whiskers. Yours is a face he’s not seen in what seems a lifetime. Eivor is quick to take you into his arms as one of his oldest friends. He steps back after a moment, still smiling even when you lift your hand to his scarred cheek —oh, the stories you could tell one another since the days of childhood passed. “You are a long way from Norway, friend,” he notes, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your lips quirk upward. “And yet, I am not alone,” you tell him, stepping back. The King of Dublin confided in you that he sent word to his cousin and old friend, asking for Eivor’s aid in trying times upon hearing of his deeds in England. “Come” —you motion for Eivor to follow, thanking Azar for her assistance— “I will take you to see my husband.” Bárid had grown anxious in recent weeks, worrying his message had not been received as the coronation of Flann grew nigh.

“Husband?” Eivor questions with a brow raised and mirth lacing his tone —struggling to believe the headfast and independent girl who would take no help from anyone would ever decide to be tamed by a man or woman. He glances at you and finds a flush of color on your cheeks, a rare and stunning sight. It takes only a moment longer for Eivor to piece together your position here in Dublin and that in the years past, you must have wedded his cousin. “You and Bárid?” He almost laughs, recalling how often the two of you were at odds over trivial things.

“He has his charms.” You’ve known many to lead unhappy marriages, but the gods truly blessed you when you married Bárid —even after all the times you squabbled as children. Eivor chuckles, glancing around the port city. It looks as though the people are preparing for a feast. “You’ve always had spectacular timing, Eivor” —you smile, half-thinking of the night Eivor came into the world squalling like a warrior. A reminder of the cold spring night when your own son was born. Banners are hung on the path to the King’s Hall, and lanterns strung from low tree branches. Today is a good day, and not just because of Eivor’s arrival.

“You’re just in time for a feast in my son’s honor. Sichfrith is seventeen today.” Eivor shakes his head in disbelief —so much time gone, and yet it all feels as though it were only yesterday when he, you, and Bárid were playing in the snow in Norway, all giving your parents more grief than they deserved. “We’re getting old, Eivor,” you laugh, guiding him into the longhouse where people bustle about in preparation for the night’s feast and where Bárid sits on his throne —holding court.

WITH FLANN’S CORONATION as High King, you hoped to hear word of from Bárid —that he would be returning to you sooner rather than later, but no raven or pigeon comes bearing news. It remains as such until a stormy night. Horns resound across the city in the black of night; had you been able to sleep in an empty bed, their cry may have woken you. Donning a cloak, you exit the longhouse in the pouring rain and lashing wind, seeing a procession turn toward the knoll. “Eivor!” You greet, quickly embracing him before heartache and fear take hold of you. “Where is my husband?”

Eivor draws in a shaky breath, turning to the wain drawn by two war horses. His cousin clings to life, but barely. The blade had cut deep —an avoidable folly had Flann trusted his pagan friends. “Bárid,” you whisper, fingers trailing down his muddy cheek. Your name rolls off his tongue, barely audible and pained. Steeling yourself, you move the blanket covering Bárid’s middle. If he is to live, you must act quickly.

Recovering the wound, you turn to the longhouse, calling for your son to wake. “Sichfrith!” He stumbles into the hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but stands alert when he sees the tears on your cheeks and Eivor carrying his father. “Go, wake Luigsech,” you tell him, pushing him toward the raging storm. “Quickly!” Sichfrith darts into the storm, seeking out your apprentice. Taking an ornate dagger from the bedside table, you place it in the hearth —letting the flames lick the steel until it glows. Fire is the only way to cleanse this wound. Silently, you and Eivor work to rid Bárid of his ruined armor. The gash is long and deep; the flesh below his right armpit torn open across his breast and nigh to his ribs. You pray to Eir and that she may guide your hand in what is to follow.

The first rays of the morning sun flood the room by the time you're able to sit back —brow slick with sweat and hands bloodied. There is nothing else you can do save wait for the gods to make their decision. Eivor presses a cup of cool spring water into your hands, then moves to the opposite side of the bed. It does not feel right to leave you alone with your thoughts just yet as Sichfrith had gone pray and unleash his sorrow on some poor straw-stuffed soldier. “I always feared the day this would come,” you admit, eyes flashing up from Bárid to Eivor. For so long, Bárid had traded his sword and shield for diplomacy and trade, a false hope you might grow old together —watch your son ascend to the throne for a long reign. You take a long drink from the cup, setting it aside while shaking your head. “You warriors and your Valhalla.”

Eivor reaches across the bed, seizing your hands. Now is not the time to resign to despair. “Do not give up hope,” he breathes, knowing his cousin is strong, strong enough to overcome this —strength ran in their family. “Had the High-One called his name, he would not be here now.” It is a type of poor consolation, but consolation, nonetheless.

You hold Bárid’s hand against your chest, lips brushing his knuckles when ire strikes you. Eivor sees the shift in your eyes —a woman scorned. “They will suffer for this.” The Abbot of Armagh’s last days on Midgard had begun. Drawing in a slow breath, you look to Eivor, appearing to him now as a leader and commander. “Take Sichfrith” —it was time he saw battle; you could shelter him no longer from the woes of the world— “and all our forces to ally with Flann.”

Eivor Wolfsmal rises, dipping his head in genuflection, happy to wrought destruction on those who would harm his friends and family. “As you command, queen,” he says, leaving with no delay.

In solitude, you allow yourself the time to grieve and beg the gods not to take this man from you. “Come back to me, Bárid,” you whisper, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead and another to his cracked lips.

“SLOWLY,” YOU CHIDE, almost laughing while helping Bárid to the entrance of the longhouse. The cry of the horns had come in the early hours of the morn, and after naught but two days of being conscious, Bárid sought to spring from bed to welcome the return of his victorious son. You press your hand against his chest, reminding him it will be weeks before he is fully recovered from his injuries —even with your skillful hands and vast knowledge of the healing arts. Holding tight to his hand, you smile, seeing Sichfrith ride next to Eivor with the pride of victory etched on their faces. Glimpsing Bárid, you see the same pride echoed in his smile and know never had there been a prouder father.

Sichfrith dismounts, untying a blade strapped to his saddle —a token from Flann of his friendship and a promise the High King of Ireland will support Bárid’s title of King of Dublin, and Sichfrith after. You watch as your son kneels, presenting the finely crafted sword. Silently, Bárid takes the blade, looking over it for only a moment before passing it back to Azar. He urges Sichfrith to rise, holding his son an arm’s length away before bringing him into a tight embrace. Your smile widens, gaze flicking to Eivor in hopes he will see how thankful you are for his deeds.

Despite himself, Bárid reaches out with his sore side, pulling you to him. Both he and Sichfrith wrap an arm around your waist. The tears on your cheeks are those of joy and relief. You brush your hand through your son’s hair, kissing his forehead. Bárid’s smile grows wider when he sees you looking at him with the same love and adoration from when you were both young lovers. He stoops forward, pressing his lips to yours —the two braids of his mustache tickling your jaw. The gods smiled down upon you the day you wedded Bárid, and now, as you embrace your husband and son, you begin to realize they have not stopped smiling upon you since then.

[cankarmawrite]

Hey dude, just wanted to say that your writing is amazing and I really enjoyed how you wrote Keyleth in a recent Vexleth prompt. I was hoping you could write something similar with Keyleth getting triggered and/or overstimulated and Vex is the only one who realizes what’s happening. Maybe she gets protective and snaps at the rest of VM to back off and then calms Keyleth down?

Percy had promised Keyleth they would only be staying in the tavern for a short time. Judging by the inebriated state of Grog, they’d been there at least three hours, if not longer. 

 “Just long enough to get some information from the locals and do some people watching.” He’d said, but Keyleth knew the white-haired man well enough to know when he was lying. Though he was one of her closest friends, Percy was still greedy when it came to things he wanted, even if it meant putting the other party members in tough situations. 

If it was any other night, Keyleth might have even enjoyed herself at the tavern, letting the cacophonous sounds of merriment drown out the loudness of her own thoughts and senses. This was not the case tonight, as Keyleth was drained from their fight earlier. She’d been hit by a particularly nasty Chain Lightning spell by the mage they were tracking. The combination of the lingering ache from that and the exhaustion she felt after spending most of her spells during the fight meant she was quickly overwhelmed by the environment of the tavern. 

Currently, Keyleth had her hands wrapped tightly around a half-full tankard of ale and her eyes fixed firmly at the bottom of the cup. Looking around the room was out of the question, as there was some music act going on that used flashing lights and bright colors. A particularly loud yell went around the room as the patrons cheered over something she couldn’t see, and Keyleth’s hands immediately clapped over her pointed ears to save herself from the auditory onslaught. None of the other members of Vox Machina seemed to notice how poorly she was doing, a fairly normal occurrence, but that didn’t mean her friends didn’t care. 

The druid began to struggle out of the booth she was tucked into when her skin prickled as it had just before being struck with lightning. The task was made more difficult given the stupid dress she’d decided to wear today. It was new, and she’d wanted to wear it out because it swished around her knees so nicely and the silk felt like cool water running over her skin. In her hurry to escape from the oppressive heat, sound, and sights of the tavern Keyleth managed to knock into one of the various tavern patrons with a boney elbow. This of course sent the cup they held and its contents flying for a brief moment before spilling down the front of her dress. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

All of her calming and coping techniques went out the window when the well-meaning patron reached out to try and dab some of the ale off of Keyleth’s dress with a handkerchief. Their touch on her already buzzing skin and the shrill sound of their voice was too much to handle. Keyleth knocked their hand away from where it was touching her shoulder, feeling uncontrolled defensive magic sparking at her fingers as she did so. 

The only thing that kept her from releasing the spell was a gentle and familiar voice right by her ear. 

“Keyleth, darling? Will you take a walk with me?” 

Oh, Vex. 

Keyleth nodded frantically and squeezed her eyes shut as Vex placed a single hand on the small of her back to guide her through the rowdy crowd and out into the cool night air. The relief of being outside lasted for two seconds before she heard her name being shouted by Vax and Percy. 

“Keyleth! Where are you going? We were about to -”

The grounding touch of Vex disappeared for a brief moment as the ranger behind her spun around to berate the two men for being blind to the obvious distressed Keyleth. 

“We are going for a walk, alone.” Her eyes narrowed as Percy continued to approach, hands reaching for Keyleth before Vex stepped in between the gunslinger and the girl she loved. 

“Did that mage knock all of the sense out of your brain, De Rolo? You told Keyleth we’d only be here a short time, and after the day she’s had…” Vex shook her head and pointed to her twin as well. “And you! Vax did you even notice that you kept knocking into Keyleth at the table? You two should feel like shit because you’ve ignored your friends obvious signs of discomfort the entire night.” 

Vex watched her brother and Percy open their mouths multiple times to say something before thinking better of it and dropping their head in shame. She nodded, satisfied with their responses. “Now apologize.” 

