#` bronte - admires `

[ferronickel]

In typical Ferronickel fashion, I am now plagued with thoughts about how the Brontë's juvenilia would be different in a world where the military had dragons, a subsection of interests that is so irrelevant to everyone else that it's barely every worth mentioning on this site, let alone creating any fanworks about.

I'm gonna do a little incomprehensible rant in the tags about it and the go on my merry way. Please ignore the following

[zombeesknees]

#this post is an act of violence against me personally (affectionate)

Toby Stephens as Gilbert Markham in THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL Part I.

[rose-maidenn]

Astro observations 1

Tropical + Sidereal

Tropical

If you have mercury sextile venus as a women your voice gives you an upper hand in your career , example Sofia Vergara being famous for her acting as well as her unique voice , lana del rey for her vocal range , Rihanna , Kim Kardashian memes lol .

If as a man you have mercury sextile venus it shows up as an upper hand in your thoughts and creativity , often times men with this placement are very soft spoken and understanding , in a dark way they could be manipulative as well . They mostly create a world of wonders for themselves and have distinct contributions towards art or way of life . Eg : Walt Disney , Ewan Mcgregor in big fish

Scorpio men give high school bad boy vibes , their upper body might be larger then their lower body , fellas don't skip leg day

Wanna start content creation or wanna be a singer , check your moon sign , a popstar might become popular based on the emphasis on either vocal range, lyricism, performance (credits to the instagram reel i watched lol i lost the link ) eg : scorpio women embody the performer persona most strongly , for example: Beyonce , Miley Cyrus , Lady gaga etc (vedic - Vishakha)

Cancer sun women mostly embody the trashy girl aesthetic.

Though widely considered meek , the cancer sun embodies a badass feministic yet kind vibe to them eg : Princess Diana , Selena Gomez , MIA, Frida Kahlo , often turn out to be revolutionaries and make changes in their own fields .

Pluto in the 5th is an amazing placement for fashion designers or in the field of marketing in the field , eg: Coco chanel , Miuccia Prada , Donatella Versace etc . 5th is the house of creativity and pluto being in it bring something out of the ordinary to make the person famous.

Pluto in 5th might also suffer from a turbulent childhood often with home relocation or absent parents

Mercury in 9th might be forced to grow up earlier , these people embody wisdom beyond years, often time resulting in void eg : Drew Barrymore, Mila Kunis lying about her age to get roles , Brooke shields .

Mercury in 9th is also a good placement for writers, eg : Sylvia plath , Agatha Christie, Emily Bronte .

Sidereal

Purva Bhadrapada women are very activist and stand for what they believe in , they make really good points in an debate👏

Punarvasu sun will give you fuller lips . Mostly downturned

Gemini men often have a wild chemistry with Sagittarius men 😭😂 the gemini man either admires the Sagittarius or hates them , like a frenemy vibe .

Libra men have the rake energy they flirt with everyone but they also make you feel like you're the only girl 😭 tf

Moon conjunct Saturn is said to give a bad relationship with mother but I have observed that if it is in the 12 th house it actually gives a good relationship, as there's more understanding .

As a jupiterian myself I won't advise to dye your hair blonde if you have prominent jupiter ,it makes me even more delusional. I would recommend brown for grounding and inviting creativity in your life .

Idk mars dom men are too good to me I like them so much, I've seen that in other cases as well so I will say jup dom 🤝 mars dom.

Rahu doms are underdogs yall , mostly people underestimate them until one day they put all their energy into something and prove themselves .

Uttara Ashadha girls act as they're stupid but they're observing so much , they might have really captivating eyes , puppy eyes if I say .

If two people have asc-moon synastry , they love each other and loathe each other because of their similarities , their is also a tendency of copying the others gestures or fashion .

Ketu doms push people away and then say they're lonely , it takes a lot to understand the inner rich world of ketu doms , which I think venus doms get to a degree.

Rohini people have a certain liking towards the metal of gold , and it will bring you auspiciousness if you buy them gold.

That's all for today hope yall enjoyed , I think you can read both observations interchangeably hehe I tried a new format hope yall like it . Dm me if you want to book a chart reading or an astrology reading 🫶

Thank you for reading

[pinknightsinmymind]

【 abby anderson as a gf hc's 】

a/n: this is just super fluffy and cute <333 i wrote a lot so it's below the cut

first and foremost, lots of ppl make assumptions about abby and what she's like because of her appearance. she has somewhat of a rbf, and she's insanely buff, so many ppl are intimidated by her automatically.

that being said, abby looks to be understood and known at a deeper level, and wants to be treated like anyone else no matter what she looks like

i think she's the typical "intimidating but a huge softie" type like HEAR ME OUT

anyone can look at her and know that she's insanely strong and that she could easily take them out, and while true, underneath all that abby is extremely kind and caring

she may look scary, but she loves reading, she loves animals, she loves nature, she has a soft spot for lev, she's grown to understand the world outside of herself and that there is more than what meets the eye, she's learned from her mistakes, and she's deeply loyal

so while, yes, she is tough and strong, she is much more than that and wants to be seen for all parts of herself rather than the surface; she wants to be understood and she wants her partner to be someone who isn't intimidated by her and is willing to look beyond her exterior

so while everyone else avoids her and you willingly approach her despite what ppl say? and you treat her like a person—like she were anyone else? that immedately gets you on her good side and gains you her respect

you two begin to seek each other out more and more bc she enjoys your company and begins to open up to you

she lets you see every side of her, even the ones she typically wouldn't let others see

other ppl may be confused as to how you joke around with her so easily when they'd fear for their lives if they did, but that's simply bc you're close enough to her that you know how much of a huge softie she is

okay okay enough of my intimidating softie abby agenda and now time for more interesting stuff

im FULLY convinced that in a modern!au and college!au she'd be in pre-med studying to be a doctor or a surgeon; she'd do it bc she wants to help ppl but also bc she loves and admires her dad for his work

bc of this i also see her bragging to you all the time that she'll be your doctor wife who makes big money so she can spoil you

(and she lives up to that promise)

when she comes home late from work she's quick to make it up to you

ABBY IN SCRUBS

knowing her love of novels, i feel like she struggled to pick between pre-med and english as her major, but at the end of the day being a doctor called to her passions much more so she chose english as her minor

HOWEVER, i feel like her brain is so sexy especially when talking about novels she's read

like imagine her going on tangents about the book she's read and what she thinks the meaning is, then bringing up the story's historical context, and then interdisciplinary studies and just being like "omg she's so sexy i'm going to take my clothes off rn" bc of how smart she is

her book collection is HUGE and she lets you borrow whatever you want from her shelves, and you can see all the things she's scribbled in the margins, her silly annotations, small drawings in the corners, her cussing in her notes about the characters saying stuff like "what the fuck is wrong with you?" so seriously

she'll find poems she really likes and tell you about them especially the ones that remind her of you

i feel like she'd love emily dickinson and the bronte sisters idk i can see it

she's SO excited to introduce you to her dad

she's a huge family person and wants you to feel like a part of her family too

in a modern!au lev is probably a kid who lives next door to her that she babysits and tutors sometimes but she absolutely adores him and sees him as her brother

can you imagine how much of a hopeless romantic she is

she's probably so cheesy and loves romance and being cute with you where if it were anyone else it'd be cringy but its HER and she's just so sweet and so endearing how could you hate any of it?

asks you to be her valentine every year even if you're her gf bc she still feels the need to romance you

will make a spectacle of every holiday in order to treat you somehow

okay maybe gift giving would be a love language of hers too i can see it

but i feel like her top love languages are physical touch and acts of service tho

she's definitely the type to cherish any moment with you, and values being able to sit with you in silence in general but also while you do your own activities together (so parallel play basically)

.... i think she'd love to play video games to destress but not necessarily violent ones i think she'd play more calm games like animal crossing to relax or maybe minecraft where yall can build a world together and have a little farm bc she thinks its cute

teases you when you get lost or when you die in the games tho bc she's a bully (jokingly) like that

definitely the type to be like "only I can bully you"

very protective in general she wouldn't let anyone lay a hand on you and she'd take such good care of you

worries about your well-being (physical, emotional, mental) all the time and will do whatever it takes to make sure you're okay

if you need her at 3 am, she doesn't care she goes to your place right away

if you're sick she won't hesitate to buy you medicine, clean up your place, make you soup, whatever you want

when taking care of you while sick she calls you her number one patient and her favorite patient bc she's corny like that

there's nothing she wouldn't do for you bc when she's committed, she's committed

she's such a devoted and loyal person in general that when she cares about you, she cares about you, and there's no bluffing involved

just a very sincere and honest person who is willing to grow and learn, especially with her partner

i bet she's VERY open to communication and to talk things out with you she's the type to listen to you wholeheartedly and give you all the reassurance you need

she's the type of partner who's SO open to communication and good at it that you're like omg??? how are you so calm??? i'm screaming and crying and shitting my pants rn???

she's a huge softie and such a loving person who looks to be understood the way she understands others; she craves unconditional love and wants to give to others

she's just gf (and wife) material like come ON

[imobsessed123]

Quick Fanta sketch bc I wanted to try side profiles

He’s admiring glaring at Bronte

[shadowsandlint]

2024 Fic Writer End of Year Roundup

Answer and then tag three or more creators to keep the game going!

Oh, this has taken me some time. Thank you to everyone who's tagged me in their roundups, it has really warmed this shadowed, linty heart of mine ❤️

1. How many words did you publish on AO3 in 2024?

100,802!! I found out juust before the new year that I was missing 6000 words from a 100 000, and as luck would have it, I had a chapter for my secret santa fic that was just that long. Marvelous @neciebee stepped up as beta to help me finish it in time.

2. How many fics did you complete this year?

“Completed” is a bit of a complicated term, because technically it’s four, but I have continuations in the works for a couple. 

3. How many in progress or ongoing fics did you start this year?

On Ao3 it looks like I only have the one in progress that was started this year (WWUitS was started on the tail end of 2023), but I have four more docs that I’ve worked on from time to time. 

4. What was your favorite thing you wrote?

Autumn Winds Across the Sea continues to be my favorite in its entirety. An old poet took over my fingers while I wrote that. But there are also parts of Words We Use in the Shadows that I’m really proud of and happy with. For instance the poem-turned-song, and the confrontation and ensuing angst, but also the literary references throughout. Thanks to it its patron saint Marcel Proust ❤️

5. What piece was your most experimental or different from your usual style?

It’s probably Autumn Winds! I used aaall the adjectives and synonyms, and cosplayed as a Bronte sister while writing, so the result is quite gothic and picturesque. 

6. Did any fics surprise you - either while writing or their reception?

I mean, Words We Use has surprised me so many times. I originally thought it was gonna be around ten chapters, but the story grew legs and ran away from me. It’s currently just out of view, and I’m trying to rein her back in. I was also pleasantly surprised with the recurring readers I got to know, and some of which I now call friends. :) 

7. Do you have a fic you wrote and loved that went under the radar? (This is your sign to reblog/repost it!)

I really liked the tiny Prometheus retelling I did for Eris Week, but I think it might have been a little too niche? 

8. Who is an artist that inspired you?

There are many, and I can’t possibly remember all. But a few that have made works I have really enjoyed are 

@elleybug for her heartbreakingly melancholic depictions, especially of Eris, @palomita-de-la-sangre for her beautifully feral fae, @dawneternal for such wonderful noses, @velidewrites for making them all SO. DANG. SEXY, @thrumugnyr for such excellent incorporations of humor AND headcannons, @queercontrarian for wonderfully detailed character studies, for and the list goes on! 