“Sorry Kiki…” Percy murmured, cheeks turning a brilliant shade of tomato in response to the verbal berating he’d just received. “Um, we’ll meet up with you later?” 

“Sorry Kiki…” Vax echoed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment before tugging at Percy’s arm to drag him back into the chaos of the tavern. 

The druid didn’t offer a response to Percy, mainly because Vex had wrapped an arm around her waist and was leading her towards the lush forest at the edge of the small town. For the first few seconds, she enjoyed the weight of Vex’s arm against her body, but as soon as they broke the treeline she was squirming away from the half-elf and pulling frustratedly at the dress that wetly clung to her skin and assailed her with unpleasant sensations. 

When she couldn’t seem to work her hands well enough to get the dress off she turned to Vex and just threw herself at the woman, tears flowing freely now as she struggled to breathe through the panic rising in her chest. The motion sent both her and Vex tumbling ungracefully to the ground, but the ranger accepted it and maneuvered their connected bodies so she could clutch Keyleth tightly to her chest. 

The steady thud of Vex’s heart beneath her breastbone cut through the electricity sparking in Keyleth’s brain and across her skin. She never pushed Keyleth away, not even when the woman dug her nails just a little too hard into the soft flesh of her bicep. 

“Breathe my love. Can you do that for me?”

Keyleth nodded slowly against Vex’s shirt, her shoulders rising and falling in sync with the rhythm of Vex’s breathing over the next few minutes until her shaking had stopped and her body had lost some of its tenseness.

“Good girl. I was really worried for a moment.” 

The druid whimpered at that and turned her face up to look at Vex, eyes wide and seeking comfort in the familiar sight of Vex’s deep green eyes that often reminded her of winter evergreens and mossy forest floors. 

The gentle brush of Vex’s hand across her back paused momentarily as the ranger fell deep into Keyleth’s trusting eyes and deeper in love with her. The woman on her chest clenched the fabric of her shirt tightly in one fist before surging forward to bury her face in the warm crook of Vex’s neck. She laid there for a few moments, just relishing in the scents of peppery Queen Anne’s Lace and sweet Honeysuckle that followed Vex wherever she went. Keyleth had never fully settled on whether or not it was a perfume, soap, or just Vex’s natural scent, but either way, it was something she rarely allowed herself to appreciate this closely. 

The silence stretched on for a few more minutes, the two women just basking in the sounds of the nighttime forest around them before Keyleth stirred and pulled her head back so she could look the dark-haired beauty in the face again. 

“Vex?” Keyleth’s voice was still hoarse from all the tears she’d cried, but at least she was able to speak again.

“Yes darling?” She watched the druid held in her arms as she chewed nervously at her bottom lip before wetting those perfect lips and-

“Thank you…”

Vex tried not to let her expression fall when Keyleth thanked her. She’d honestly been hoping Keyleth would kiss her, but that was stupid. Keyleth didn’t like her like that. Didn’t feel the sparks Vex felt every time they touched. 

A soft pair of lips brushing across her cheeks pulled the ranger from her miserable thoughts with a start, her hands gripping Keyleth slightly harder as the woman pulled back with a shy expression settling on her beautiful freckled face.

“Can I-”

“Will you-”

The two laughed nervously before their gazes met again and time melted away until all that remained were the stars above and the thundering of two hearts as their lips met tentatively in the most saccharine of first kisses. 

Keyleth felt lightning across her skin again, everywhere Vex was touching, but this time she welcomed it.

[wingletblackbird]

My Complicated Thoughts on Merlin

I started watching Merlin because I’d seen a lot of posts about it on Tumblr and heard good things. I struggled to watch it once we got to Season 4 though. I don’t think I have ever experienced such a love/hate relationship with a series in my life. I’ve tried to figure out why I have so many mixed feelings. Writing this post is cathartic, and has led me to the ultimate conclusion that I am in love with the potential of this show, but I don’t actually like what we were given. 

The Portrayal of Oppression/Morgana’s Arc:

Morgana’s arc could have been way more interesting, but they skip over too much important character development that we needed to see. In the beginning we see that Morgana opposes Uther’s cruelty. She is portrayed as being compassionate. We sympathize with her plight, especially once she discovered she has magic. 

This leads to an interesting moral dilemma. Should Morgana simply assassinate the king? Is Merlin’s long-game with Arthur more effective or moral? Uther is killing innocents. A revolution might be considered just. 

Instead, extremely rapidly, Morgana is played as the bad guy simply because she has decided to betray Camelot. We see her slaughtering innocent people herself when she becomes Queen. Why this transition to becoming like Uther but with magic so quickly? It made sense for her to want to assassinate Uther. That does not immediately make her evil. That needed to be more gradual. I saw the motivation for her hatred of Uther. But how she became evil, that is not portrayed well at all. 

We see hints of Morgana’s self-centeredness when she refuses to leave the Druids even knowing they’ll be slaughtered. Examine that streak. Show how a good cause can be corrupted by someone who becomes drunk on hate and power. The show tries, but it doesn’t quite get there. Show me that even a righteous cause can be led by a corrupted individual. 

Worse, the show does not show the nuance in any satisfying way. Show me that Morgana’s crusade against Uther and Arthur can actually be justified given that the law indicates that they would kill her and her kind. Morgana could legitimately consider Merlin a traitor. Her initial opposition to Uther is justified. He has committed and is committing genocide. Killing him could be seen as defense herself and other innocents. This could be opposed to Merlin’s bloodless coup, if you will. Which is the better option? What are the pros and cons?

And speaking of such oppressions, Merlin frees Freya and helps with Mordred. We really could have afforded to see more about how Merlin helps sorcerers escape, or about an underground network in general. How do they see Merlin? Do they hope he will influence the future king? Do they see him as a traitor? We see hints of this throughout the show such as with Gilli, but the writers never truly take it there. The story with Gilli ended up being about the corruption of power etc., and I liked it, but there was more to that story that needed to be addressed. Is it right or wrong for Merlin to defend Uther? Does it depend on the context? There are many times Merlin does that.

How Merlin Views Arthur:

Speaking of oppression, let’s talk about the effect it has on the psyche of Merlin. When we first meet Merlin, he has a strong moral compass, and confidence in his abilities. What he does not have is good self-esteem. He wonders if he’s a monster. He struggles because he is so powerful with something that is hated and can get him and his loved ones killed. Imagine the kind of fear that can creep into your soul when you have been watching people like you get executed since you were a child. Worse, you struggle to control your own abilities. You love your magic, maybe, but you also loathe yourself for the danger. 

Merlin, then, is a prime target for believing in Destiny. It’s nice to think he has a purpose in this after all. It is pretty clear that the Dragon is being manipulative. I don’t blame him after being trapped for decades. But Merlin is vulnerable and initially starts to protect Arthur because he needs to think he has a reason to be the way he is and is not a monster.

Having said that, I think we can say that Merlin does quickly come to love and respect Arthur. He believes that Arthur is a good man and will lead a good kingdom. All of these are good reasons to stay in his service. It is a good way to eventually show Arthur that magic can be good, to get a kingdom without oppression and the bloodshed of a revolution, and to protect a man he considers a friend. 

The problem with this is that by the end of the third season, Merlin’s double or triple motivation seems to narrow down in focus to simply protecting Arthur. Okay...but when are you going to have him see magic is good? I understand Merlin not being able to outright say anything because that might make him seem like a sympathizer, or just because of a lifetime of fear. But after all that subterfuge with Dragoon the Great and you can’t come up with a way to show magic doing something good without implicating yourself? Trust in Arthur’s character that you extol?

The fact is that by not revealing his magic to Arthur at the multiple different opportunities offered implies that Merlin does not in fact believe that Arthur is the man Merlin claims he is. I equally understand that growing up under that kind of oppression Merlin is not thinking straight. (Gaius does not help.) Furthermore, once you’ve risked your life to protect a man, it can become very hard to back out because you’ve already lost too much. It can also be hard to admit to secrecy after years of a relationship. But Merlin’s actions show that in the end, he does not trust Arthur, which is why he was supposed to have been protecting him. This suggests that Merlin is really just being emotionally manipulated. He has grown up in this oppression, and wants to believe his magic is good, and he has sacrificed too much, lost too much, at his point so he protects Arthur...even at the cost of other’s of his kind. 

If anything, Merlin goes from a kind-hearted boy who rescued people like Freya...to being willing to turn a blind eye to their suffering....!? Merlin goes from confident in the first season, with a clear moral compass...to being less so later on? When in theory, especially with Uther dead, he should be safer? More willing to take risks? 

There is another military aspect to consider as well. Morgana is a legitimate threat and without magic, Camelot cannot defend itself well. By not telling Arthur about his magic, or by not finding a way to make Arthur think about magic, Merlin is endangering everyone in Camelot. Arthur cannot defend his kingdom without the tools he needs. Merlin is now disrespecting his king, and making the decisions that are Arthur’s to make. How can Arthur command his armies without vital information? Merlin is powerful enough to be able to flee Camelot on the off chance Arthur tries to execute him. (In which case, maybe Merlin should join the other side.) He chooses to risk every life in Camelot rather than reveal his secret and help Arthur plan. That was acceptable for a minor coup when Morgana first took over. It’s not so great as the stakes progress.  Merlin was always willing to risk his life to do the right thing. And yet, when it counts the most, when Arthur is the one on the throne, he doesn’t?

This is never addressed in any satisfactory manner. 

Arthur’s Arc and Unfulfilled Expectations: 

This leads us to Arthur’s character arc. If Arthur’s character had shown Merlin the same respect in later seasons as in the first couple, I don’t think Merlin would have been placed in the position of having to truly betray his kind or indicate his trust in Arthur was wrong. Arthur even early in their relationship, like with Valiant, listens to Merlin. However, in later seasons, after so many years of faithful service, (and being right), Arthur is quick to dismiss him. (And then even that might get reversed in a dime...what are the writers thinking?) Of everyone from the knights to Gwen, Merlin is afforded the least recognition or respect it feels like at times.

Arthur also in the beginning showed concern for his friend. Additionally, he showed great concern in his own constipated way for Merlin’s feelings when he was down. Not so much in the later years... Why?

Moreover, has Arthur really learned to treat everyone as equals? Or only the one’s who have done something for him?

I don’t blame Arthur for his stance on magic much, because he has little reason to believe otherwise. However, in the earlier seasons we see him defying his father over things like killing Mordred, a child. Yet, in later seasons, he never seems able to step out of his father’s shadow. Never seems to truly realize how abysmal his father’s rule was. The Arthur of the early seasons ought to have grown enough to be able to do that, and therefore safely allow magic again. This does not happen. He is shown as being devastated by what he did to the druids...is this ever followed up on? 