9. Who is an author that inspired you?

SO SO MANY! If I've ever left a kudos or comment on your work, consider yourself included.And I’m getting overwhelmed trying to write something about everyone, so we’re just listing to avoid this staying in the drafts 

@chunkypossum @iftheshoef1tz @futurehunt @witch-and-her-witcher @the-darkestminds @jules-writes-stories @ysmtttty @talibunny30 @neciebee @mistandmemories @acourtofladydeath @secret-third-thing @unanswered-stars @withmychainzon @separatist-apologist @beesays @fourteentrout @yanny-77 @ofduskanddreams @nocasdatsgay @pippsmcgee @aurorasleeps-27 @born-to-riot 

I APPRECIATE AND ADMIRE ALL OF YOU 

10. Who is a new author you discovered?

See above. I think about ⅔ of the authors are new discoveries from this year, as I only got into Azris in the fall of 2023. 

11. Did you do any collaborations? How did it start?

No, but that could be fun :) Hit me up 

Though, it is sort of a collaboration to have a beta reader, and I’m very grateful for @talibunny30 , @pippsmcgee and @neciebee for helping me with some of my writing in 2024. Literal/literary ANGELS

12. What accomplishments are you proudest of?

Finishing Your Scars on My Pulse, and developing as a writer. It caused a bit of a writing slump, but I’m getting back in the groove!

13. What did you learn about writing or creating this year?

What writing styles that don’t work for me. I tried a couple different ways to draft my stories, mostly in hopes that I would get to the end result faster, but it turns out that my slow and steady way of doing it suits me better. Spewing out words and then revising just makes me frustrated. But it’s a great way for me to draft the overall story! 

14. What is your advice?

Don’t be so hard on yourself. Sometimes it’s very easy to write, and sometimes it’s really hard. It might just mean that you’re getting better at your craft, and your writing style is changing as a result, which can cause a bit of a dissonance. Or maybe you’re in a down period. I sure know how difficult it is to write when depressed. Give yourself the grace to get better, and treat your mind and body well. And don’t compare your work or your success to other writers, it only steals joy. Support others the way you would want to be supported. 

15. What are your creative goals for 2025?

Finishing Words We Use in the Shadows, and working on more original fiction. I would also like to write something lighter and less serious, but I think I mostly have angst planned, lol 

Here’s to a good year!

Lint, laugh, love,

SL

[winwin17]

KOTLC future headcanon

When Amy Foster grows up, she goes to college and studies psychology and its related fields to become a therapist. Because of her good standing with Bronte as well as her connection to Sophie, a special contract is made which grants Amy permission to travel to the Lost Cities and provide therapy and counseling services for the Elves.

Amy goes on to have a successful career in the human world, but her primary and most beloved work is her top secret regular travels to the elven cities. Over time, with Sophie and friends now also adults, some changes take place in leadership positions, whether that be new Council members, members of the now openly recognized Black Swan, or other organizations, and steps are slowly being taken to make some level of reconnection between the human and elven worlds.

But Amy Foster is sadly still mortal, and some of the elves realize that one day she will not be there to continue providing the services she's introduced to the elven world and which have started to make a positive impact on the mental and emotional health of their people. So Rex Dizznee takes it upon himself to sneak off to the human world and dig into this world of psychology and mental health studies himself. At first this is a secret act of counterculture rebellion, but eventually it is endorsed by some of the new leadership, and they help provide resources and protection for his mission.

And so it is that the talentless and once socially scorned Rex Dizznee is the first pioneer among elves in bringing the mental health movement to the Lost Cities. Because of his fame, talentless people are now not only accepted (thanks to the influence of people like Sophie and Dex and Keefe) but also applauded and admired. Rex is even appointed as leader of a group commissioned to collect and transfer academic resources from the human world to improve the elves' own study of psychology. (Keefe might be able to help with his photographic memory, and maybe they could store some of the information in caches for safekeeping, as it's groundbreaking material for the Lost Cities.

So Amy is the first human and recognized professional therapist in the Lost Cities, and Rex is the first elven psychologist, commissioned researcher to the Forbidden Cities, and the first talentless elf to become famous for something good.

[foragerknits]

Knitting in Victorian England

I wrote this for a class on Victorian Literature because my professor let me research knittinf and make a cape instead of writing a literary analysis paper. The cape that is discussed from The Art of Knitting is what I created for this project, with the illustration from the book on the top right and the cape I knit on the left. The book is from 1892 and is free on Internet Archive, and Engineering Knits on YouTube made a wonderful video about it. (More photos of the cape at the end!)

Knitting experienced a surge of popularity in Victorian England, and was even a topic of discussion in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. After gaining popularity due  to industrialization, knitting became a common pastime for women. Knitting was important because it existed as a way for Victorian women of all classes to be seen as  virtuous and gave them the look of domesticity, while additionally functioning as a  means of income for working-class women by either knitting or writing about knitting.  

Industrialization shifted the view of knitting from economic necessity to a  fashionable pastime for gentry women. In 1589 the first mechanical knitting machine  was invented in Nottingham, which industrialized the knitting industry (“The History  of Hand-Knitting"). Dyed wool trade with Germany and the subsequent booming  industry of knitting pattern books turned knitting into something more accessible and artistic than solely practical (Rutt 112). Knitting became popular and fashionable for gentry women around  1835 (Rutt 111). Women of all classes have knitted long before the Victorian period, but  the industrial changes shifted knitting to a popular and fashionable pastime for gentry women, in addition to the economic necessity for working-class women. 

Knitting served as a way to keep women wholesomely busy. In The Art of  Knitting, a quote from the beginning by Richter reads “A letter or a book distracts a woman more than four pair of stockings knit by herself” (qtd in The Art of Knitting 2).  Knitting kept women busy without opening them up to new ideas that came from  letters and books. Furthermore, a writer in The Magazine of Domestic Economy writes how  useless the items (upper-class) women made were, but praises knitting in its effort “to rid of those hours which, but for their aid, might not be so innocently disposed of” (qtd  in Rutt 112). Concentrating on knitting produces something at the end of the hours of  challenging work but does not expose women to any material that the Victorians would deem dangerous or immoral. Thus, even when women made something useless, they  were keeping themselves busy in a virtuous way. 

Knitting also gave women the feminine and domestic look that was expected of  them in the Victorian era. This can be seen in Jane Eyre with Jane’s description of Mrs. Fairfax upon their meeting. Jane thinks, “[Mrs. Fairfax] was occupied in knitting; a large  cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-ideal of  domestic comfort” (Bronte 145). This is the first time the reader sees Mrs. Fairfax,  surrounded by a warm fire, a cat and engaged in a feminine pastime. She is the image  of domesticity. Jane admires Mrs. Fairfax, in part, for the comfort her nature, including  knitting, brings. Mrs. Fairfax shows the role knitting plays into the idea of women as  domestic creatures. 

Certain forms of knitting made women appear elegant. Frances Lambert, author  of 1842 manual The Handbook of Needlework, advises women to knit using the common Dutch knitting method, in which the yarn is held over the fingers of the left hand and  the needles pointed upwards, because it was seen as a more elegant style of knitting  (Rutt 113). While Rutt notes that this method was a faster way of knitting, Lambert does  not comment on this, but instead focuses on its aesthetic qualities. This style of knitting was popular because it allowed for the look of style that was mandatory in women’s lives.  

While gentry women were often restricted to making less practical knit items,  some knitting authors disparaged this for frivolity and immorality. Working-class  women did not have this criticism as the things they made were out of practicality and  meant for regular use. In picking yarn color and material, Mlle Riego de la  Branchardiere, author of Ladies Handbook of Knitting, Netting and Crochet writes “...and  let her be careful to make all she does a sacrifice acceptable to her God” (qtd in Rutt  116). Rutt asserts that although Victorian knitting is seen as producing useless knits,  some authors disparaged this (117). They instead encouraged women to focus on what  they saw as the spiritual aspects rather than on aesthetics, as everything women did,  including knitting, should enhance their virtue. 

While knitting was popular as a pastime, it was still used out of economic need  and served as a way for working-class women to earn money. Knitting was taught in  orphanages and poor houses, with the first knitting school opened in Lincoln, Leicester, and York in the late 1500s. One school in Yorkshire was established for boys and girls  who were “not in affluence” (“The History of Hand-Knitting"). The first knitting book,  titled The National Society's Instructions on Needlework and Knitting, published in 1838, was an instructional manual for teachers to teach poor students the art of knitting and  needlework. Knitting was used as a personal hobby, but also as a way for working-class  people to support themselves.  

The importance of knitting to working-class women can be seen in Jane Eyre. St John tells Jane, “It is a village school: your scholars will be only poor girls—cottagers’  children—at the best, farmers’ daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will be all you will have to teach” (Bronte 541). Knitting will be a way for these young girls to get jobs and to be able to make clothes for themselves and their families. In this way, knitting was more than a fashionable and artistic hobby, but a necessity for many  working-class women. 

In addition to manufacturing knitwear, women were able to make substantial livings writing about knitting. There was a boom in knitting and needlework  publications during the 19th century (“The History of Hand-Knitting"). Some, such as  The Art of Knitting, were published directly by publishers with no one associated author.  Others were authored by women and were immensely successful. Cornelia Mee, who  published shorter pamphlet-type knitting books, sold over 300,000 copies during their run in print (Rutt 115). Francis Lambert, author of two editions of My Knitting Book, sold a combined 65,000 copies and was translated into several languages across Europe (Rutt  113). Knitting gave working-class women opportunities to earn money, whether it was  making knitwear or writing about knitting.

Knitting manuals contained various topics, such as some focusing on the religious and virtuous aspects of knitting as discussed previously, but most, if not all, had patterns in them. Under the chapter “Hoods, Capes, Shawls, Jackets, Fascinators, Petticoats, Leggings, Slippers, etc., etc.” in The Art of Knitting there is a pattern to knit a cape. Victorian knitting patterns tended to be broad and vague. Today's patterns are quite concerned with needle size and gauge, unlike many Victorian patterns. For instance, the cape pattern instructs the reader to “use quite coarse needles and work rather loosely,” (60).

Knitting was an important skill for women in the Victorian era, and they knit for a multitude of reasons. Knitting gave women the look of virtue, elegance, and domesticity. Working-class women used their knitting skills to support themselves and their families through making knitwear or writing about knitting.  

Sources:

The Art of Knitting. The Butterick Publishing Co. 1892.   https://archive.org/details/artofknitting00butt/page/60/mode/2up?ref=ol&vi ew=theater

Bronte, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Planet eBooks. 1847. 

“The History of Hand-Knitting" Victoria and Albert Museum. 

Rutt, Richard. A History of Hand Knitting. Interweave Press. 1987.  https://archive.org/details/historyofhandkni0000rutt/page/n7/mode/2up?vie w=theater

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

professor steve or boss steve?

👀

I don't know what this is but I chose professor Steve

One is the Loneliest Number

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you bluster in through the door, “I got caught–”

You stop short. The room is empty. You check your watch, the small golden piece your mother got you before you left for college, and peer around once more. There is only one other body in the immense room. Your professor, Dr. Rogers.

“Oh, hi, I…” you sputter, “it’s not the wrong day, is it?”

The question strikes you as stupid the moment it hangs before you. No, he wouldn’t be here if it was the wrong day.

“Did I get the wrong time?”

He sits up, setting down the book on the desk before him. He looks unimpressed as he leaves on the hardcover of his copy of Wuthering Heights. Your own is a curling paper back with wrinkles along the spine. You bite your lip and teeter on your toes, turning your toes together.

He watches you, sliding the book loudly across the wood, “you are the only one. Seems like this wasn’t such a good idea.”

You frown and look above his head, at the face of the clock ticking on the wall. It’s almost twenty minutes past the hour. You feel worse for him now than you did running in late.

“I’m sorry, professor, I…” you look around awkwardly, “I was so excited but maybe someone else will show up. I don’t mind waiting.”

He seems less than heartened by your words. He sighs and looks down at the book, running his fingers across the embossed cover. You go to the middle row and lift your bag onto the desk, fishing around for your copy.

“Maybe we can get started without them,” you volunteer, searching for anything to kill the unease, “I really enjoyed the book, Prof–”

“Don’t bother. Go back and have fun with your friends,” he waves you off as he turns back up the aisle, “I won’t keep you. Obviously, you coeds have a lot more going on than some ancient tome.”

“Oh, uh,” you blink at his back, his broad shoulders stretching the tweed of his blazer. He talks as if he’s terribly old but he hardly shows it. There’s a few strands of silver in his hair but you can hardly tell as they blend into the golden highlights, “so, what do you think? Did Bronte mean to reprimand her protagonists or romanticise them? I thought the narrative was kinda condemning, don’t you think?”

He stops and pushes his head back. A long breath as he turns on his heel.

“Really? Most would say it’s overly praising, that it glorfiies Catherine and Heathcliff’s love,” he intones, “at least, most girls your age say so.”

“Well, I uh… found it almost annoying that Heathcliff refuses to change,” you explain as you sit down, “truly, but with Hareton, Catherine can grow…”

“Hmm,” he hums and walks along the next row, turning a chair around to sit, “tell me more.”

You rub your dry lips together before you find another thought. You don’t want to admit that you were scrolling on Reddit and a lot of your ideas were borrowed from the arguments there. Still, you came all the way here and you just couldn’t bring yourself to leave him. 

You go on about the mirroring of Heathcliffe and Catherine, how their similarities are almost detrimental, as if they are part of each other rather than lovers. He nods thoughtfully as you speak.

“I don’t know, I think I need to do a second read,” you shrug as you eyes meet his. The intent blue irises nearly make you wither.

“I think you got it,” he allows his mouth to curve just a little, “thank you for humouring me.”

“No, professor, I–”

“I’m not stupid, the letters beside my name would at least suggest that,” he leans back in the chair and frames his book with his thumbs and index fingers. 

You admire the cover, leather inlaid with the image of the literary amours, “yours is much prettier than mine.” You close the curling cover and try to hold it smooth, the blocked font offering little more than simplicity. “I got it from the second-hand pile at the student shop.”

“It has character,” he says as he reaches over, his thumb brushing yours as he slides it from beneath your grasp. He flips through the pages, the soft breeze of the flutter causing a short blond strand to droop down his forehead, “a special sort of beauty.”

He peeks up at you. You don’t know what to say. What he’s waiting for. You smile as his gaze follows your nervous fingers as they tap against your throat. You still the anxious gesture and look at the clock.

“Like you,” he breathes. 

Your eyes drop back to him and you shake your head, “pardon?”

“Hm,” he tilts his head, “I didn’t…” he cranes to look at the clock, “well, I won’t keep you any longer. I guess you should–”

“Have you been to Marge’s? The new cafe down by the arena?” You blurt out. Your habit of rambling when you're addled never fails to corner you, “I was going to go there after and have some tea. Maybe…” you touch your cheek, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, shoot, I guess that’s too forward. I’m sorry, I’m not… I’ll go.”

You reach for the book but he keeps it in his grasp. Your eyes meet his as he watches you, “I like tea,” he offers, “if you don’t mind the company.”

[aphelea]

a merry war (tiertice)

my fic for @keeper-big-bang-2024!!

check out the absolutely incredible art by @purplesoup-lad-le and @kingkrakie: here and here or read on ao3 here

Summary:

Sick of Tiergan and Prentice's rivalry, fiancées Della and Livvy—alongside Lord Bronte and Lord Fintan Pyren—create a scheme to convince each one that the other is in love with them. Meanwhile, Lady Gisela and her unmemorable sidekick are plotting to throw Eternalia into complete and utter chaos—but will Sophie and her friends be able to thwart them before they can ruin Della and Livvy's wedding? or: A Tiertice Much Ado About Nothing AU.

-

Tiergan knows the second the messenger arrives that he isn’t bringing good news. It’s not through any body language of the man himself, no—Tiergan has simply noticed a pattern with messages that arrive in his presence. He’s a bad-luck charm, of sorts. (Though Bronte would scold him if he heard him say that.)

In this case, the messenger arrives to him, Livvy, and Bronte eating dinner in the dining hall—Livvy, reading over a letter she had received that evening and Tiergan, pretending to be nose-deep in a novel. In reality, he’s attempting to read Livvy’s letter over her shoulder (for, although she won’t admit the identity of her “secret daily admirer,” Tiergan has his suspicions which he would have liked to have confirmed. Much to his chagrin, however, Livvy is one of only two people in the world who knows how to hide from his snooping.)

“My lord,” the messenger says, covered in dirt and grime and dripping like a wet dog all over the marble floors. 

Bronte, to his credit, maintains his composure, though his lips do twist into a slight scowl. “Yes?” 

The messenger procures a short note with ripped edges from his sack and leaves it on the table. “A message from the war camp, sir.” 

“Do they return?” Livvy says, scrambling up from her seat. “When? With whom? For how long?”

The messenger seems vaguely uncomfortable at the barrage of questions, but is thankfully saved by Bronte, who simply states, “Well. I suppose we should prepare some rooms, then.” He frowns, for a moment, then asks, “How many, exactly? Fintan has been frustratingly vague, as always.”

“It’s…rather up in the air, at the moment,” he replies, gaze flitting back and forth across the room. “There will likely be some extra guests coming along. Strangers to Eternalia, I believe.” 

And Tiergan suddenly feels the urge to bang his head against the table. 

Many times. 

Enough times, perhaps, to suffer a head injury that would send him to a physician far, far, away—conveniently for the duration of their guests’ stay. But alas, he cannot, and so he remains seated in silent suffering.   

There are indeed plenty of men at the border of Ravagog, protecting from the ever-present forces of King Dimitar. But few would, so soon after a victory, venture so far out of the way as Eternalia. A few containing Lord Fintan Pyren—whose inexplicable connection to the city leads him to visit Bronte at every possible occasion—and those who find themselves otherwise drawn to the young masters of Eternalia.

Drawn, theoretically, to a years-long effort to annoy Tiergan till his heart stops. 

“Tell me,” Tiergan cuts into the messenger’s speech on poor weather conditions, “is he coming back from the wars, or no?” He spits out the pronoun like spoiled food, and he frowns much the same. 

The messenger furrows his eyebrows. “Who?”

“The Keeper, as he insists on calling himself.” Truth be told, the name isn’t any more ridiculous than Granite, but Tiergan needs something to pick on. 

Bronte huffs and readjusts his cloak. “Who on Earth are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about Prentice,” Livvy replies with an amused grin. “Prentice Endal, and their little rivalry.”

Bronte purses his lips. “Right, of course. How could I forget? You two scare away all the animals in this city with your shouting.”

“His shouting. I’m perfectly rational,” Tiergan protests, and turns back to the messenger. “Now, is he coming, or not?”

The messenger glances between them, clearly alarmed by Tiergan’s sudden displeasure.

Livvy laughs. “He’s hardly serious. They’ve got some merry war going on between them, but they like each other all the same.”

Tiergan huffs, but says nothing. 

“Well,” the messenger says, apparently choosing not to press the subject, “yes, Sir Endal is coming along with Lord Pyren and Lady Vacker, I believe.”

“Wonderful,” Tiergan replies as Livvy grins widely.

Bronte, ever out of the loop, asks, “Lady Vacker?”

Discreetly, Tiergan flips Livvy’s letter over, hiding its contents, as Livvy hastily responds, “An old friend. She visited often, before…” She doesn’t finish her statement, but it is understood all the same. The days before Tiergan and Livvy had company in their studies and daily lives; the days before the Black Swan and Ravagog had been real, concrete forces. When Granite and Physic had existed in secret before their disappearances, never to emerge from their training. 

Bronte’s gaze shifts to Tiergan, eyebrows raised, but Tiergan only shakes his head. He has no way to accurately explain Della and Livvy’s relationship in simple terms; it would probably take a few days, an accompanying slideshow, and primary source evidence to even get the main points across. 

“We should begin preparing for our guests soon,” Tiergan says, before Livvy can admit anything too incriminating. 

Bronte seems far from keen on letting the subject drop, but he allows it anyway. “Yes, we should. Do try and spend some time with our younger guests while they’re here; I’d hate to bore them after all they’ve been through.”

“Of course,” Tiergan agrees, grimacing internally. “I’m sure that won’t be difficult.”

-

They arrive too soon, too early, and too many. 

Or, rather, two too many. 

It’s barely sunrise when the horses arrive, led of course by Fintan Pyren himself, dressed in a long, muddy blue jacket with red embellishments. Not too far behind him are, unfortunately, Prentice and Della, equally as dirty. And hidden in the back are two strangers Tiergan has never seen in his life. 

It appears that Bronte has, however, as he gives Fintan such an awful glare the moment he dismounts that Tiergan is surprised the man doesn’t burst into flames immediately. Tiergan, still exhausted from having been dragged out of bed mere minutes before, elects to hide behind Livvy to avoid any conversation. As fascinating as it would be to uncover another piece of Bronte’s shrouded backstory, it’s not worth the potential other complications that may arise. 

Alas, even Tiergan cannot always get what he desires. 

“Lord Bronte!” Prentice shouts, jumping forward and wrapping an arm around Fintan’s shoulders. “Pleasure to see you again.”

“Good grief,” Tiergan mutters under his breath. Livvy turns to offer him a smirk, and gets an elbow to the stomach in response. 

Bronte only nods. “Sir Endal. I’m glad to see you return safe and unharmed.” 

“That’s entirely against his own will, I assure you,” Fintan replies, gently removing the arm around him. 

“It’s true,” Della adds, sliding gracefully off her horse. “The ogres never feared his traps so much as they feared his ability to get us all killed in the process.”

Tiergan barely manages to suppress a snicker, but Della notices anyway, her eyes shifting toward his hiding spot in the shadows. Thankfully, however, she’s more captivated by Livvy standing in front of him, a blush dusting her cheeks. 

“Lady Vacker,” Livvy says, stepping forward to take her hand. “You look beautiful today.”

From Tiergan’s perspective, that’s a blatant lie—she’s covered in mud head-to-toe with a rain-soaked frizzy braid falling apart over her shoulder. But perhaps Livvy sees none of that. 

“Not as beautiful as you, milady,” Della replies, bringing her hand to her lips. And, as Tiergan had expected, it takes mere minutes for Livvy to take Della’s arm and remove her from the group under the guise of a “tour of the property.” The very property that Della has already seen more of that its actual lord has.  

“So…” Prentice begins, as they all watch the two leave. “They’re married?”

“No,” Bronte says. 

“Not yet,” Fintan says. 

Might as well be, Tiergan thinks. 

Prentice raises an eyebrow. “Hm. A strange choice. Certainly not one I’d make.”

“And you’re the model for respectable choices, now?” Tiergan can’t help but cut in. He’d hoped to spend his morning silent, but there’s only so much of Prentice’s nonsense that he can bear before he has to retaliate. After all, who else will?

Prentice smirks as Tiergan emerges from the shadows, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the Lord of Disdain himself. Still living, shockingly.” 

Tiergan scoffs. “My disdain cannot die as long as I can picture your face in great detail.”

“Am I really so memorable? I hear it often, though usually under different circumstances.”

“Yes, well, I imagine audiences rarely forget their favorite fools.” 

Prentice rolls his eyes. “Such a pleasure, as always. It’s a wonder your face isn’t marred from all the punches you must be receiving.”

“I’d wonder the same, but truly even punches could not make your face worse than its current state.” 

“How is it,” Prentice asks, stepping forward, “that love could possibly be enough for my dear friend to look past the horror of you as a brother-in-law?” 

“Ha!” Tiergan replies, matching him. “It’s the folly of love, that everything should seem so rosy and sweet when it is all a waste of time. Though I would think you to be the expert, having experienced it tens of times over.” 