This leads into unfulfilled expectations. Arthur was supposed to usher in a period of peace. Did he? No. And no matter what Kilgharrah says, I’m not buying it. If they had framed Kilgharrah as lying about that and manipulating poor Merlin for revenge, it would have made for a dreadful tragedy. As it is, it’s just a huge let down. If they had shown Merlin to be a tragic victim of oppression and manipulation who ended up not serving the man he thought he was...it would have been horrifying but interesting. As it is, I just hate it. 

Why would I want to watch someone who has been oppressed and threatened with death, lose everything to protect what he hoped would be his friend and his freedom, only to have to live with just being used? And be told that eventually, if you wait long enough, then you will have succeeded? That this was a good thing?! Is framed as a good thing? NO! I was sold a story about a man in a position of power being befriended by a man who has been oppressed. The man in power learns from his friend and becomes a man who helps liberate the oppressed. Together they create a better world. Eventually, the man in power dies tragically and we all cry. Instead I got this absolute garbage.  

I can see why Merlin’s fandom is so prolific. It is perfect for fanfic, because we have an interesting premise and interesting characters, but god-awful canon-writing. BBC Merlin is garbage with potential. 

[quasieli]

top six: fictional characters that give you gender envy, flowers, little things that make you happy and d&d moments :D

Ooh lotsa questions!

Gender Envy:

1) Bow from She-Ra (2018). Something about buff athletic dude who wears crop tops and is soft as hell is very Gender to me.

2) Vax from Critical Role. Pretty boy, kinda goth rogue? That’s sexy as hell and I wish that was me. 

3) In a wildly different idea of gender envy, I’ve been thinking about it lately and @quantum-lesbian’s character in the Frostmaiden game I’m in with them, Ambrose, is Big Gender. Beautiful non-binary drow with a starry and kinda witchy aesthetic that dresses super grandly and ostentatiously no matter the occasion? Yes please.

4) Pete from The Unsleeping City, specifically season two. I adore season one Pete but season two Pete that works in a queer bookshop and has a teapot arcane focus, is artsy and is unapologetically a trans man who doesn’t give a shit about gender roles? Sign me the fuck up.  

5) Beau from Critical Role. Buff GNC lesbian mixed with academia, but like academia from the prospective of a grad student with ADHD trying to learn everything about their special interests? A+, I love her and I’m jealous. 

6) I’m gonna cheat a lil bit for this last one. I know the prompt is fictional characters, but Julia Lepetit and Jacob Andrews in their Hitman streams? Simultaneously both of them were Gender for me. Jacob esp felt like that for me, which is weird cause dresses can make me dysphoric, but I am also slightly envious of the Dude in a Dress type of gender presentation. 

Can you tell that I’m a confused trans masc enby

Gonna put it under the cut from here cause oof, there’s still a lot more.

Flowers:

1) Big slut for Sunflowers, always have been, always will be.

2) Fun fact, my dad’s family used to own a flower shop (in like the 70s, so I never got to see it :(), and one of their big things was hydrangeas. My dad has always loved them and now I love the snowballs too!  

3) A recent favorite, the Baker’s Globe Mallow. It’s a type of flower that only grows from the soils of forests that have been affected by wildfires. It’s a simple little flower but I love the idea of something beautiful rising from the ashes after tragedy. A little dramatic, but I’m queer, ofc I’m dramatic.

4) Roses are another important flower to my family (Rose was a family name for a couple generations), and ya know, they’re a classic. 

5) There’s this beautiful magnolia tree in front of my house that blooms with the most beautiful white and pink flowers every spring, and it’s one of my favorite things to see every year. 

6) There’s so many different types of Lillies and they’re all very pretty, but the Purple Stargazer is prob my favorite.

Little Things That Make Me Happy:

1) My cat, Maddie. She may be a cranky girl at times, but she is also very sweet and will always be my baby (even though she is 12). 

2) Not a little thing really, but my best friend. Just getting a sweet/silly text from her or the two of us chilling in a room, sitting in a comfortable silence because we just like being together, nothing better. 

3) Baking, esp if I’m doing it for others. I’m not much of a sweets person myself, a little treat every once in a while type person, but I love baking. It’s a very relaxing process for me, even when it can sometimes get stressful, but seeing people enjoying something I made, especially something that brought me great joy to make, is simply the best. 

4) In the same sorta vein, crafting and other art, but that’s a bit more personal. I love making things for others, but art, particularly drawing, is something I do more for me. It’s such a great feeling when you can get into a really good art mood and just sink yourself into a project. I love it.

5) My plush toys. Yes, I am a 23 year old, no I will not stop loving my plushies. I just got a few new friends, which I made a post about recently, and they such good cuddle buddies. However, there is one king amongst them all. I have this old, beat up christmas puppy beanie baby, on his tag named Jingle Pup, but I just call him Jingle. I had one version of him since I was like 6, but he currently lives on a shelf cause he is very beaten up and fragile, but his “brother”, who I got when I was 8, is still in kinda good shape and is currently chilling on my chest as I type this lol.

6) Again, not a little thing, but it’s important to mention; D&D. The game itself is such a joy, but truly the best part of it is the people. I love creating stories and memories with people through this weird little game. Truly one of my favorite things to do.

D&D Moments:

These are all gonna be personal moments, rather than anything from actual play shows/podcasts. RC is Reforged Campaign, where I play Saube, and FM is Frostmaiden, where I play Sparks.

1) RC - Meeting Mahety, Saube’s girlfriend. We met her way back in session 12 and we are now up to like session 73. Saube saw her and was immediately big heart eyes at her but also felt a bit awkward and shy. So, being a game a dice, I decided to roll. 10 or higher, Saube would talk to her, 9 or lower, she’d stay put. I rolled a 17, 17 is now a lucky number for me. I love Mahety and I’d die for her. 

2) FM - This was an insane fight that should not have been so crazy, but in a fairly early session, my group went up against an angry druid and her awakened animals. So much batshit stuff happened in that fight, and we unfortunately lost our bread loving bard (RIP Agneyis), but one of my favorite combat turns happened in this fight. Our artificer, Omaren, has a robe of useful items and one of the patches on it creates a large pit. Thinking quickly, Omaren tore off the patch, slid it under one of the dire wolves we were fighting and created a looney tunes style pit under it, allowing us to take it out easily via pot shots. Such a clutch move and such a funny visual, especially because the dire wolf kept failing the checks to get out of the pit.  

3) RC - Saube’s Zebrith (I will never remember how this actually spelled RIP). So, for context, Saube ended up with a death curse (long story) that mechanically meant they had disadvantage on any death saving throws. Scary as hell, need to get that fixed! So, Saube and their party had to be smuggled into another country to talk with some religious leaders of a goddess known as The First, the goddess of death. They were told that Saube would have to go through the aforementioned ritual, which included her soul leaving her body for a short period of time. During this ritual, her friends had to call back to her, to say things that would bring her back to her body and I still cry thinking about that game. That ritual was not only important for Saube bodily, but spiritually as well. After that ritual, Saube officially became a cleric of The First! 

4) A real sappy one, RC - Saube meeting all of her friends. Anyone who follows along with the rantings on my blog probably knows how important this game is to me. I met this random group of strangers on tumblr and formed a D&D party with them and now, a year and a half later, I honestly think it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I know that sounds silly and dramatic but not only has this game brought me so much joy and comfort, but I also gained a group of really amazing friends who have been nothing but amazing since day one. As much as Saube knows she can depend on SICL, I know I can depend on my group of weirdos lol. We both love our friends very much and even though we’ve all been through some crazy shit, we wouldn’t change it for the world.    

5) RC - Just playing Saube in general. I really didn’t intend for it to be this way, but Saube is very much a reflection of myself. She is the first long term character I have ever played and so much of me is in her. I try not to treat D&D like therapy, because that’s unfair to my DM and fellow party members, but playing Saube has allowed me to work through some of my own problems, especially social anxiety, in a lot safer of an environment. It isn’t so much that I’m asking this game to help me fix my life, but playing out these scenarios that, in the real world, would make me anxious or make me freak out, I can stop, take a moment to breathe and work out these issues in a way that makes sense to me. Playing her has led me to understanding myself a bit better, as well, and that’s truly such a wonderfully unexpected gift from this whole experience. 

6) Lastly, a silly one: RC - Getting a crit 6. The last session of this game got real interesting. Saube’s party ended up in the ethereal plane and magic got real fucky there. So, any time any of us tried to cast a spell, we’d roll a d20, not look at the result, and then try to guess what number rolled. The closer to the number, the better the result. A few times, a few people managed to get within like 3 or 4 of their roll, but oh the power I felt when I rolled a 6 (on Saube’s die!) and guessed it correctly! So, not only did the spell (Bless) work, but it worked super well. So instead of getting +1d4 to attack rolls and saving throws, Saube and two other party members got +2d4 to attacks, saving throws and skill checks. So powerful I broke the rules of D&D lmao. 

[magneticmage]

More fic drabbles;

Rune watched the golden fire dance across Wyll's fingertips, "Pretty. But you do know most tieflings are fire-resistant, right?"

The warlock chuckled, cupping his lover's cheek with his hand and drawing him closer, "Hurting you is the last thing I'd want to do right now."

Rune smiled and closed his eyes, leaning forward as he savored the precious moments of anticipation before a kiss.

Instead, he got hit in the head with an empty mug.

Growling and turning away from the enchanting man before him, the tiefling druid growled at his twin sister, Lucine, from where she sat beside Shadowheart. She rolled her eyes at him, "Get a room! You've got the coin for it and I don't want to watch you two play lovers all night."

His brow twitched as he saw Shadowheart's lips quirk to keep from smiling. Then he grinned and waved a hand towards his sister. The vines that sprouted from between the tavern's wooden plank flooring beneath her quickly bound the two women together. Above their protests, he chuckled and wrapped an arm around Wyll's shoulders, "Sister, dearest, you really should find a playmate of your own. And I'm sure our lovely fellow cleric, Shadowheart here, would be more than happy to oblige you this fine evening. Now, come, Wyll, we have lots of ale to drink and things to do!"

As the two wandered off, the vines were quickly cut with a sharp sword. Lucine swore like a sailor as it nicked her fingers, "Careful! I need those!"

"Debatable," responded Roan. The human fighter sheathed his longsword and waved a hand in dismissal, "Now, stop, causing a scene and get some rest. Faenerys says we're leaving in the morning."

"Oh? And where is our lovely elven wizard at this time of night?" Gayle questioned from where he leaned against the surprisingly broad shoulders of Sable, their resident drow warlock. The mute man simply nodded his head in agreement, fingers dancing through the air to echo the question.

Roan sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy auburn locks, fingers curling into a fist and tugging at them irritable, "She said something about going out for a swim. Apparently, she wasn't comfortable here in the inn for whatever reason."

Lucine giggled, "Oh, no, Astarion's gone off as well. Such a shame if he were to catch her, isn't it?"

Roan scowled, "That's not funny, Lucy."

The tiefling cleric shrugged and stretched her arms as she brushed the last of the leaves from her hair, "It's very funny, actually. Because we all know Astarion is very good at sucking things, faces especially. And hers just so happens to be his favorite, it seems."

"Still can't believe they get along," Roan sighed, "Then again, I'm sure that could be said for the rest of us, as well."

Lucine shrugged, "Yes, well, brood later, I think Lae'zel wants your undivided attention, my friend."

There was the faintest brush of pink to his cheeks as the warrior turned around to stammer out a polite, if somewhat awkward, greeting towards the githyanki woman. She handed him a drink and motioned him off for some privacy.

It did not take long before the last two couples also headed off for their own evening's privacy. Left alone at the table at last, Lyran sighed and downed the last of their drink. They would never understand why people danced around their attractions like these people did, then again they had never experienced such a thing and had no desire to. The only things they wanted in life was to remove these damned tadpoles and then return to Baldur's Gate to continue living their life of crime and increase their hoard of shiny valuable objects. And yet at every turn, fate-and their companions-seemed to delay their plans again and again. It wasn’t enough to quite drive the half-elf mad, but it certainly came close several times, especially lately.

Still, at least it was quieter now.

The sound of a lute string snapping made them whip their head around with a menacing glare and a dagger flashing in their hand.

Saga gave the rogue an apologetic smile in the only way the halfling bard could to not get their face punctured. Then again, she was also the only one who could get away with cooling the grumpy temper Lyran often held about them. She held out her lute, "Would you mind re-stringing this for me, Lyra? Then I'll play that elvish lullaby you like."

"It's Lyran, today." They replied and moved closer to let her feel the coarse leather of their tunic, different from the soft silk of their feminine days and the layers of fur during their in-between days. "See?"

"Right," The halfling woman nodded, her dark curls bobbing about her eyes. The scars across them was still as red and disfiguring as it had been since they had barely escaped from that hellish prison. "Sorry, this is the first time I've touched you today."

"It's fine." They assured her, brushing aside some curls to press a chaste kiss to her forehead, "You don't quite have the same benefits as everyone else to tell which I'm feeling that day. And you're usually much to polite to ask."

"Usually, I stick to Lyre, but I heard someone mention something about a half-elven woman in blue and white silks earlier, so I assumed...."

"They were talking about some else, little Muse." Lyran handed back the lute, "Here you are. If I fall asleep-"

"You always do."

"Yes, but if I fall asleep, wake me in an hour, so my back's not killing me in the morning." They informed her, settling down comfortably with their head in her lap and bundled warmly in their cloak.

"Of course, Lyran." Saga promised, "I always do."

The magical melody had them in a fast and dreamless sleep in moments.

[xwing-baby]

Freedom (Mandalorian X Reader

Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), The Child, Reader, OC Vinca Dara

Warnings: Mentions of sexual abuse, canon level violence

Word Count: 5691 

Synopsis: Y/N is a princess from a planet in the inner rim. Successfully escaping her fate as a Imperial wife, she unfortunately becomes a target for the Mandalorian. 

A/N: WOW I look pretty good for a dead bitch! I’m back after a two year writing hiatus, with a fic nobody asked for. This is my blog I’ll do what I want. I noticed that there’s not much Mandalorian stuff here, and the only stuff is all smutty and romantic. No more. Strictly professional relationships here. Basically it’s what I would write if I got to be a writer on the show. ENJOY 

Tagged: @tortles​ @inked-poet​ @dartheldur

My home planet, in the core of the galaxy, was rich and prosperous. I grew up happily oblivious to any struggle that surrounded me outside the palace walls. I grew up with two older brothers, both jostling for the throne from the age of ten. My mother died in childbirth with me, so my father ruled alone. I had no other family, as I would later learn they had all been murdered by my father and his men to ensure his unopposed ascension to power. 

It wasn’t until I was nearly sixteen years old that I learnt about what my father had done and what was really going on behind the palace walls. The only time I’d ever been allowed out of the palace grounds until that point was for public events, I would stand and wave and smile at the people who came to see us while my father gave a speech about peace and prosperity. However, on my sixteenth birthday I met a boy named Han. Han helped me escape for that one night, showed me around the surrounding city, and my life changed forever. 

A year later, I made my first escape attempt. I didn’t get very far beyond that city perimeter before I was dragged back by the royal guards. I tried again, getting to the next town before again being captured and sent back to my father. 

On my eighteenth birthday, I decided I would try once more. This time I had enlisted Han’s help, now a smuggler, to get me off the planet. I crept out in the depths of night, managed to find the ship and I was gone. That was until the captain of the ship found out who I was, held me hostage and shot me in the arm for trying to escape him and the planet. As it turned out the captain was a great supporter of my father and returned me, with a small fee for the favour of course. 

For the next year, my father kept me under close supervision. But unlike my father, I had sympathy and empathy. I managed to make friends with my supervisor, a old lady named Ellyn. She taught me a lot about what was really going on outside the capitol. The famines and the abuse from the royal guards to the local people. She also told me of the growing concern within the palace of my father’s changing allegiance from the New Republic. These concerns only grew when Storm Troopers were spotted on the outskirts of the city. 

Then I got the news. My father was intending to marry me off to Vinca Dara, the son of an Imperial officer, to aid the new Empire. I was horrified. My uncle had told me stories of the Old Empire when I was little, the pain it brought into the galaxy. The thought of having to be a part of anything like that made me sick. I had to run away, for good this time.

With Ellyn’s help, I managed to barter a ship and escape the planet without anyone realising. I reached the outer rim before anyone knew. By the time anyone had started to look for me I had landed on a new planet. 

And that brought me here. A small, dirty back street bar in the centre of the city. The outer rim was not somewhere good for a princess to be, so to avoid the risk of anyone recognising me, I cut my hair, changed my name and hid. 

Of course, a few bounty hunter’s had made their way to me. But I seemingly had luck on my side because they either gave up or I fought them off before they could capture me. The last attempt was several months ago now, I was comfortable and certain that my father had just given up. 

The bar was busy, as always. Full of criminals and outcasts from the inner rim searching the wild space to something to do, or to give them purpose again. I had to learn fast who and who not to joke with. I learnt a lot more about the galaxy in the last three months of being in this cantina than I had in my life so far.

“Hey! No droids!” I called, not even lifting my head from the sink as I spotted a glint of metal in the corner of my mind.

“That’s not a droid, you idiot,” My coworker, Tann, jabbed me in the ribs, “That’s a mandalorian!” He hissed. “Sorry, she’s new!” He apologised. The Mandalorian didn’t respond.

“New to the galaxy,” One of the creatures at the bar slurred into his drink.

“Alright Rex calm down,” I said, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know they were real,” I said quietly as we all watched the man sit down at an empty table on the other side of the bar. Rex laughed and shook his head.

“You really crawled out from under a rock or something?” 

“Just go do your job, please,” Tann sighed.

I nodded and confidently walked over to the bounty hunter. 

“What can I get you?” 

“I’m trying to find Asker,” The Mandalorian said, looking around behind me. Asker was a regular, a troublemaker and a renowned criminal, but he was paid his bill so the owners of the bar never minded too much. I wondered why the Mandalorian was looking for him for a moment before answering. 

“He left a little while ago,” I replied, “But I imagine he won’t have gone far, maybe try the hostel up the street. Can I get you anything else?” 

“No, thank you,” The Mandalorian shook his head and stood up to leave. 

“Mando!” The pot bellied Asker bellowed through the bar, announcing his presence before he waddled inside. For such a small creature he certainly knew how to make himself known. Asker was just over four feet tall, with grey-ish skin. His large eyes took most of his face that wasn’t covered by a whiley red beard. For someone so small, he was incredibly strong and quick on a trigger, the blast marks that covered the walls of the bar were testament to that. 

The Mandalorian and Asker walked together to the darker back of the bar, specifically reserved for Asker's shady business. Like I said, the owners didn’t really care as long as he paid the bills. 

“You know Mando, it’s been for too long! I missed you,” Asker cried. 

“You didn’t,” 

“No, not really,” Asker barked a laugh, “but I did miss your talent. These new hands they’ve got at the Guild? Awful! Can barely even shoot straight! I’ve been trying to get this quarry off my hands for weeks! All of the have been unsuccessful, so I thought it’s high time I call my lovely friend Mando and get some real professional on the job,” 

“I don’t work for you,” 

“Not even for half a million credits?” 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,can I get you anything?” 

“The usual, thanks darling. My metal friend here can’t drink so he’s all good,” 

“Coming right up,” 

I stepped back to the bar, and they talked a lot quieter from then. I poured the drink and walked back over, back in earshot of the conversation.

“Kids a royal runaway,” Asker said quietly. “Her father is a pretty big deal out in the Mirrin Sector. Last I heard, she’s here in hiding,” 

“Any name?” 

“Y/n L/n,” 

I put the drinks down carefully, trying not let either of the men see how much my hands were shaking. My heart was racing against my chest and I scurried away before I could hear anything else. I leant against the bar and took some deep breaths and tried to calm down. It was fine, I’d fought off the last guys I could do it again. It’s not like mandalorian are the best bounty hunters in the known universe, no. Oh stars! 

“I’m going out for a minute,” I said quickly, already walking out the back door before he could even say yes. I pulled the apron off from around my waist, shoving it into a cargo box before stepping into the bright light outside. 

I squinted and let my eyes adjust to the bright light. Looking back inside, the Mandalorian had not noticed me leave. I was safe for now. I walked through the city's crowded streets, back to where I was staying to come up with a plan. 

I smiled to myself, I’d gotten away with it once again! But four times was too many to be nearly captured by bounty hunters. It was no use anymore just moving to the city, I had to get off the planet. 

The port was quiet, as it would be late in the afternoon. Everyone was either eating or sleeping while the sun started to cool down. I tried the first few stations but each door was locked, the next was empty and the one after it was covered in druids working on the rusted shell. Then, bay 8. The door was open, there were no druids around and the ship looked in  pretty good condition. It was old, pre empire but it looked steady. I quickly checked behind me, that no one had seen me, then went inside, pushing the large gate shut behind me. I had found my ticket out of here. 

My uncle had taught me to fly when I was very little. He unfortunately was murdered by my father before I turned 12 but I cherished the memories I had with him and was extremely grateful for the skills he had passed on now. The first time I ran away I ended on a workers ship and learnt very quickly that the price to pay to get onto the ships and out alive was far too high. The blast scar up my right arm was a reminder of that. Being able to steal a ship and fly it on my own was a major boost. Unfortunately I had been caught before I had managed to leave a planet before. Now was my chance. 