“If that were all love, then I would truly be a fool. No, I find myself with a hard heart, with no particular care for wasting my time, as it were.” 

Tiergan scoffs. “And thank God for that—you save a whole host of clowns from having to squander more than a day by your side. But in that respect, at least, we have similar thoughts. I’d rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.” 

“I seem to be interrupting something,” an unfamiliar voice says, snapping Tiergan out of his and Prentice’s shared universe. They both spin around to see Bronte and Fintan—who have clearly held some whispered exchange—and the two unfamiliar strangers that had arrived alongside the soldiers. One is a woman, dressed in a long, purple gown under a silver cloak, completely spotless. A variety of gems are pinned to her hair, though they seem to have seen better days. Beside her is a boy, not much older than Tiergan, wearing a matching outfit to Prentice if not far looser and far dirtier. His hair is blonde and overgrown, covering his eyes and leaving his face entirely unmemorable. 

“Good morning,” Tiergan greets, in an effort to revive some semblance of politeness. The woman only tilts her head and stares at him. 

“Lady Gisela,” Fintan hurries to say, gesturing to her. “This is Sir Tiergan.” 

Tiergan winces at the title, and Prentice raises an eyebrow, but neither corrects him. He nods to the woman, unsure how to approach the boy, who watches in rapt silence. 

Lady Gisela apparently notes his discomfort, as she says, “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s rather shy.” 

Tiergan doubts that that’s the case, but he’s hardly going to challenge her. In a few days, at best, she’ll leave, and hopefully take the nuisance that is the Keeper along with her. (Although, Tiergan can’t help but admit that he is a little bit excited to return to their battle of wits. Few people here are confident enough to confront him or clever enough to match him.) 

“Well,” Bronte says, clearly scowling, “hopefully he’ll feel more comfortable speaking once you are all safely inside your rooms. Which happen to be ready for your use. If you would be so kind as to follow these kind attendants over here…” He practically shoves Fintan toward them, and glares holes into Lady Gisela’s back as she walks away. Only Prentice lingers, just for a moment, mere centimeters away from Tiergan’s face. 

He leans in and asks, “Does your sister truly love Della?”

Tiergan raises an eyebrow. “For better or for worse, yes.” 

Prentice’s gaze flicks to the attendants and back. “I worry it will be for the worse.” 

“Then it will be our duty to prevent that.”

“I suppose.” He leans back, expression still wary. “You know, you’re still much the same man as you were before, Tiergan.” 

Tiergan laughs. “And you are frustratingly different.”  

“Such is my charm,” Prentice responds with a smirk. And then he is gone, disappeared to the side of Lord Pyren once more. 

Tiergan, for the first time, does not know what to think. 

-

Inevitably, Lady Gisela formulates a dastardly plan of escape a mere one hour into their stay at Eternalia. 

Ruy is not surprised; he has learned to assume that his boss is ten steps ahead of him at any given moment—though with this particularly humiliating prison, he had expected their grand scheme to take some more time. It does, at the very least, take a large amount of complaining. 

“He brings me here like a guest,” Gisela spits, “but I am leashed! We are leashed, and it is obvious to any person who sees us. Again, I am treated like a second to him. He leads the army that I created, that I built with my bare hands and he throws me away like I am nothing. What right does he have, to be shocked that I would switch my loyalty to the only side who values my genius? What right?” 

“They’ll never set us free, now,” Ruy agrees. “We’ll be zoo animals forever.” 

At this, Gisela laughs, in that perfectly calculated way that always sends shivers down his spine. “Only as long as the zoo can stay in business.”

Ruy stares at her blankly. “...Right,” he agrees, having learned not to question her too much. 

Gisela rolls her eyes. “We can tear this city apart from the inside.” 

“Of course,” Ruy agrees, still confused. “So…how, exactly?”

She smiles wickedly. “Well, Fintan has kindly delivered us two wonderfully easy targets. It’s come to my attention that the young masters of Eternalia hold a rather secret career beyond their familial duties. And with Fintan’s soldier being so ridiculously in love with the girl despite barely knowing her, it shouldn’t be hard to plant the first seed of doubt. Doubt, perhaps, that Eternalia isn’t quite as loyal as it seems.”

Ruy hums. “And if Fintan believes that Lord Bronte has been harboring a traitor all this time, their relationship will be destroyed. The elven army at Ravagog will crumble.”

“Thus allowing Dimitar a clear path to victory. And me, a clear path to take everything afterward,” Gisela finishes. “It is simple, and it is very little work on our part. It all relies on their own constant panic.” 

It’s so classically Gisela that Ruy can only grin. “Perfect.” 

-

Sophie hadn’t been meaning to eavesdrop. But she can’t help it if, in the process of delivering luggage to the guests, she stumbles upon a fascinating conversation. All she can really gather is that the two strange guests believe that a traitor is residing in the heart of Eternalia—but it’s enough to spring her into action. 

“Guys!” she calls, running to her shared quarters. “Get in here. I have a mystery for us to solve.”

-

The wedding is set the following day, although Bronte is still rather confused on how it all came about. 

“I’ve been in love with her since the day we met,” Della says, holding Livvy’s hand where they sit next to each other on a couch in Bronte’s office. Bronte and Fintan share the couch opposite, and Bronte is getting rather sick of Fintan’s laughing at his apparent lack of knowledge. 

“Nearly four years have passed since then,” Bronte states. “Why on Earth do you want to be married now?” 

“The war is, for all intents and purposes, over,” Livvy responds. “Della is safe. I would be safe, as her wife, as she is no longer a spy. And, of course, I have no association with the war myself. None at all.” She chuckles awkwardly, then tries to hide it behind her hand. 

Fintan sighs. “Bronte, I hardly see the problem,” he says. “They want to be married, so let them. I’d say their lives could have had far worse outcomes.”

For Fintan, it’s high praise—and Bronte is suddenly inclined to agree. If Fintan is truly unbothered, why should he mind? Livvy and Della are good for one another; they match each others’ attitudes and energies, and speak every word amongst them with pure devotion. Where Bronte himself was not afforded the luxury of happiness with his lover in his youth, he cannot possibly deny it to the girl he has come to see as his daughter. That is not a curse he is willing to continue. 

“You have my approval, if you ever truly needed it,” he finally says. “And if you wish to hold the wedding here, in Eternalia, you may.” 

Livvy and Della are beaming, with all the hope of young lovers. Bronte remembers that all too well. “Thank you,” Della says. “We wanted to hold the wedding soon, if you’ll allow it. Next week, actually. In order to minimize the chances of disaster occuring before it can take place.”

It is a smart move, Bronte has to admit, although he is entirely unprepared for the stress of planning a wedding. “Alright,” he agrees, “I’ll notify the staff. Although I imagine you’ll want to tell your brother first.”

It’s as if the tension in the room doubles at the mention of Tiergan. 

“Good grief,” Della says. “I’m far from enthusiastic to hear Prentice and Tiergan’s next discussion over this.” 

Livvy shakes her head. “It’s been a day, and I’m already sick of their nonsense. If they ruin the wedding with their antics, I may just have to exile them until they can find some semblance of optimism in their hearts.”

“In that way,” Bronte muses, “they are rather well-suited for one another. They see the same insignificance in everything but themselves, and each other. What a peculiar kind of hatred.” 

At this, Livvy’s eyes light up. “Perhaps that is our goal, then. Show them that they are, indeed, the only existing well-suited people for one another. That their hatred is so peculiar because it isn’t hatred at all.”

Fintan gapes. “You aren’t serious.” 

“But I am,” Livvy counters, the telltale lilt of mischief in her voice. “Would it not help our cause if the two guns ceased their constant fire?”

“And they respect only each other,” Della adds. “If each were to discover that the other had succumbed to that dastardly feeling of love, well, then, would they not be convinced to give it a try?” 

Bronte understands very quickly why they choose each other as partners in life. 

“If this works,” Bronte says, “it will be a blessing for the world. Complete silence, for the first time since their friendship, of sorts, began.”

Fintan snorts. “That is, if they do not kill each other within the first week of marriage.”  

Livvy shrugs. “Either way, our goals are achieved, are they not?” 

-

As Prentice trudges through mud to the stables, he contemplates his best friend’s sudden shift from battle-hardened, cold spy to a loving, carefree, wife. It’s something he had never expected to see out of Della. Of course, he’d known that she loved someone, having watched her write and receive letters nightly, but he had never imagined the relationship to be this serious. 

Personally, he can’t comprehend why she would be ready to bind herself to something so soon after being free of the Black Swan. Especially something so volatile as marriage. 

He’s halfway through the courtyard when he hears familiar, hushed voices from a bench nearby. The lovebird herself, it seems, alongside their host and Lord Pyren. Out of sheer curiosity (and maybe a bit of nosiness), he stops behind a tree and pretends to examine his hair in the reflection of his blade. 

“The trouble,” Della says, “will be finding a gift in time for the wedding. I have ventured into the city a few times, but nothing measures up to my standards for Livvy.”

“Such is the trouble with love,” Bronte replies, though he sounds rather pained. 

Fintan adds, “Indeed. In my youth I wasted half my money and half my time searching for adequate gifts for my lovers. Alas, they were rather particular themselves.” 

The response is a sound rather resembling a choking bird, though Prentice cannot see who made it. How strange, he thinks, as he has never known Fintan to be in love. Perhaps that had been another casualty of the war. 

“Right,” Della continues, after an awkward pause. “Well, I count it a blessing that I am not in the most difficult situation possible. I can’t imagine the difficulty Tiergan faces, what with Prentice’s luxurious tastes.”

What?

Prentice’s brain short-circuits. 

“So it’s true?” Bronte asks. “Tiergan is truly in love with the boy?”

Fintan chuckles. “I had thought them both to be sworn off of love forever.”

Yes, Prentice had thought so as well. That had been the sole opinion he had believed them to agree upon, but it seems even Tiergan has switched his loyalties now.

“Apparently not,” Della replies. “But it’s a pity that he’s chosen Prentice, of all people, as the object of his affections. The poor boy, in love with someone who cannot see anything beyond his own greatness. A true tragedy, if I have ever seen one.”

Prentice forgets to hide his scoff, but thankfully, they don’t seem to notice. What nonsense! 

“I love Prentice, I truly do,” Della continues, “but it’s a blessing to all that he’s so opposed to love. For all of his talents, he’s not at all suited to romance. No smart person would stay in love with him for longer than a week before realizing that the effort is worthless.” 

Entirely untrue, Prentice thinks. He rather likes to believe that his opposition to love is a choice—he could love, if he wanted to, and he would be damn good at it if he did. In fact, he had been in love, once before, and though external circumstances had clearly soured that relationship, he’s fairly certain he could have been the perfect husband. No, it’s a choice, now, to stay out of love, no reflection of his talents. After all, he is the greatest Keeper the Black Swan has ever known. Nothing is truly beyond him. 

And if Della, Bronte, and Fintan are convinced he cannot satisfy Tiergan, then so be it. Prentice will prove them wrong, as he always has. 

Tiergan will find loving him the most enjoyable experience of his life, Prentice is assured of it. 

-

Prentice is acting like an idiot, which really shouldn’t be surprising to Tiergan. 

“Hi,” he greets at breakfast, sitting down right beside Tiergan with a pastry in hand. “How are you?”

“I was better before you arrived,” Tiergan quips, expecting another clever remark in response. But when he looks up from his tea, Prentice is simply watching him, silent, with an absurd, giddy smile. “Good grief,” he says, “are you sick?”

“Are you?” Prentice counters, which…is complete nonsense. Both entirely out-of-character for the man and completely fitting. 

Tiergan rolls his eyes. “I’m perfectly well, thanks.”