I ran around the ship first, checking it out and making sure there was no one hiding on it. Now, to get inside... 

Before I could even step closer to it, the cargo load hissed and pulled open. I pulled out my blaster and aimed it at the door. I stepped onto the metal once it hit the sand, and barely had the other in step when I saw who had opened it. 

The Mandalorian. 

Shit. 

I kept my blaster raised, and we both stared at each other down for a few moments. 

“You’re Y/n L/n?” He asked carefully. 

“Are you going to kill me if I am?” I retorted. “Cus you’re not the first Asker has sent after me and I know my father wants me alive there’s no way you’re gunna kill me if you want the credits,” 

“Lower your weapon,” He commanded. I refused.

I kept it steadfast. I could do a standoff, all day. I was not going back home. The mandalorian sighed and shot once, barely missing my head, as a warning. I didn’t flinch. 

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Tin Man. Asker must have said I don’t come easy,” I jeered, taunting him. He couldn’t kill me! Wouldn’t risk half a million credits on that. The mandalorian stepped forward, and I took two steps back. “I just want to get off this planet, I’ll pay you. More than you’ll 

get for bringing me in,” 

Before I could say anymore, the Mandlorian fired a dart into my chest. I looked down at it for a moment, then back at him then fell to the ground. Black. 

--

I came too sometime later, handcuffed to the side of the Mandalorian’s ship. My hands and feet here tied. It was quiet. Looking around me, I was in the hold. A small ladder disappeared above me to the rest of the ship. I had no idea where we were, had he taken my request? Or was I on my way back to the hell hole that is my home planet. 

I had to find some way out. Someway to get myself free. I tried to move to reach a tool box so cruelly just out of my reach, but it was no use. Then I heard a little squeal from behind a box. I turned to see where it was coming from but there was nothing. Again, another squeal and a giggle? Was it a rat? I wouldn’t be surprised if there were rats aboard, the place hadn’t been cleaned in forever. But rats don’t giggle, no matter where they’re from. 

Suddenly, a tiny green creature popped up from behind the box. It peered at me for a moment, then hid again. It was so cute! 

“Hey little buddy,” I said quietly, “I won’t hurt you,” The creature slowly stepped out and babbled something at me. I didn’t understand what it said, even if it was speaking any proper language. “Where’d you come from buddy? He got you trapped here too?” The baby giggled and waddled over to me. I smiled and curled my legs round underneath me to let it get a bit closer. I didn’t see any danger in a creature so small. “Why does Mandalorian have a little baby? You’re not his kid are you?”

“Hey! Get away from her,” The Mandalorian had appeared in the hold while I was focused on the baby. The baby babbled and toddled back happily to the Mandalorian. 

“What is that?” 

“Nothing,” 

“It’s not nothing, it’s a baby,” Suddenly I remembered I had seen a drawing of a creature like that one before. My uncle told me about it, a Jedi master or something. “Do you know what it is? My uncle showed me a picture of one of those once, it was a jedi! I bet it can do weird stuff, right? Where did you get it?” 

The Mandalorian ignore my questions and picked up the creature, walked across to the other side of the hold and put it away in a large cupboard. Cruel. I became spiteful. 

“Fine, ignore me then. I’ll just report you to the Guild when I get back home. Tell them you have that thing! People would pay good money for information on a Mandalorian gone rogue! And to think Mandalorian and Jedi were enemies for years, didn’t they murder your kind to near extinction? Seems weird you’ve got one in a box as a pet,” 

“It’s not a Jedi, and you won’t tell anyone. If I find you have, I will kill you, on sight,” 

“You’ll be doing me a favour,” I spat. 

I could tell he was angry, the way his hand waved over his blaster for just a second. I should have been scared of him, deep down I was. But the fate that awaited me at home was worse than being killed by this bounty hunter. I knew we can’t be far now. I didn’t have much time left to convince the Mandalorian not to send me back to my father. If it came down to it I really would rather die. 

The Mandalorian disappeared up the ladder once more, satisfied that I wasn’t going to cause anymore fuss right now. Before I could even call after him to try and make amends and get him to actually help me, the hatch slammed shut and it was too late. 

---

A few hours later, I had dozed off but was harshly awoke by the Mandalorian shaking my shoulders. 

“We’re here,” He stated, pulling me up by the shoulder. I shrugged him off, and stood up on my own. My feet had been untied already, I rolled my ankles and sighed as my body clicked. The bounty hunter wasn’t having it, grabbed my arm harshly and dragged me down the ramp to the ground. “Come on,” 

The site of my home planet made me sick. It was happening. For months I had managed to be unknown, successfully getting away from this place. But I was now being dragged back, by a Mandalorian none the less, to be dragged through my city like a criminal. 

The Child reappeared as we stepped off the ship, babbling quickly and waddling as fast as it could. The Mandalorian grumbled unintelligibly and dragged me back up, collected the child and locked it away, pulled me back down to the soil of the planet. I could hear the creature complain from its little box and wondered if it was trying to help me. Whatever it wanted, the Mandalorian ignored it, closed the cargo door and we walked into the city gates to my family's palace. 

The site of the grand building made me sick. When I was younger I didn’t know of anything different, I didn’t know of the suffering of the people beyond the city walls. The people who worked tirelessly everyday on the lush fields only to be paid single credits for the hard labour, and all the food going to my family and court. I never knew of the suffering and poverty that my father ruled over while we lived such lavish lives inside. I had tried to explain it to my brothers after my first escape attempt, they just laughed. Said that that was just the way the world worked. There was a set order. I hated it, actively spoke out against them but all it did was get me slapped and set away to my chambers.

We were met by my father and two brothers in the great hall. Staff stood to attention around the perimeter, glaring at me like I was dirt, as I was dragged in in disgrace by a bounty hunter. 

“My daughter, you’re safe!” My father exclaimed, throwing his arms up in praise. There was no kindness or love in his voice. “Get her inside, we can’t have her escape again,” He gave a cold laugh as I was given to a new set of guards. My brothers jeered and laughed in unison with their idol. “I understand you’ve been paid by Asker to do this?” My father addressed the Mandalorian now. “Fucking idiot couldn’t catch his own breath. Here,” He threw a large bag of credits at the bounty hunter. “A million in full.” The Mandalorian nodded, putting the bag into his belt. “You don’t know how great a service you have provided to the galaxy,” My father continued with a wicked smile stretched across his wrinkling face. “A girl like her will surely be the mother of our new empire,” 

I nearly threw up, the enormity of my situation now crashing on top of me. I tried to look to the Mandalorian for help but again it was no use. I was marched off into my new, secure, chambers to await my fate. 

-- 

The Mandalorian frowned beneath his helmet but said nothing whilst in the presence of the King. He’d finished the job, there was nothing else for him to do here. He’d never got involved in politics before and now was not the time. He knew these were not good people but he was not in a place for judgement either. 

He returned to his ship, pleased with the doubling of the earnings from this trip. That amount of credits meant he could lay low for a long while with the Child and finally work out what to do with it. 

Back in the ship, the Child would not settle down. In the few months the Mandalorian had the creature he had never seen it like this. It cried and grumbled, wouldn’t sit still or fall asleep. He knew what the problem was. 

“I can’t do anything about it!” He explained to the Child. “It’s not my problem. The credits I got from that job will keep you in food for weeks!” The Child grumbled and wailed. “Go to sleep,” 

-- 4 Months Later -- 

It was a simple quarry for a quick bit of cash. The ship needed to be patched up after it had run into an asteroid field. The quarry was from a jealous man on Corellia after his wife’s lover. Easy. 

The planet was rich and bustling with people, making the Mandalorian disappear into the background. He swept through the city in search of his bounty, following the tracker in his hand. He was only slowed down by a large crowd which had gathered at the town’s centre. A small stage was set up across the square, with many people surrounding it on all sides. People even hung out of their windows to listen and watch what was going on. 

A familiar face on the stage caught the Mandalorian’s attention. It was Y/n. Now looking like the shell of her previous self. A black cloth covered her head and moth, leaving only sunken sad eyes on show which were covered in gold makeup. She stood smaller, next to a man talking passionately and animatedly about something. The surrounding chatter from the town’s people drowned out what the man was saying.

The Mandalorian carried on on his mission, shaking off any guilt he had. Bad things like this were always happening throughout the galaxy. There was nothing he could do. 

- --

My new life as Vinca Dara’s wife was awful. Far worse than I had ever dreamt. 

I was dragged from planet to planet, city to city trying to recruit and inspire rebellion. We travelled to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, as far from the New Republic as possible to try and gain sympathy for a new regime. 

I was miserable, abused and exhausted. My husband’s forcible attempts at producing an heir were proving futile and he was getting restless. It was like my body even rejected the idea of giving him a child. I figured it was only long before he killed me. He’d been close before when I lost the last child. 

This was a big event. There were already a large group of rebellion supporters on the planet and Vinca Dara and his team were hopeful. I was to stand next to him, looking pretty while he addressed the city, then be his arm candy to a private event with the planet’s leaders. 

The evening’s event was filled with the planet’s most horrible people. I wore a tight royal blue dress, my hair down and flowing over my bare back. Vinca Dara had left me to my own devices a little while ago, instructing me to convince some of the ladies of ‘our’ new ideas for the galaxy. So I stood and mingled with the guests wive. They were not interested in politics and rather talked back local gossip which was rather refreshing after months of nothing but plans of death, destruction of the New Republic. A little alarming that they did not care, but I welcomed the break nonetheless.

As I listened to the women, my eyes wandered around the party. Many different species and races all in one room with staff waiting hand and foot, scurrying between the clusters of people. Then, something caught my eye. A flash of blue baskar, glinted in the light from the corridor just outside the room. That had to be the Mandalorian! I thought I had seen him in the city but I thought I was imagining it. He was here! 

“Excuse me ladies, I just need to freshen up,” I excused myself from the group and went to find him. This was my chance. Summoning all the courage I had in me, I followed him. 

It took a moment to work out which way he went but a sharp shot from inside one of the servants quarters told me exactly where it was. He was lucky the party was so loud, I thought. 

Checking nobody was following me, I carefully pushed the door open As soon as I entered the small dark room the Mandalorian held his gun to my face, finger on the trigger ready. I threw up my hands and pushed myself back against the door. 

“Don’t shoot!” I exclaimed. The Mandalorian did not lower his gun. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I-I’m hosting the par-,” 

“Here, I mean here right now,” He interrupted, obviously agitated. 

“I need your help,” I said honestly. The Mandalorian didn’t reply, but lowered his gun and returned to the dead body on the floor. “Please. My husband will kill me if he doesn’t get a child soon and… and I can’t do it. Please, I need to get off this planet. Away from him,” 

“I’m working,” 

“I’ll pay you!” I exclaimed desperately. “I’ll give you everything I have. I just need to get out of here, out of this solar system,” The Mandalorian stopped and looked at me for a moment, the helmet completely unforgiving in guarding his expression. “Please,” My bottom lip began to tremble and tears welled in my eyes. 

“No. Go back to your husband,” The Mandalorian turned back to his task. My desperation turned to anger in that moment, I stormed over to him. 

“You know he’s been looking for the Child,” I said spitefully, looming over him as he knelt down with his victim. The Mandalorian looked up at me and stood up slowly. “That green thing you keep as a pet? If you won’t help meI will go to him and tell him you have it, that you’re on this planet,” 

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” 

“Help me and Dara will never know,” I said slowly, staring directly into his visor. 

The Mandalorian was quiet for a moment, I held my breath. This was it. My last chance at freedom and even this was the man that brought me to be in this situation in the first place he was my only hope. 

“Put that on,” He finally said, gesturing to the pile of servants' clothes piled on a table to the side of the room. “And help me move this body” 

I nodded quickly and moved to the clothes. I untied the neck of the dress, the bounty hunter respectfully turned back to his victim as I undressed. The clothes were far too big and made of a very itchy material but I didn’t have much choice. I tied my hair up in a ponytail. The only reminder of who I was, was the gold makeup across my face and sandals on my feet. 

I stood on look out while the Mandalorian pulled his bounty into a bag and dragged it out the building. A transporter waited outside. 

“Take that one, with the bounty. My ship is out on the east fields. You’ll see it,” 

“What about you?” 

“I’ll meet you there,” 

I nodded, unsure of why he was trusting me with his bounty but it was the easiest way to go out of the city unnoticed. I dodged in and out of people on the streets, finally coming to the East gates. Two guards sat asleep at the post and didn’t even wake to see me go. As I rode out into the open land, I began to laugh. The suns were setting beautifully over the horizon casting beautiful colours into the sky. I was free! 

I sped through the fields, towards the familiar ship a little way away. The noise another transporter hummed behind me. I figured it was the Mandalorian so I didn't bother to look back until a red shot flew past my head, narrowly missing me, and exploding in the grass. I screamed and swerved violently, nearly losing all control of the vehicle. 

I turned back quickly, to see who was attacking me. My husband led a band of four guards on smaller bikes. That bastard Mandalorian must have told them I was trying to escape! 

I sped up, racing towards the hills in the distance. I skipped down between ditches and ploughed through crop fields to try and evade capture once again. They remained on my tail. 

Another two shots fired out, missing me again. “Stop! Y/n! Stop right now!” My husband called out. I held my hand up in an offensive gesture, turning back to narrowly miss a large boulder. I was getting into the forest now, it was becoming more difficult to maneuver the heavy vehicle through the trees. 

The trees became denser and I decided I could move better on foot without the extra weight. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you Y/n!” My husband screamed. I could imagine his horrid sweaty red face, that awful vein that pops on his forehead when he’s angry. I shuddered, and kept running. 

I jumped into a small creek, the water soaking the ends of my trousers and nearly bare feet. The hum of the transporters had disappeared, they were on foot. I noticed a cave and decided it would be best to hide there while they were some way behind. I crouched down and sat in the warm water, my body pressed against the back wall, hidden from sight. 

“Y/n!” Vinca Dara screamed again. This time multiple shots followed and a crash as something fell into the water. “You can’t hide forever!” 

They were getting closer. A red shot splashed into the water in front of the mouth of the cave. I jumped and hit my head on the low roof, making me yelp. I clamped my hand over my mouth praying that I wasn’t heard. I pushed myself further into the dark and shut my eyes as more shots rang out. Shouting erupted from above me and heavy footsteps splashed through the water. 

I whimpered and curled up into my knees, screwing my eyes shut, waiting for the end to come.

“I told you to go to the ship,” A metallic voice said from the front of the cave. I opened my eyes and gasped in relief. It was the Mandalorian! I pushed myself up out of the water and walked over to him, my relief turning into rage. 

“You sold me out!” I screamed, pushing him as hard as I could. “You fucking told them!” The bounty hunter remained calm, and was not at all affected by my attack.. “You fucking bastard!” 

“If I did, why would I be here now?” 

“You-,” I stopped and saw the three bodies floating in the water around us, “You killed them?” 

“I thought you still had my bounty,” The Mandalorian said nonchalantly. I smiled. 

“Thank you,” 

Seemingly satisfied that I wasn’t in any more danger, the Mandalorian turned and began to walk back to his ship. I quickly followed behind, not wanting to be left behind again. I stepped over my husband’s dead body, pleased by the multiple shot wounds that had killed him. He deserved a bloody death. I ran to keep up with the Mandalorian, and jumped back on the abandoned transporter, following him back to the safety of his ship, 

“Thank you again. And I promise I will send those credits to you as soon as possible,” I thanked him again once we were inside. I sat on a crate, and pulled the ruined sandals off my feet.

“It’s not necessary,” The Mandalorian said, his back turned to me as he put away his weapons. 

“Yes it is. I am a woman of my word, I owe you my life,” I said sincerely. The Mandalorian shut the cabinet and turned back to me. 

“Where would you like to go?” 

“I don’t care. Just drop me off wherever you are going next. As long as there's opportunity for work and a place to sleep I will be fine. I just need to be as far from all of that as possible,”

“I’m going to Nevarro next,” 

“Sounds perfect,” 

I sat in the back of the cockpit while the Mandalorian flew off the planet. I couldn’t help the smile that grew on my face as the planet soon disappeared into the vast black of space behind us. I had finally made it out, with both my father and husband dead I knew no one would come looking for me. I was truly free. 

“Hello again,” I cooed to the Child as he toddled over. The baby babbled and giggled when it recognised me and raised its arms to be picked up. I happily obliged. “You’ve grown! Yes! Oh aren’t you just the cutest little thing!” I tickled its large ears, making the child laugh. “I don’t know how you get anything done with this thing around. He’s so cute!” I said to the Mandalorian. He didn’t reply. 

I shrugged it off, and went back to playing with the baby. The stress of the day finally settled in, and I yawned, absolutely exhausted. The little creature in my lap, copied and babbled at me. I smiled softly as sleep began to take over me and stroked its little head until I fell asleep. 

A rumble awoke me, we had entered the Nevarro atmosphere. I sat up from my slumped position and sighed as I stretched. The Mandalorian turned around, I smiled and he turned back. The Child was sitting on the desk, playing with a silver ball too busy to notice I was now awake. 

We landed without any trouble. 

“So I guess this is it,” I said. “I will forever be indebted to you Mandalorian,” I bowed my head in reverence, “Are you staying here very long?” 

“A few days possibly,” He said as we walked towards the small settlement. “I’ve got some business here,” We walked in silence for the rest of the way until we reached the gates. “There’s a cantina not too far from here, tell them I sent you and they’ll give you work. There’s plenty of rooms to stay in here,” 

“Thank you,” I smiled, “I will sort those credits out as soon as possible,”

“It-,” 

“I swear bounty hunters don’t usually refuse money,” I laughed. “Take it, and I’ll see you around, hopefully not too soon,” 

“See you around,” 

We shook hands and parted ways. My life had finally begun. 

[sourdough-morbread]

Morgana 👀

ok so i know you left this ask ages ago and this is like so fucking long i am so sorry.

but i just... i have a lot of thoughts on morgana. *hides pages of notes made for two big morgana-centric WIPs*

First impression: this is what went through my mind in my first watch through

s1: i fell for morgana really quickly. i was like. YES she has MAGIC and she tells off uther and arthur. 

s2: i still liked her but i getting concerned about the direction the writers were pulling her character in season 2. i was quite disappointed in the way her turn to evil was written. like she was good then barely on screen and very damsel-in-distressy for some reason. and then she became evil!morgana with zero explanation and zero reluctance. didnt really make sense to me.

s3: i enjoyed her as a villain in, but at that point she was a completely different character in my eyes. not in the old character new instalment but in a entirely different person was put inside her. 

s4: she was so boring and one dimetional. just. meh. she barely felt like a threat.. 

s5: i wasnt even paying attention to her.  she has become the random conflict generator the writers rather than a character. so i just didnt care. also i skipped a few eps in my first go so. like dark tower bc i didnt want to see gwen hurt. so i missed out on the emotional impact of that.

Impression now: after rewatching i can see her character arc a lot better. i still think her arc wasnt well done. but thats because the execution was lacking, rather than the trajectory of her character not making sense. because it actually makes a lot of sense.

like in season 1, she is basically immune. she is caught aiding mordred and yet she can get away with uther yelling at her and have it all be forgotten with an apology. meanwhile tom is executed for being seen with a sorcerer. when she wants to kill uther, i dont think she thinks she will be caught. nobody would ever dare accuse morgana and arthur would never suspect it. 

then she discovers she has magic herself and all of that immunity is gone. and without that safety net she becomes willing to endanger so many people, including the allies of magic in camelot. you know, people she would be screaming at the defence of previously.  

her in 1x10 is a small glimpse of what she could have been. a force for good. someone willing to actually fight against what uther and rulers like him were doing. and i would have loved to see that. 

but thats not what the writers chose. instead she regains her footing in hatred and blaming everyone for the fear she felt of death and disgust she felt of herself once she became one of those she defended but saw as beneath her none the less. 

and i will never not be salty about how they skipped over her turning evil and how flat she became. like. let me have a deeply evil terrifying witch damn it! 

i think what makes her terrifying is that she doesnt want power. not really. she wants revenge. she wants to take everything arthur cares about. she wants the throne because arthur doesn't get to have it. she wants camelot to kill its people. she doesnt care about power beyond how much pain she can cause with it. and thats so terrifying. enemy with no goal but to cause you pain. and knows all your weaknesses and can fool the people you have wronged to think she is fighting for their salvation. how do you even fight that? 

idk i just think it was underutilised. again she was just a conflict generator the writers used until the final battle. even then mordred was more significant than morgana. 

Favorite moment: just her in the entirety of beginning of the end. if i had to pick one moment it would be her goading arthur to look behind the curtain. its just so good.

Idea for a story: again... the WIPs. but one i havent written yet.

i had one au where arthur found out about her magic on accident and like. it kicked off a whole plot of her learning magic, and arthur finally facing how terrible uther is and getting his shit together. its not a very detailed idea. morgause would probably use this opportunity to manipulate arhtur. agravain would proably be not evil, tho still a spineless slimy noble. idk.