“Indeed you are.” Now Tiergan has no choice but to gape at him, waiting for another, explanatory phrase to arrive. It does not. 

Tiergan stands abruptly, slamming his mug to the table. “It’s too early for this,” he mutters, storming out of the room to confused murmurs from the others seated at the table. He swears he hears Bronte giggle as he leaves, but that would be impossible. 

As he hurries up the staircase toward his bedroom, however, Tiergan finds himself in the company of furious whispers, coming from Livvy’s bedroom door, left slightly ajar. It’s rather odd; she tends to value her privacy, especially now as curiosity about the wedding grows. But as he approaches stealthily, Tiergan realizes that it isn’t Della inside with her. 

“Cyrah,” Livvy says, “I’m truly glad you’re able to visit, even if you’re unable to attend the wedding. You know how much it means to Della and I, I’m sure.” 

Tiergan furrows his eyebrows. Since when has Cyrah been in Eternalia? Although the three of them had been childhood friends, years ago, Cyrah had left to travel the world immediately after they had finished their schooling. She does visit, from time to time, but rarely with so little notice. 

“Well, of course I’m here for you,” Cyrah replies, “but I have to say I was mostly captivated by the other contents of your letter.”

Livvy laughs. “It’s certainly the most fascinating piece of gossip to reach Eternalia in many years.”

“I’ll say. The possibility of seeing our Tiergan married is absurd. And to Prentice Endal, no less.”

Tiergan tries his best to choke quietly. He fails. 

There is a terrifying pause before they continue that leads Tiergan to believe that they’ve noticed his presence, but thankfully, Livvy carries on without remark. 

 “It’s truly a tragedy,” she says, with a slight laugh, “that Prentice has set his sights on Tiergan. I almost feel bad for him; it’s a hopeless endeavor.” Cyrah hums in agreement. “Yes, but I doubt Tiergan will ever notice. The poor boy’s entirely clueless.”

Livvy snorts. “That, and he’s entirely incapable of being kind to anyone beyond us. His first reaction is always to bite without thinking, to shoot to kill before questioning himself. Prentice has done well to match his strikes so far, but there is only so long that he can hide his affections.”

“Ah, unrequited love,” Cyrah sighs. “Well, I imagine he’ll come to his senses soon enough. He’ll find someone less bitter about life.”

“One can only hope.” 

Tiergan is left absolutely reeling. He gapes at her door for at least a minute, unsure what to believe. But it does make sense, he has to admit. Prentice’s…affections would certainly explain his odd behavior that morning, and his offense at Tiergan’s immediate snarky greeting. But why would Prentice be so foolish as to love Tiergan, of all people? Livvy is correct on the count that Tiergan has done nothing but snap at the man. There had been a time, years ago, when Tiergan would have understood such a development of emotions, but now it seems entirely ridiculous. 

Perhaps, Tiergan thinks, he could stand to be a bit kinder to Prentice, for once. If only to give him a bit of relief. 

When he returns to the dining hall later that day for lunch, he pointedly seats himself beside Prentice, who looks both utterly perplexed and overjoyed. “Good morning,” Tiergan greets, shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. 

“It’s afternoon,” Prentice replies, and Tiergan raises an eyebrow. “But good morning to you, as well.”

Tiergan pretends not to notice the laughs that Della, Livvy, and Cyrah hide behind their napkins. If they believe him to be too bitter to love Prentice, then so be it. He will prove them wrong, as he always does. 

Prentice will stay in love with him, if Tiergan has any say in the matter. 

-

“It has been done,” Ruy announces as he steps into Gisela’s chambers. “The cache has been planted.” He sweeps some dust off his jacket, seating himself on the couch beside her desk. 

Gisela nods. “Good,” she says. “Now, we wait.” 

-

From their hiding spot beneath Gisela’s window, Tam, Linh, Marella, Keefe, and Sophie share a wary glance. “These are the people who are trying to catch a traitor?” Linh whispers. “They’re kinda… weird.”

“I feel like we should be concerned,” Tam notes. 

Sophie shrugs. “Bronte wouldn’t have let them in if he thought they were trouble. I think.”

“Yeah, but these two seem weirder than the others,” Marella says. “Have you seen how quiet they are all the time? I thought they were just dealing with war stuff or whatever, but this is, like, extra weird. Plus, what’s with that whole scheme thing you were telling us about earlier?”

Sophie pauses. “I don’t know. I thought they were talking about Lady Vacker being a traitor, but now that she’s marrying Livvy, I don’t think that’s true.”

“Livvy wouldn’t marry a traitor,” Linh agrees. “I mean, she wouldn’t marry anyone without checking their entire life history first, I think.” 

“But then why would these guys want people to think that Lady Vacker is a traitor?” Marella asks. “That’s stupid. It would ruin the wedding.”

Tam sucks in a breath, prompting them all to turn to him. “That’s exactly why,” he says, eyes wide with realization. “They want everything to be chaos here. That’s what he’s talking about—Bronte’s cache! Something only Livvy, Fintan, and Tiergan know the location of. It’s basically a safe containing classified war documents and plans of Eternalia. They’re not framing Lady Vacker, they’re framing Livvy! And if they act like she’s stealing the cache…”

Sophie pales. “Then everything goes to hell.” 

“Random question,” Keefe cuts in, “but do you think I’d be fired if I didn’t deliver someone’s mail?”

They all stare at him. 

“Like, intentionally,” he adds. “Kind of like stealing it. But not really. Just really, really, slow delivery.” 

Marella snorts. “I mean, I’m all for it, but why?”

Keefe leans over and pulls out a sealed letter from his coat pocket. “Here. A letter from Lady Gisela to some guy at the warfront. Seemed kind of suspicious, so I kept it.” He hands it to Sophie, who handles it as gently as possible. 

“Should we…” she asks, almost afraid to suggest the possibility. 

“Read it?” Tam asks. “Yeah, obviously.” He takes the letter from Sophie and inspects it, tracing over the nearly illegible name on the front. “But not here. We need to get inside and warn someone before it’s too late.” 

“But we can’t do that without proof,” Linh says. “And right now our only proof comes from things we’ve done that are completely illegal.”

Marella sighs. “I guess we’ll have to hope that the letter says something interesting, then.” 

And with that, they slip away from their nook, panic setting in. 

-

In the middle of the night, Della is woken violently by a frantic Fintan shaking her, and Prentice at the foot of her bed. “Good morning?” she asks, pushing Fintan’s arm away from her. 

“No time, Della,” Fintan says, stepping back, “this is an urgent matter.”

“What could honestly be urgent enough to drag me out of bed the night before my wedding?” She’s both thankful and annoyed that she and Livvy had been given separate rooms, now—at least Livvy can get her beauty sleep while Della deals with her friends’ nonsense. 

“Your fiancée,” Prentice states simply, and Della raises an eyebrow. 

“Is this some kind of wedding ritual?” 

Fintan scoffs. “Perhaps for her it is.”

“You should see for yourself,” Prentice says, and it’s his unsettling calm that ultimately drags Della out of her bed, suddenly shaken. 

“Where is Lord Bronte?” she asks as they tiptoe down the dark hallway. “What is happening?”

Fintan shakes his head. “I haven’t spoken to him just yet. I worry that he, too, may be involved.”

Della furrows her eyebrows. “Involved in what, exactly?”

A heavy silence lingers, for a moment, before Prentice says, “Treason.” 

Treason. “You believe Livvy to be a traitor.”

“I know for certain,” Fintan replies, voice grim. “I trust Gisela’s judgment on very few matters, but in this case, the proof is indisputable.” 

Della feels her own heartbeat, now, racing out of her chest. “What proof does she have?”

“A stolen cache,” Prentice says. “Classified papers, attempted to be mailed. Some of it being…” His voice cracks, something close to tears welling in his eyes, and he looks away. “Some of it being details of your involvement in the war and prior.”

And Della freezes in her tracks. No, she thinks. Livvy wouldn’t. I know she wouldn’t. But after nearly two years apart, how can Della truly claim to know her at all?

They reach Gisela’s chambers, where Della is handed a series of papers and testimony from both Ruy and Gisela of Livvy’s betrayal. Ruy has brought a friend, as well, a young servant named Rayni, who describes her own witnessing of Livvy’s theft of the cache. It’s all entirely sickening, and Della has to dig her nails into Prentice’s arm in order to keep herself from vomiting. Her head is swimming. She cannot breathe. 

“But what can we do?” she manages to ask, after everything is presented. “What can I do?” 

Prentice and Fintan share a hard look. “There is no choice,” Fintan says, with a deep sigh. “We must end the wedding, before it is too late.”

-

 On the morning of the wedding, Tiergan is all alone—Prentice is, oddly, nowhere to be seen, and Tiergan’s almost disappointed at the lack of a witty morning greeting. He’d been hoping to have someone interesting to speak with during the wedding preparations, seeing as everyone else is more concerned with assembling the brides’ gowns and hair. Tiergan and Prentice, of course, had been banned days ago from assisting directly with the wedding preparations, as, according to Della, they’re “far too clumsy to be trusted, alone or together.” 

Strangely, however, Tiergan hasn’t seen any of their guests the entire day. He almost goes to check Prentice’s bedroom, but decides that he hasn’t quite reached that level of desperation yet. And, of course, he wouldn’t want to give Prentice the impression that he returns his feelings. Absolutely not. 

He’s almost worked himself into a panic by the time he walks into the marriage hall, worried that perhaps Della has abandoned the wedding entirely. Thankfully, she waits at the podium up front, looking strangely pensive—though he has to admit, she is dressed nicely. 

Tiergan scans the rows for Prentice, but he is still, oddly, nowhere to be found. 

“Sit,” Bronte suddenly tells him, holding a glass of wine. “Livvy will arrive soon.”

“Where is Prentice?” Tiergan asks, and Bronte raises an eyebrow. 

“He and Fintan have yet to arrive,” Bronte replies. “Hardly surprising. Fintan may take years before he is fully satisfied with his appearance.”

Tiergan can’t say the same about Prentice, although he concedes that the man hardly needs to spend time to look nice. Prentice is naturally infuriatingly beautiful, even after sleeping in the dirt or riding for hours through a rainstorm. He could be covered in sewage and that damned smirk would still make him appear heavenly. Tiergan despises that. 

The music begins a half-hour later, and every seat except for the other front row across the aisle from Tiergan is full. Livvy strides down the aisle, her gem-studded dress flowing majestically behind her, and Della turns ever so slightly. Tiergan wipes away the tear in his eyes, and he can see Bronte doing the same. He wonders, still, where Prentice is, but decides that he trusts him enough to see to his own whereabouts. 

“Hi,” he hears Livvy whisper to Della upon reaching her. “You look beautiful.”

Della’s gaze is trained to the floor. “Thank you,” she murmurs. There is something odd about her voice, Tiergan thinks, but he cannot determine what emotion it is. Perhaps this is love; he can’t say he’s ever seen the feeling through long enough to reach this point. He wouldn’t understand. 

An old man steps up to begin the ceremony, but he says nothing. He only stands between the two women, biting his lip and staring at the grand doors at the end of the hall. 

“Good afternoon,” he begins, and his voice is so shaky Tiergan worries he may cry. “We are here—”

The doors slam open, and with it a scream: “End this nonsense!”

Tiergan jumps up, hand shifting to his blade, but Livvy beats him to the chase. She holds out a knife, hopping off the podium where Della remains, frozen. 

But the man who emerges from the hallway is neither intruder nor ogre.

“Fintan!” Bronte barks, moving to stand beside Livvy. “What is the meaning of this?”

Lord Fintan Pyren struts down the aisle; behind him, Prentice, Lady Gisela, and the blond boy march silently. Tiergan suddenly finds himself nauseous. What does the fool think he’s doing?

“Bronte, my dear friend,” Fintan exclaims dramatically, “you truly believe that Lady Vacker is deserving of this girl?” 

Bronte scowls, but stands his ground even as Fintan stalks closer. “Wholeheartedly.”

Fintan scoffs. “Then you are either foolish or a liar, and neither is worth my time.”

“I don’t understand,” Livvy says, glancing between Fintan and Della, who still has not moved. She only stares at the floor, tears welling in her eyes. 

Fintan spins to her, a fire growing in his glare. “Don’t you, Miss Sonden? I’m inclined to believe that a spy will always deal in lies. After all, you’ve built a marriage out of them.”

Some of the guests gasp, while most look on in complete horror. 

Tiergan steps forward. “Do not insult her,” he spits.

“These are only facts,” Fintan replies. “Is it not true that she has been a spy for the Black Swan since she was a teenager? Is it not true that she has files on nearly every person who passes through Eternalia? Is it not true that she accesses highly classified files on the daily, without the knowledge of any other member of the war effort?”

Livvy stumbles, and Tiergan rushes to catch her before she trips on her own gown. “I…That is not…” 

But she cannot deny it, Tiergan knows. Though he wonders what on Earth leads Fintan to mention this now, when Della has done far worse in her equally long lifetime. 

Fintan presses forward. “And is it not true that you initiated a relationship with Lady Vacker for the sole purposes of obtaining her incredibly classified records and sending them to King Dimitar himself?”

What?

Tiergan grips Livvy’s hand tighter to avoid doing anything he might regret. He meets Prentice’s eyes, from across the room, and is surprised to find some sort of sympathy. Prentice, unlike the two who flank him, seems strangely unsure of his position now. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Bronte shouts.

“Have you?” Fintan replies. “You harbor a traitor in your midst, and you protect her!” 

Bronte scoffs. “And where, exactly, is your proof for such a preposterous claim?”

Fintan pulls out a small, metal container from inside his cloak, and holds it out in front of him. “This was found in her room, its contents strewn openly across her desk.”

Bronte sucks in a breath, and Tiergan suddenly understands what this is. A cache. Not only that—Bronte’s cache. 

He turns to Livvy, unsure what to think. He knows, as he has always known, that Livvy is loyal. This must be something different. This must be some misunderstanding, he has to believe that.

He looks back at Della, waiting in vain for an explanation he knows will not come. 

Della meets his eyes, and then meets Livvy’s teary gaze with one of her own. “This shame will haunt you, Livvy. I hope you will never be free from your guilt,” she states, her voice tinged with disgust.

“I…I don’t understand,” Livvy repeats, her voice weak, and Tiergan’s heart breaks. He holds her tighter, stepping away from the scene. 

Bronte turns around, and Tiergan can sense his disappointment. He believes Lord Pyren. Of course, it is to be expected, but Tiergan cannot help but feel betrayal. Once again, it is he and Livvy against the world. 

“This is madness,” Tiergan spits, staring right into Prentice’s eyes where he stands, silent. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.” 

Then he drops Livvy’s hand and storms out of the hall, anger blazing. 

-

Perhaps following Tiergan out of the hall is a mistake, but Prentice chooses not to dwell on that. 

It takes nearly half an hour to find him, given Tiergan’s far better knowledge of the building. Prentice keeps his ears open to the sound of screaming, or glass shattering, but none come—instead, he stumbles upon a grand balcony with its door ajar, accompanied by the noise of muffled tears. 

“Tiergan,” Prentice asks gently as he slips onto the balcony, “have you wept all this while?” 

From where he sits upon a bench, staring out at the vast blue sea, Tiergan sniffles and replies, “And I will weep a while longer.” 

Prentice stares at him, unsure how to respond. He watches as another tear graces Tiergan’s cheek and onto his jacket, disappearing into the deep blue fabric. “That is…unfortunate,” he tries, and Tiergan snorts. 

“Luckily, I do not weep for you,” he says. He looks up at Prentice with an uncharacteristic despair in his eyes, something so entirely hopeless that Prentice steps forward and rests a hand on his shoulder in some strange desire to share his sorrow. 

“I am sorry about your sister,” Prentice says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can think. “I mean it. I am trained to follow Fintan’s every order, yes, but I also let my fear get the best of me. I should have trusted you, Tiergan. I know that now.”

Tiergan only stares at him, silent, for a long while. Finally, he says, “I have run out of ideas to help her, myself. I suppose, now, I must seek a friend who can right this mess.” 

Prentice frowns. “Is there a way to show such friendship?”

Tiergan sighs. “There is a way, but no such friend. I worry there is no person in the world who is willing to see it through.” 

He turns to meet Prentice’s eyes, and for a long moment, they hold each other’s gazes, locked in a cycle of desperation and something distinctively different. From this distance, Prentice sees how much of a mess Tiergan truly is—his blonde hair has nearly all fallen out of its intricate style, and his eyeliner is smudged over his cheeks. His lips, too, have been bitten raw, an old habit of his that Prentice has not seen in years. 

He remembers, instinctually, that feeling of rough lips on his own—a feeling he has not allowed himself to dwell upon for what seems like a lifetime. 

“Tiergan,” Prentice begins, forcing himself to look away. He cannot bear to witness the consequences of his own confession, even with the knowledge of Tiergan’s own feelings. “You must be aware…I do love nothing in this world so well as you.” 

He waits expectantly for an exclamation of reciprocation, but none arrives, and the silence forces him to turn back around and meet Tiergan’s indecipherable expression. “Is that so strange?” Prentice adds, hoping he hasn’t shocked the man speechless.

“Perhaps it is,” Tiergan replies, not meeting his eyes. “Though, perhaps… perhaps it would be stranger for me to admit that I love nothing so well as you.” He stands up abruptly, and begins pacing with such a strange fervor that Prentice almost misses half of his words. “If that were true, I mean. But of course it is, I do not lie. Still, you mustn’t believe me! I confess nothing; I confess nothing at all, do not mistake me…but I deny nothing all the same. I can neither confess to nor deny nor admit to my feelings—these feelings that may or may not exist. For you.”

 Prentice raises an eyebrow. “So you love me, then.” 

“That is not what I said,” Tiergan huffs, but steps closer to him all the same. 

“You said you could not deny that you love me,” Prentice counters. “That would imply that you do.”

Tiergan moves forward, stopping mere inches away from Prentice. “And yet, I recall saying that I could not confirm it, either.” 

 “And yet,” Prentice mimics, “I am entirely certain of your feelings. I would stake my life on it, even.” 

Tiergan scoffs. “Then you should count your days, soldier.”

Prentice steps ever-so-slightly closer, until he can feel Tiergan’s breath, cool on his cheeks. “Strangely, I don’t find myself worrying.” 

Tiergan kisses him softly; it is light and quick and perhaps salty with dried tears, or perhaps sweet with familiarity, or bitter with the revival of old memories. It is every emotion Prentice has felt since the day he first met Tiergan wrapped up in a moment; it is their short-lived civility, their years-long personal war, their shared fears of the war destroying them, inside and out. 

When they separate, they are both speechless. 

“I…” Tiergan begins, but trails off, unable to formulate a word. 

Prentice grins. “Is this an admission that the great Granite himself, master of wit, has run out of protests?”

Tiergan laughs. “Or, perhaps,” he says, taking Prentice’s hand in his, “it is an admission that I love you with so much of my heart that there is none left to protest.” 

Prentice takes his other hand and falls to a knee, looking up at Tiergan for the first time. “Tiergan, my love, tell me what you wish me to do for Livvy, anything, and I will do it. I swear.” It is more an oath of love, than anything; he does not know what he is expecting in response, but it is certainly not the answer that comes without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Kill Della.”  

Prentice cannot help it; he scrambles backward, dropping Tiergan’s hands like hot coal. “What?”

Tiergan shakes his head. “It is simple. You asked; I gave my answer.”

“I cannot betray my friend!” Prentice protests. “Just as I cannot betray you, Tiergan. Ask  me for anything else, I beg of you.”

Tiergan turns away. “There is no other option. We can claim Livvy’s innocence, but we have no sufficient evidence to counter theirs. If you duel Della, you show that you are willing to risk your life for Livvy’s honor. And your word is far more prestigious than mine, what with the fame you carry from the war, still.”

“Tiergan. I cannot.”

He scoffs. “I see. You love me, but you will not fight my enemy.”

Prentice strides forward, taking Tiergan’s hand once again. “Is Della truly your enemy? Is she truly who you wish to fight?”

Tiergan whips around to face him, a cold determination in his gaze. “She has scorned my sister so greatly that she likely cannot leave her rooms ever again! She dishonors my family and our very name. She is so consumed by fear that she will let it destroy the happiness she has fought for herself. Yes, indeed, Della is my enemy. Because I trust Livvy over the world, and I cannot stand to watch her be slandered.”

“And I trust you,” Prentice says. “I trust you over the world; I would fight for you through hell and back, through the roughest waters and the strongest storms, through the apocalypse and beyond. And so, Tiergan, if you are sure…” He takes a deep breath, unsure what to think about the very words he is about to say. “I will fulfill your request. Della shall face our wrath.” 

He squeezes Tiergan’s hand just once, a familiar assurance, before marching away with a new focus. If this is love’s folly, he thinks, then he will die for it willingly—a strange realization, but a welcome one. 

When he finds Della, she is in her room with Fintan, furiously gathering her possessions.  

Fintan notices him first. “Prentice, finally. We must devise a plan for dealing with this treason. I worry the girl here is not the only criminal.” He spits girl as if it is a dirty word, as if Livvy’s name cannot dare to be mentioned in good company. 

“So you believe it?” is all Prentice says in response. 

Della laughs, with no humor behind it, only tears. “What is there to believe? There is evidence, and that evidence points to everything I should have expected from the beginning. I am surprised, though I shouldn’t be. I cannot be.”

“You are quick to fear and quicker to discard,” Prentice says, stepping away from her. “Characteristics of a spy, not a lover.”

Della raises an eyebrow. “And you understand the characteristics of a lover?”

“More than you, it seems,” he replies. “If you will not fight for Livvy, then I will take your place.”

Fintan scoffs, and Della’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious,” she says, hand moving to her blade. 

Prentice holds her gaze. “I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow.”

-

News travels quickly among servants, most especially when Marella is involved. It takes only a few hours for every detail of the wedding disaster to reach each corner of the grounds; Sophie, Keefe, Tam, and Linh are lounging in the warm sun when Marella finds them with the story, excitement in her eyes. 

“The letter!” Sophie suddenly exclaims, remembering yesterday’s chaos. “We never showed anyone the letter, guys.”

Keefe pales. “Oh, shit.”

Tam pulls the paper out from his pocket, skimming it quickly. “Oh, shit,” he agrees. “Yeah, this makes more sense now.”

Although they had read the letter the day before, it hadn’t made much sense. It detailed some plan of Lady Gisela’s, but none of them had been able to decipher quite what the plan was. And when a day had passed without incident, showing the letter to anyone hadn’t seemed like a priority. (Especially since they could all get fired easily for the stunts they’d pulled.) 

 “We need to find Lord Bronte,” Linh said, reading over Tam’s shoulder. “We can prove Livvy’s innocence with this!”

Marella nods. “He’s still in the wedding hall, I just passed him. I’m pretty sure Gisela and that blond kid ran, though. Everyone I asked says they haven’t seen them since the wedding this morning.”

“Where’s Livvy?” Sophie asks. 

Marella shrugs. “There’s different stories going around right now. Most common one is that they threw her in a cell, for now. No clue what they’ll do after that.”

Tam jumps to his feet. “Then we need to show Bronte this letter, now. Before it’s too late for her.”

Linh hands him the letter again. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

-

“What is the meaning of this?” Fintan asks as he strides into the meeting hall. Beside him is only Della; Tiergan can’t help but feel a smug satisfaction at the strength of his own numbers. He and Prentice stand with Bronte, and Livvy sits on the stairs in front of them. A group of teenagers also stands with them, who—as Tiergan is told, at least—hold the key to proving Livvy’s innocence. 