Unpopular opinion: this is not going to be a surprise to people who know me, but i dislike pretty much all of the discussion ive seen about 2x03. 

fandom seems to be stuck on this dichotomy of either merlin should have told her about his magic and by not doing so he betrayed her— he did not. merlin tried to help her at the risk of his own life. go watch 2x03 again. or merlin reacted perfectly— also he did not. even while helping her, he still refused to acknowledge her magic.

in a situation where something invisible about you can get you killed, subtle word choices matter. merlins words, him continuing to say he wouldn't know if it was magic, even though they both knew it was and that the other also knew, means something. it means i will keep your secret but i cannot help you. this is by no means a moral failing of merlin. he made this choice out of fear for his own life, and i think it is unreasonable to expect him to react perfectly.

morgana in turn had no reason to go to merlin again about her magic. he has made it clear he doest want to be involved, which he has no responsibility to. and why would merlin be able to help her? he, as far as she knows, has no personal experience with magic except his sorcerer friend. 

besides, druids were the safest place for a her to be. it was the safest place for any warlock to be, including merlin.  her knowing or not knowing about merlin has nothing to do with it. like. everything that happens in camelot between merlin and morgana in season 2 is perfectly understandable. they didnt wrong each other. 

what merlin and morgana actually did wrong is getting all those druids killed because they didnt think the plan through. like all of those people in that camp died. aglain, the person helping morgana, died right in front of her and mordred. the druids were the only ones wronged in that situation. which i have never seen pointed out. 

Favorite relationship: her and mordred

listen there is only a singular instance of morgana genuinely hesitating to hurt somebody after her turn and that person is mordred.

Favorite headcanon: oracle!morgana. this is like a whole big headcanon thats basically the origin story of how draognlords came to be. something happened and oracles stole dragons wills and their births to give to mortals as punishment. and then a group of these people came to albion and became the Seers and the dragonlords. who have like different traditions to the druid seers and the priestesses who use methods adapted from scry methods.

thats why she can speak with aithusa even though aithusa cant speak. 

[thesolitarystripe]

Tindyl’s Origin

How I’ve not posted this is beyond me..

It was an especially bright night, the evening that Tindyl was born. The moon was high in the sky. Its shimmering image was crisp and untouched by clouds. It was taken as a good omen as the young night elf was birthed beneath the giant limbs of Teldrassil. She was born of parents; Bai’len Moonwillow and Laurêl Sagebloom.

Bai’len, a Druid of the Claw, came from a long line of druids that also followed the path of Urso and Ursol. When his daughter was born, he dreamed of a life for her where she might follow in her ancestor’s footsteps.  As the world turned and decades passed, it became an apparent reality that times were changing. Female Kaldorei were becoming druids and males taking up Priesthood. Though he was conservative in his beliefs, a faint flicker of hope welled within him—perhaps Tindyl Willowmoon could become a druid.

It was a silent wish he kept to himself for many years.

Much of Tindyl’s childhood passed as it did for all Kaldorei children. She ran through the forests, danced with the whispering wind, and lost herself amongst the fields of flowers. Bai’len saw her connection with nature at an early age; though all night elves bore the same deep love for the perseverance of nature and swore their lives to protect it, he was sure that when Tindyl spoke to the trees, they spoke back.

When the young night elf reached the age of 100, she had a general grasp of all the duties available to her within their society. Bai’len taught her without sway. Though the druid tried to remain unbiased in his teachings, he couldn’t help but spend a little extra time showing her how to sharpen her claws or learn how to knit her pelt so tightly together that it felt like iron.

On days when the sun was high and the forest lost some of its naturally dim hues, Bai’len would take Tindyl to the main continent of Kalimdor, into the trees of Darkshore, and spar with her. The little she-elf practiced shifting in and out of different forms and did so adeptly. Bai’len knew fully that not every elf born had the knack for nature magic and the fact that his daughter caught on at such a young age, surprised even him.

He chose to practice away from their home for fear that others might think ill of him. While it had become more commonplace for females to practice druidism, his old bones felt the uneasiness of thousands of years of tradition. Some still did not approve of the societal changes and Bai’len feared that Tindyl might be treated harshly for her interests.

So, they spent their mornings nestled in the cool forest of Darkshore. Tindyl would practice shifting until Bai’len saw no hesitation in the way her body morphed. This simple teaching left her too fatigued to carry out any other lessons but; as she grew, her body became resilient and she took on the form of a cat, doe, bear, and dolphin with relative ease.

When she had the energy, Bai’len challenged his daughter to a sparring match. At first the young one was shy and meek to fight her father. When she stood beside her father in his guardian form, her eyes would fall to the massive prints left in the damp dirt as he walked from her and she worried that her own paws might never grow to even half the size.

Despite the hesitant approach Tindyl took to swatting at her father with a thick paw, the elder did not relent. With the same ferocity he would take to battle, he dove at Tindyl; teeth bared, claws protruding, and a mighty roar shaking the trees around them. Day by day, she cowered less and fought back more.

There were not many matches that she won but every so often, her teeth would nip the right spot behind her father’s neck and the druid would howl. One paw might swipe above his massive head, but she was small and quick. With the distraction, Tindyl would seize her opportunity as Bai’len stood with only three feet upon the earth. Their bodies crashed together as she lunged fearlessly, and they toppled into the grass in a pile of silver fur.

Bai’len’s laugh was as loud and rumbling as his roar. In an unusual display of public affection; he’d scoop up Tindyl and press his forehead against hers and scold her playfully for picking on her old father. Tindyl would laugh, roll her glowing silver eyes, and push herself out of his grasp.

It wasn’t long into her adulthood that he watched Tindyl’s demeanor change. While she obeyed and trained in the shade of Darkshore, there was a heaviness upon her heart. Her laughter did not echo between trees like part of nature’s symphony. Bai’len found her one evening sitting in a large meadow, head back as she stared up at the moon.

“What troubles you?” He asked in his deep baritone.

Tindyl’s eyes shut and a long breath slipped through her lips slowly.

“You’ve always told me of my ancestors, of your father and mother, and of theirs, Druids of the Claw. Druids of the Talon.”

Bai’len stood with bated breath. This was the moment his heart had held onto from the moment Tindyl’s first cries were lifted upon the wind and into the branches of their home. Yet, he felt as if he hadn’t enough time to prepare over these last 105 years. The druid stood beside her now, eyes fixed upon her face as his daughter’s brow knit together.

“I do not think I was meant to follow in their stead,” her voice was almost fearful as she said it. Those bright eyes opened and watched for her father’s reaction.

Inwardly, Bai’len felt a piece of him shatter but his face remained smooth.

“You have always had a choice, daughter. It would be an honor to serve with The Sentinels or even one day, The Wardens.”

“An’da,” her hand waved in the air dismissively.

Thinking that his daughter meant to shy away from his suggestion of becoming a Warden, Bai’len continued. “It is a high honor Tindyl, you’ve trained extensively in many areas I do not doubt—” Bai’len was interrupted.

“I do not want to be a Sentinel or a Warden.” As if preparing for battle, Tindyl got to her feet noiselessly.

“Then, what is it you want?”

Their shadows were cast long against the lush green grass as the moon shined down upon them. A desperate prayer was lifted to Elune as Tindyl took another deep breath and clenched her fists.

“I want to be a Druid of the Wild, I want to learn more of what you’ve taught me all these years. You said when I was young that it was uncommon that someone should be able to shapeshift into more than one form. I think..I must have been born with this gift, given to me by Elune herself!”

It amused Bai’len slightly to see his daughter’s purple skin flush with a red undertone as she passionately delivered her reasoning.

“While I love spending time with you in the forest, I do not think that I was meant to follow the path of Urso and Ursol. Nor am I meant to follow Avianna.”

“What do you intend then?” Bai’len’s arms were crossed lightly over his wide chest.

“I’m going to use magic…nature magic…to…heal.”

A single thick, silver brow raised high as Tindyl delivered her intentions in full. Bai’len’s composure broke mildly as his lips parted and he gazed down at his child in bewilderment.

“I’ve not taught you anything of restoration, who has put this thought into your head?”

“I did.” Tindyl stared up at her An’da, voice firm and calm for the first time during their meeting beneath the moon. “I would gladly spill blood to protect our home, our kin, our ways but it does not feel right. I am a warrior only because you’ve taught me how to be one, but it is not who I am within my heart.”

Tindyl waited in agony as silence fell between them. It was not within her nature to fidget or show any signs of her true emotions, but her eyes did hold the vision of Bai’len’s face tensely. The elder rubbed his forefinger over his bearded chin. The white hair bristled beneath his fingers as he scraped at the dark purple skin below it.

“I will not allow this, Tindyl.”

“But you would allow me to strap a bow to my back and ride a nightsaber alongside my sisters who die in battle against those that encroach on our home?”

“Do not raise your voice to me,” Bai’len threatened, voice like the snarl of a bear.

“Traditions are important, father.” Tindyl composed herself in an effort at another attempt to persuade him. “I believe that fully. Our ways should be preserved, our beliefs upheld, but I ask if you would allow me to practice druidism—something once unheard of for a female not many moons ago, why do you baulk at the idea of my healing? I only want to serve our people, to heal the wounds that would not otherwise mend. I’ve seen the soft green glow of that magic flow through my veins in dreams sent to me by the moon goddess. I can feel it in the tips of my fingers when they graze the petals of flowers and trunks of our trees. I will not allow it to consume me, not like it did to mother.”

Bai’len’s head snapped upward from where his eyes had drifted to a single flower swaying in the breeze.

“You will release this foolish dream from your head.”

That was the last word. Bai’len left Tindyl standing under the comforting rays of the moon. Tindyl sunk to her knees where she stood. The small stalks of grass were light against her skin, wrapping around her fingers and wrists as if to console her. The earth beneath her fingertips sang to Tindyl in the chirp of insects and call of evening birds. She knew it in her heart that what she said was true.

A single tear dripped down her alabaster skin and fell into the dirt below. In a dizzying instant, a wisp of green light shot upward. It vanished as quickly as it came and, in its place, stood a fresh silver flower. Tindyl’s hands hesitantly cupped its petals. The faintest green hue emanated within her palms and caressed the smooth edges of the plant that had just come into existence. A somber smile graced the night elf’s lips. She kept her hands around the flower as she leaned back and looked up at the moon.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her words were carried away upon the wind, whisked up and away into the leaves of their mighty Teldrassil. She could only hope Elune heard her and continued to show her the path she was meant to tread.

[tamoria]

Tamore Chapter One, part one. “Not like this.” Tadg states through gritted teeth, jaw clenched and eyes piercing. He is growing frustrated with their disagreements. I know this expression well. It is the same as the face he wore often during our first 10 years - stubborn and difficult as I was. I see it less now, I’ve learnt when to push and when to placate him. “The battle of Cill Rogha only resulted in gales, this is more and we must face it. He will let them bicker back and forth a while. I keep myself aside from the raucous conversation, the three other draoi speaking over one another, each sure they themselves are the observant and clear minded amongst fools.