He watches Della’s steps falter as she notices the exhaustion on Livvy’s face. Good. Her guilt is deserved. 

“Who are these children?” Fintan asks, scowling at the servants. “What more could you possibly have to say, Bronte?” 

Bronte sighs. “Cease your incessant questioning, Fintan, and listen for once in your life. It seems I am not the one who has been betrayed.” 

Fintan stops in his tracks. “What are you suggesting?”

Bronte motions for one of the children to hand Fintan the letter they’ve been holding. Fintan takes it reluctantly, and they all watch with bated breath as he and Della read through it carefully.  

After just a few seconds, Della pales, and steps back with a hand over her mouth. “No,” she says, her voice weak. 

Even Fintan seems strangely haunted as he looks up from the paper. “Gisela,” he spits, crumpling the paper in one hand. “Of course she would lie. Had I realized she was so deeply involved with the ogres, I wouldn’t have brought her here, I wouldn’t have—” He gestures wildly around the room, while Della remains frozen still. 

“Livvy,” she cries, after a long moment. “My love. I cannot apologize enough.”

“No,” Livvy agrees, “you cannot.” 

Prentice steps forward, taking Tiergan’s hand in his own. “Della, I did not lie to you in my challenge. I am no hypocrite; I know that I, too, was deceived by Gisela’s tricks and lies. But her schemes worked only because they capitalized on our fears. She knew that Ravagog lives within us, even here, hours away.”

Della looks away, blinking away tears. “I have not lived a day without fear in years. I was a fool to believe I could return to life in Eternalia without complication.”

“We were all foolish,” Livvy says, moving to stand. “Had I been more open about my involvement in the war…”

“There are many things we could have done,” Bronte says, stepping down in front of Fintan. “But it is Gisela who is the fool. She runs to Ravagog, unaware that Dimitar has received none of her correspondence. I sent guards to her the moment I learned of her betrayal. She will not survive long, on her own.” 

Fintan nods. “I will write my men as well. She will know no peace anymore.” He and Bronte share an indecipherable stare, silent for an awkwardly long amount of time. 

Tiergan squeezes Prentice’s hand. “Well. I am glad, at least, that no secrets remain. Certainly, it’s a weight off of my shoulders.” 

He doesn’t expect his statement to increase the tension in the room tenfold. 

Della, Bronte, Livvy, and Fintan suddenly all turn to look at each other, a variety of awkward chuckles, pale faces, and wide eyes between them. They seem to communicate telepathically, almost, and Tiergan turns to Prentice with raised eyebrows—but he only shrugs. 

“About that,” Livvy says, after a long moment. “There is…something else.”

Her voice is so serious that Tiergan has to laugh. “Livvy, there is no secret of yours that I do not already know. Although I appreciate your valiant efforts at keeping Prentice’s feelings a secret from me, you failed tremendously.”

He turns to Prentice, expecting a sheepish expression, but is met with complete and utter shock. “My feelings?” Prentice asks, incredulous. “You fell in love with me! Lord Pyren said as much—”

The realization hits them both at the exact same time. 

Tiergan turns, very, very slowly, to Livvy, well aware that his glare is practically murderous. “Livvy,” he says, “explain. Now.” 

Livvy runs behind Della, which Tiergan supposes is deserved after the fiasco of the morning.

   “Well,” Della responds, clearly uneasy, “it doesn’t quite matter anymore, now that you two are clearly in love.” 

“I am not in love with him!” Prentice protests, and Tiergan scoffs. 

“The feeling is very much mutual,” he spits, dropping their joined hands. He glares at Fintan and Bronte, who watch them with barely concealed amusement. 

Prentice whirls to face him. “You confessed only hours ago the exact opposite.”

“As did you, if I recall correctly.”

Prentice huffs. “Well, perhaps I lied.”

Tiergan crosses his arms. “Perhaps I lied.” 

Prentice moves to add another childish retort, but is cut off by one of the teenagers clearing their throat loudly. 

“Um,” the blond one says, shrinking as all eyes in the room land on him. “Well, um, I kind of have proof to the contrary. You know.” He holds up two slips of paper in his hands—one of which is, unfortunately, far too familiar to Tiergan. 

The girl beside the blond boy elbows him in the side. “Keefe!” she scolds. “You can’t keep stealing stuff.”

“I don’t know,” says a boy with bangs, “it’s kind of working out for him, isn’t it?”

Livvy runs over with barely-concealed glee and takes the paper out of the boy’s hands. “Well, well, well,” she begins, her grin growing wider as she skims through them. “Let’s see here—”

“No!” Tiergan and Prentice both shout. 

“Dear Tiergan,” Livvy reads aloud, and Prentice buries his head in his hands, “you are the king of every sunset and the queen of every sunrise, the stars themselves personified into one, ever-gleaming halo of a person.” 

“A true poet,” Fintan notes, and Tiergan can only stare at the man beside him. He cannot truly believe that, Tiergan thinks. There is no part of Tiergan that could be deserving of his words. 

“And,” Livvy continues, and Tiergan’s blood runs cold, “My dear Prentice, I will love you forever, even when I am only a memory. I will love you with every part of me that has ever known love. I swear by it.” Livvy raises an eyebrow at him, but Tiergan does not notice. He is too concerned with Prentice, once beside him and now striding toward him at an incredible pace. Tiergan braces for an impact of some sort, but it doesn’t come. 

Instead, Prentice stops mere inches away from him and takes his hands gently. “My dear Lord of Disdain,” he says—softly, beautifully. 

And then Prentice kisses him, and a shaky peace settles on Eternalia once again. 

-

[igotanidea]

Essay : professor!todd x student!reader part 1

A/N: this is a completely new verse, I just couldn;t stop myself, so if you ever get ideas for that one I'll take them in a heartbeat.

A/N 2 : I was wondering whether to finish it here of give you more spice, but decided to just whet your appetite for part 2 ;)

***

Do you know how they used to call her in high school?

The unsullied.

Like in a freaking “game of thrones”

All because while her friends were partying, getting drunk and scoring, she was far more focused on her education and school work. And damn, that girl was sharp. Her writing and literature skills and instincts were something people would admire if they weren’t shallow and judgmental.

Instead she got the teasing nickname and all her peers treated her like she didn’t exist.

And of course it hurt, not having girlfriends or anyone who would even try to understand why she would rather spend her time in the library in the company of Shakespeare or Emily Bronte or Charles Dickens instead of drinking and having accidental sex. It was painful to admit that she never had a boyfriend or that she lacked experience in so many social areas. But she just clenched her teeth and pushed through, telling herself that she didn’t have to have all the answers at the age of 17.

She worked hard for a couple years and that got her a scholarship and entry to the college of her own choice. And while her parents and family were pushing her to choose something big, like New York or other big city, much to their surprise and displeasure, she decided to stay in the state and attend Gotham University.

“Why?” her mother almost got a heart attack upon hearing the revelations, choking on the fancy cake served at the tea.  (one more word about the girl – she came from the really fancy, new-money family, where she never fit, being way to feisty and fiery. She could never be described as a lady despite her mother’s best efforts).

“Just because” she shrugged

“watch your tone, girl.” Her father warned “never speak to your mother like this.”

“sorry, sir.” She smiled apologetically, but it was meant more like a sarcasm then a real word of remorse “ Gotham has one of the best university literature program. And since it’s something I want to pursue….”

“I think we should let her make her own choices, father. Y/N knows what she’s doing.”

Thank god, for her older brother, Tom, who always had her back. He was the only person she was going to miss when leaving. But he was right. She knew what she was doing. And Gotham did have the best literature course. And that was because of one of the professors, Jason Todd.

At the young age of 26, being only a couple years older than her, he managed to finish his studies summa cum laude and having a few awards on his account decided to dedicate his life into teaching and shaping young minds. Y/N couldn’t wait to attend one of his classes.

Yeah, college was going to be life changing for her.

Only she didn’t know how much when she first stepped into the hall of residence.

***

Soon enough she found out that first years were not supposed to attend Todd’s classes. Apparently something about heavy and mature content on different levels.  To put it simply, no one below 21 were allowed to engage in those discussions.

But Y/N was sly and determined enough to sneak into the evening lectures, making notes to herself and being an original thinker she got so much ideas and inspirations just by sitting in the corner of the classroom and listening. It went like that for half a year and she believed herself to be clever enough to not get notices, but apparently professor Todd was even better in the art of deception. And it all started when she lost her notebook while leaving and figured it out on the way to her room.

“Shit!” she hissed turning around immediately and looking for the lost item on the way. If it were to get into unfit hands, in the worst case – dean’s – and her secret would be uncovered , she would be expelled immediately due to not abiding the rules “Fuck!” she whispered-yelled again, having reached the classroom and still not finding it.

“don’t creep there, miss Y/l/N, come on in.” Professor Todd’s voice echoed through the empty hall and she shivered. How the hell did he know she was there? And more importantly, how the fuck did he know who she was?!

“I’m sorry to interrupt professor.” She started “I’m just …. I mean, I…..”

“Lost something?” he asked, his green eyes meeting hers and it was like a spark of electricity through her. God, was he handsome. Only now, she understood  the rumours on the campus, something about girls attending his course just for him, not really for the books and stories. Shit! She didn’t really have much opportunities to watch Todd while sneaking out and watching her every step.

“Yeah, I …. I mean, I…..” she stuttered “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be here, and what I’m writing there is just stupid and …..”

“The only thing stupid here is that no one under 21 can join my class.” Todd laughed sonorously “come here, miss Y/N, please, sit, I won’t give your secret away.”

“You won’t?” hypnotised by his voice and eyes she took a few steps forward and perched on the first desk, out of instincts waving her legs in the air in a child-like manner.

“No. Sure not. I read some of your notes, forgive me that” he apologised quickly seeing the terror on her face “and those are good. Like really good. I don’t think I have such an original thinker here in like …. ever, to be honest” he smiled brightly “how old are you again?”

“almost 20 now.” She sighed in frustration. Here she was, sitting in front of her idol, unable to get full advantage of his knowledge.

“such a shame. Would love to know your brain more.”

“Can I just have it back and be on my way? I won’t bother you anymore, I promise I don’t want any trouble." she reached for her notebook, but did it so clumsily that it made her lost her balance in the process and she started falling to the ground, when her weight overbalanced the desk. She would probably end up on the floor, if it wasn’t for Todd’s reflexes. His strong arms found a way around her waist holding her tight, her hands locking on his arms and all of a sudden feeling safe and not so eager to leave.

“You good there?” he asked as their gazes met.

“Yeah…. I…..” once again the spark flew between them. Maybe it was just her imagination but she saw something predatory and …. lustful(?) in his eyes. “I… I really should be going now, professor. It’s late and after curfew and ….. sorry.” She grabbed the book from his hands, fixed her shirt and bag and rushed out the door.

“Miss Y/L/N?” he called after her and the girl spun around to face him.

“You can keep coming to my classes. Like I said, it’s a stupid rule and your secret’s safe with me.’

“Um, yeah, sure, professor, thank you.” She mumbled and practically took off running to her room, having absolutely no idea what was happening to her .

***

She didn’t get much sleep that night, instead taking care of the urge and itching between her legs, imagining green orbs and silky voice calling her good girl and a one particular man touching her. Good thing she had a single room with pretty thick walls.

***

It became pretty clear that classes were not enough for either of them. All things considered they kept it professional for a long time, only meeting in public places, discussing some teacher-student stuff, not really making any of the stuff suspicious. Apart from some additional rumours, nothing new on the campus, they were extremely correct and hesitant to do anything stupid.

But.