  Muireann turns away from The other two men, Cathasach and Eogan and speaks to Tadg, “It is possible the fields have shifted, as they did in Damhin once before.” Immediately Cathasach rebuts her, he has been a loyal follower of Tadg’s for many years, truthful and honest with his voice. “Muireann, think a moment. The fields take many cycles to move any noticeable distance. We ourselves have shifting fields constantly but never have they caused this.” Eogan, who trains under Muireann, speaks loud and fumbling in her defense, leading the conversation back into chaos as insults start being thrown. Muireann is much younger than Tadg and believes herself sharper of mind for it. She revels in the idea of him being batty with old age and thus no longer suitable as the high druid - she would be a much better leader for our people, of course. She thinks this mainly because she is the batty one. She wears her dark hair wild and unbraided, like a storm cloud floating around her head. She has only one tunic, coloured yellow with bright dandelion dye, always ripped and mended. Even during Beltane, when we gather in droves to make our pilgrimages to the wells amongst the hills. All of us in our pure whites, billowing in the wind - there she is, in her yellow tunic with her hair as wild as the mountains. Her young apprentice, Eoghan has suffered under her teaching, leaving him years behind in his training. I do not envy him, it will be a long time before he can take a title. It matters little to him, he still looks and acts like a boy, so eager and taken up with being one of the great sorcerers that he has not yet realised he never will be. He agrees with everything she said, as I might have expected. “Muireann is right, in Damhin the storms battered villages as far as half a day’s walking. It was months before they regained control and learnt the new field.” Eoghan speaks quickly, determined to make his voice count. He truly believes what he is saying is worth listening to. Muireann nods along, only encouraging him Muireann speaks again, continuing on from his point, “The fields have shifted and Feada losing control of the breeze merely tipped the scales. It is unlucky for her but easily avoidable for the more capable among us.” She shoots a pointed look at me and I stare back, teeth gritted to stop myself putting her in her place. She must be further from sanity than I had thought if she considers herself more ‘capable’ than I. The hours she spends breathing in the fumes over her putrid health potions must be going to her head. Tadg has been warning of this for many cycles and they know he is right but refuse to acknowledge it for fear of what will happen next. I know him, I trust his judgement and I have spent my training preparing for this very situation. There will be a reckoning and I will be called to lead, there is an evil lurking in the new sect and they want to see the old ways - the people in this room, destroyed. I will force them across the sea, back to where they came from by my own hand if no one else will stand. They have displeased the Mother Goddess and they have displeased me. Tadg stands and clears his throat, the group suddenly silent. “You will listen.” he says, his voice quiet and firm, he knows they will listen. “The new sect has landed on our shores as I saw they would. They travel by tall boat from far across the Grey Sea. They bring magic as dark as the night and a vow to destroy our ways.” There is a distinct murmuring from Muireann’s corner accompanied by a shuffle of discomfort. Tadg continues regardless. “They do not follow Danu or her children and strive only for her blood, the storms that draw waves hard onto our shores and batter our villages are the Mother Goddess fighting back. Denying them a place on our land. Across our island our ancestors are fighting, but they can no longer walk amongst us so we must stand for them, we must raise our hands and our voices to these savages lest they trample us into the dirt. We will bring down the wrath from above, the arrows from our bows and the strength of our voices. We will make them flee. They will turn, tails between their legs and scamper back to their boats. We will uphold our values and be merciful as they run like scared field mice.” The quiet whispers, fidgeting and overall disrespect for Tadg’s leadership has faded somewhat. They are unsure still but they respect him and know he is set on a course. “Feada will lead as she has been trained to. Eoghan will accompany her.” Muireann looks up in shock. “The rest of us will stay at our posts, we need strength and consistency here at home, our people cannot fear for us. I have spoken, it is so.” ———————————————————————————————————– I walk through the village, smiling brightly at anyone who passes me. The farmers are making their way in from the fields, aching and looking forward to hot meals, their horses and donkeys just as tired. Their wives and mothers squatting low beside fires, making simple stews, enriched with the warmth and comfort the men need.. There are occasional traders from Corlea passing through with fine new tools and knick knacks. The trees above me sway with the sound of my heartbeat and footsteps, whispering my name in triumph. The long grass yields to me, bent at the knee. The river cheers me on as it gushes past. There have been days like this before - where belonging breathes in me and I can see ahead. Today I am a leader, I can bring peace and balance in my own name. I do not stand behind powerful men. The sky is bright blue, the clouds respectfully avoiding coming too close to the sun and blocking her. All around I can see my land bow before me. I come to the small hut, bright and warm from the central fire, I shut the door quickly to keep the heat in and make my way to a free log space near the fire. “Feada!” A familiar voice shouts from behind me, I turn to see Bridget. She motions her daughter, Saoirse to the cooking pot she has been attending and walks to me, smiling warmly as she starts chattering away. “How was your day, love? I heard a rumour of a meeting of the drui, true?” Bridget is my mother’s eldest sister, she is head of our home and likes to know all of our goings on. I nod in answer to her question, “Yes, we gathered today. I am to meet with the king. Tadg requested I take a trip to the near villages, I’ll be gone till the new moon, maybe longer.” She looks concerned and checks over her shoulder for anyone standing too near or looking particularly interested in our conversation. Her voice drops down, still a regular speaking volume but quiet relative to before. “The near villages? As far as Cullahill then?” These are homely people, they do not long for violence the way some do. Rather, many of them, Bridget included, fear it. Our clan has always been a peaceful one, We have rarely been the ones to light the torch fire. “There has been no word of fighting - do not fret. I have been sent to help rebuild after the storms, to discover if they need any additional aid from the king, that is all” She looks at me closely, suspicious that I am withholding something, and displeased she will not know the whole truth. I say, “You’re getting paranoid in your old age.” Mostly to change the subject, take her mind of the seemingly impending doom. She observes me a minute longer, eyes narrowed slightly, my words not shaking her resolve. Then she seems to consciously put it aside and with a small shrug she breaks into a smile. “Let’s get you sorted then. You can hardly stand before the king as you are!” She chuckles and I follow her to my small section of the hut, my bed and chest lined up against the wall, my half-staff leaning where I left it - they all know touching it could cost them a broken nose if I found out. I open the dark chest at the base of my small bed, a gift from my mother when she learned I was to be Tadg’s student. She had smiled so sweetly, a hand on my cheek, “Soon you will know the forests better than I.” She had said, a small sadness in her voice, the weight of a pebble sitting between us. I smooth my hands along it, feeling the familiar knots and corners of it. It has more corners than most chests. The heavy lid creaks as I lift it and I think once again that I should get some fat to quieten it. Bridget echoes my thoughts aloud, “your box is squeaking, love, I’ll gather you some fat after we eat. I know your mother would be tutting” I chuckle and thank her as I reach in, pushing everyday tunics aside to find my ceremony wear that sits at the bottom. I need to look my best tonight. I need the high king’s approval and he leads more with his eyes than his head. I pull my long whites out, turning to Bridget for her approval. “Pass them here,” she says, hand outstretched. She looks them over, checking seems.The long white robes drip from her arms, they are heavy and at times impractical but they have always been soft against my skin. The light from the fire dances over them. Eventually she decides they’ll do, or maybe she just knows that I don’t have anything else. ———————————————————————————————————– A guard pushes the tall wooden door open and I walk through, feeling as though I am floating .. Dropping into a low curtsy before the king, I smile broadly; I am where I should be and I will be listened to. There are only a few people in the room and as I rise he waves all but his closest counsel, Uallas, out of the room. I stand confident, straight-backed. . The young king greets me, “Good Evening Feada.” “Good Evening,” I say, my chin high It has not been long since he took the throne from his father. The battle at Clontarin had left him one-eyed. An unfit man is an unfit king so the honour was passed to his son, Daire. “I have read the letter sent by Tadg mac Nuadat. Do you have anything of your own to add?” He is revered as a kind and fair king, and though young, he makes sound choices. Much unlike his father before him. “I do. As you know I have spent much of my training preparing for the very situation we now find ourselves facing. I am not afraid of them, I know what is to be done and will not hesitate to stand before them. I am the thing they must fear.” His eyes move from my face and slowly down my body, taking me in, sizing me up. They dart quickly back to my face. With a small smile and a nod he says, “You need not try to convince me Feada. My name and my men are behind you in your endeavours.” I breathe deeply and thank him, relieved I did not have to fight for his approval. “You are right,” he continues, “this is necessary. I have my conditions though Feada, we will be cautious, visit Fourcuil and Reen first to collect information. We will keep this from our people, you will travel with three trained soldiers of your choosing as well as your fellow druid. No one else may know the breadth of our endeavors. We cannot allow word to get to them before we do. Once you have visited the villages you will return and report directly to me before you venture further.” He looks at me, right at me, with eyebrows raised. I lower my head slowly, head bent as I say, “Yes, I understand. I thank you again, humbly.” His face has softened when I sneak a glance. “That is all then.” He says, turning back to his fire. “Uallas, see Feada out.” ———————————————————————————————————– I dress quickly, practical and warm today rather than the frivolities of yesterday. My brown bratt, though older and much more worn than it’s red russet sibling, it is also thick and much warmer. It lies better across my shoulders, probably given I am rarely seen without it. It will serve me well today, the wind starting to rattle at the door. The training fields stretch out over a few hundred paces around the king’s buildings. Flat and well drained they are used for training year round with pauses for festival weeks. They are kept free of livestock and as much as possible - from too much mud or flooding. It’s well known that Daire enjoys watching training from the high windows. Today there is a double line of men and women, hands at their sides, awaiting instruction. They are all kinds, young, old, tall and wide. I walk slowly along, taking them in. I will spend the majority of the day watching them and try to decide on three by evening meal. I dismiss them with a hand wave, watching them disperse to archery targets, swords and horses. Their master, Fiachra, stands with me adding small comments, pointing out the particularly talented and most importantly - keeping notes for me. He knows each of their skills and weaknesses and will prove indispensable. It doesn’t rain solidly all day, mercifully there are breaks every once in a while to allow some hope to return. The men perform well despite, they are well used to training in downpours and blizzards. I, however, do not fare as well and find myself cold to the bone after the first hour. Stand outs were two young men, brothers, who worked much better together than they did apart. They play off one another, fluid in their movement and confident; laughing as they shoot their arrows and touch swords. The third warrior catches my eye for a different reason. She was tall and slim, her hair pulled out of her face and plaited down her back. She is studied and purposeful, carefully planning the smallest movement of her fingers on the bow string. She is unaware of me watching her, unlike most of the others that look over their shoulder to check I am paying attention before they attempt anything vaguely impressive. She is even more utterly unaware of what I am thinking as I do. I wonder what it would take for me to distract her, to make her eyes divert from their target. Small kisses along her neck perhaps? A whisper of my breath in her ear? How much to make her strong bow arm weak? I pretend. For the next few hours, to be uncertain about who to choose. I hum and haw, asking Fiachra questions I know the answer to. Eventually I ‘settle’ on my three choices.