Literature talks and exchanging beliefs and ideas quickly led to getting to know each other on way more personal level. She learnt about his family, his adopted father and brothers and he got the whole story of how she was treated in school and why she chose to specialise in literature.

They were getting close.

Arguably closer than teacher – student should, but the more time they spend together the less they cared.

Soon enough their meetings moved from the classrooms and campus to the outside places. And from the days to the nights, always being careful not to get caught. But the urge and the sexual tension between them was making them slip.

It was only a matter of time before someone would lose the war of nerves and needs.

***

Since the dean was tuned in to everything that was happening on the uni ground, after a couple of months Todd was called into his office and had to some heavy explanation of why he was doing nothing less but hanging out with a student that was still under the legal age.  Barely, but sill.

And with the natural ease and smoothness the young professor talked and talked about y/n’s talent and insight and how she was wasting her potential while waiting to be admitted to his classes. He used some pretty convincing arguments about the fame and reputation the uni would get if she becomes the exception to the rule and get the permission to attend despite her age.

And all that seemed to convince the dean.

Y/N was allowed to attend Jason’s course.

And that meant more time spend together.

***

“I almost forgot. I got your essays graded.” He stated one Tuesday evening almost ending the lecture,  holding a bunch of sheets of paper in his hands and waving it around “as usual, most of you should have read between the lines, but apart from that it’s better than before. I see some progress to some of you.” He started walking around, giving the papers to the students.

Was it her imagination again or did he really brushed over her shoulder while passing her? If it was a dream she didn’t want to wake up, feeling that familiar aching in her body. God! She was still at class, acting like a horny teenager! About the teacher! That was completely inappropriate!

“That would be all for today.” Jason stated “class dismissed.”

“But….” She objected. She didn’t get hers back.

“As for you miss Y/L/N….” he trailed, waiting till everyone left  “We need to talk about your thesis. But we’re gonna need the library to prove the point. Meet me there in half an hour, all right? Take your coat with you, the night is going to be cold.”

“but…. But it’s like 8 p.m.” she frowned “I thought the library was closing at 7?”

“I got a special pass. Now go, Y/N.”

Something was telling her that this was not going to be about her writing. And she couldn't wait to discover the double meaning.

[britannias-god-of-war]

Dear sir,

I could have expected that you would reply to one accusation with another. I would like to remind you that I wasn't alone in Tulon and consequently, I alone cannot bear the blame. Our Spanish "friends" proved as useful as always.

As far as I'm aware though, you and only you were leading the squadron that attacked Tenerife. So... what can you say for yourself?

I am attaching a lovely caricature I found around here. You might enjoy it.

https://imgur.com/a/6ynXaDo

Your faithful servant,

William Sidney Smith

P. S. The world isn't a Shakesperean play.

*The admiral is staring at the provided drawing, which would be called a "meme" today:*

Dear Admiral Smith,

Always the entertainer, aren’t you? Still nursing that grudge over Trafalgar Square’s Nelson’s Column instead of a Smith’s Column? Remind me—what grand victory of yours secured naval supremacy and changed the course of history?

Your obliged

Nelson and Bronte

[soulsforsales]

Professor Steven Grant x Reader

Warning: This is my first fic (Idk if that should be a warning but I am scared lol), fluff, age gap, no use of Y/N, sorry for any grammatical mistakes

Summary: You always had a weak spot for nerds but Steven Grant might just be the man of your dreams.

Pairing: Steven Grant x reader (yes, we do have Marc and Jake in the next chapters!)

Thankyou @ivystoryweaver for your ideas and support <3

Chapter 1

It is a warm Tuesday afternoon in October. You are browsing the books in the "classics" section at the bookstore. Usually, you come to the bookstore on weekends but you've decided to meet a friend this week, so here you are.

Your eyes roam the bookshelf along with your hand in a straight line until you hit something. Someone. You step back, an apology already on your lips until you turn and see the man beside you and suddenly you are at a loss for words. You stare at him.

Normally, if you run into someone at the bookstore you would just turn away and apologize, which happened a lot since you were always lost searching for your book but it wasn't a rom-com movie where anyone you accidentally stumble upon turns out to be your soulmate - but, god, right now you wish it were.

Honestly, you have seen your fair share of good-looking men, but this guy was, you dare say it, gorgeous.

He had a defined, sharp jawline with dark brown eyes, and his hair was a mess of curls. He was wearing baggy clothes but it suited him just fine and a messenger bag slung on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' you hear him say and he gives an apologetic smile. O.K. If you thought he was good-looking a moment ago, his smile was absolutely beaming - and it wasn't even a real smile. 'You okay?' He asks, his fingers grazing your forearm for the slightest second, bringing you back to life. He is looking down at you, confused. Really? Could he not see what he was doing to you or did he not know how good-looking he was?

You nod, saying, 'I am fine. Sorry about that.' He waves his hand in front of his face, 'No worries,' he replies with a smile. He looks a bit older than you, thirteen years or some.

You are staring at him again. You can feel yourself getting red. So embarrassing.

'That's a nice book you've got there,' he says, pointing to the book in your hands that was now wrapped around your chest. The blush on your cheeks deepens, he doesn't notice.

"Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte" you trace your fingers over the cover of the book.

'Yeah,' you say, pushing the book closer to yourself, 'you too.' Alright, you do not know why you said that, but he was holding a book and it only felt right to return the compliment.

Or maybe you are just really bad when it comes to conversations with someone who's got you fawning.

He shows the book to you, "The Ennead" it reads. Suddenly, you are intrigued. Yes, you work for a textile company but History, especially Egyptian, has always been interesting to you. And before you know it, you are both somehow in a long, elaborated conversation about the Ennead, Egyptian history, and the pyramids.

He knew so much that it left you speechless. You could only admire him as he kept spitting engrossing Egyptian facts as if it were the weather report. He talked animatedly, with his hands moving and his eyes gleaming. His hands, wow, his perfect, sleek hands were totally distracting you from his stories.

He stopped abruptly when his phone rang. He was telling you something about Ammit, the sinister goddess of the Underworld but he had to stop and pick up the call.

He held the phone close to his chest, saying, 'Looks like I'll have to leave.' He looked like he was in a hurry but he glanced at you once more before walking out the place, as if he wanted to say more.

He disappeared soon as if he'd never even been here.

Your heart is beating fast and it feels almost as if, you have never had a conversation like this one before. Maybe it was the person more than the conversation itself.

You didn't even ask for his name, you wince at the realization. You should've totally asked for his name.

Maybe you'll see him again.

For some reason, you are sure you'll see him again.

•------🌙

You are a few feet away from the coffee shop's door when you notice your friend. She's sitting at the table with someone, you can't really see who, and is typing aggressively into her laptop.

Your friend is in the last year of her University, she's a year younger than you. You always knew that University was not your thing but you'd attended it anyway because your parents wanted you to and being exceedingly wealthy, they had proposed to pay your study loans for you.

So now you have a full-time job, a good paycheck, and an apartment of your own without any piles of loans above your head. While your friend, still in Uni was drowning in projects and assignments and you knew she needed to loosen up a bit, hence, the reason you two were meeting today.

You enter the shop with a smile, but it drops the moment you notice who your friend is with. You freeze a few feet away from the table. You couldn't be sure if it was him but the resemblance was there.

Your friend looks up from her laptop, noticing you. She waves at you, grinning, which makes, whoever it is, sitting in front of her turn to you.

You almost trip. He looks even better than the last time you'd seen him. He was still wearing baggy clothes, his hair tousled and curly but it looked purposely done. And he was wearing glasses, red colored glasses perched on the top of his nose. Adorable.

You always had a weak spot for nerds but he might just be the man of your dreams.

Your friend asks you to come over and have a seat and you do. You can tell that he remembers you. He's been staring at you ever since you walked in and you can't breathe. What's happening to you?

Your friend, however, is oblivious, she introduces you to the man, telling him your name and he introduces himself, 'Steven Grant,' he says, shaking your hand clumsily. You nod. His hand, oh god, the handshake sent tingles all over your skin.

'He was just helping me with a few assignments, thank you so much for this,' your friend adds and after telling her that it's no big deal Steven leaves the table to get his order.

You watch him go. Steven Grant. You had met him at the bookstore almost a week ago and yet, you couldn't stop thinking about him. It felt foolish but you'd never, in your life, daydreamed about a guy the way you'd daydreamed about Steven Grant.

'Stop drooling,' your friend says interrupting your rail of thoughts. A blush spreads on your cheeks. You aren't drooling... are you?

'How do you know him?' You ask her

Your friend grins, 'he's my history professor.'

Your jaw drops, 'he's a professor?' You repeat, placing your hands on your chest dramatically, 'he's like everything I've ever wanted.'

She chuckles, 'You should ask him out. He's exactly your type and I am sure he's single.'

Your eyes turn to Steven who's now getting his coffee, 'how's he still single?'

'Because he's the most awkward person you'll ever meet and the only friend he has is a goldfish named 'Gus', it is one-finned or something. He loves talking about it,' your friend tells

You smile to yourself but your heart's hammering against your chest and you know you'd never have the courage to ask him out.

'I could never,' you say, biting your lower lip. Before your friend can reply Steven comes back with a flask that the barista had filled for him.

Your friend smirks as she closes her laptop and leaves the table the next moment. You silently beg her to stay but it's too late.

Steven looks at you and you can't stop blushing. You are praying that your complexion doesn't give it away. 'Correct me if I'm wrong,' he speaks sweetly, 'but... have we met before?'

Your cheeks redden, 'yeah,' you say, 'Yes actually, at the bookstore... that day, I - I had no idea that you were, would be - what a coincidence, right?' You give yourself an imaginary facepalm. Someone must remind you how to form a coherent sentence again.

'You're at University too?' He asks

You shake your head, 'Oh no, not anymore.'

Steven smiles in reply and you two fall into an awkward silence. You want to say something - you know you should say something but he hasn't stopped smiling since you arrived and you can't think straight when he's looking at you with those deep, soft, brown eyes.

Maybe you should ask him something about his job - anything would be better than staring at him like an idiot.

You open your mouth to speak but Steven cuts you off, 'that day when we met,' he says, taking his glasses off, 'I wanted to ask you something, actually...' he pauses to take a good look at your face, you can swear you are as red as a tomato by now. 'I was wondering if - if you would want to - maybe - uh, have dinner with me sometime? I was just thinking if...' You don't hear the rest of the sentence. Your breath hitches in your throat. Was he asking you out? Was Steven Grant, the man you had been reeling after - asking you out on a date? This felt unreal.

'I'm sorry,' his voice reaches your ear, interrupting your thoughts, 'I think I might be reading too much into it. I understand if you're not interested.'

Your eyes visibly widen at his words. It wasn't that at all.

'No.' You almost yell, 'I - I am interested. I want to, I mean. I would love to go on a date with you.' You are smiling hard and you can feel the butterflies rummaging in your stomach. 'If - if that's what you are implying.' You add.

This is bad.

Steven lets out a small laugh, his cheeks turning pink, 'Yes. Yes, th - that's what I meant.'

You grin, not because you want to but because you can't help it. He's so nice and so absolutely beautiful.

Steven fiddles with his sleeves nervously, saying, 'Well, there's this really nice restaurant down the street. They have all kinds of food options. I - I was thinking maybe we could, you know, check it out.'

You nod, still smiling. Still feeling the butterflies in your stomach. He looked ten times better when he smiled.

'Yeah,' you say, 'yeah, sounds great.'

'I'll see you tomorrow then? If - if that's okay with you. I get off work at 5'

'Tomorrow's good.'

'Yeah?' He's smiling with his eyes now, crinkles appearing around them and oh, you could just die.

Steven's expression softens as he starts to get up, 'I am terribly sorry, love,' he says, with a weak smile, 'I would really like to stay but I have to leave now - I have a meeting at work. I could, uh, text you the details, though?'

You tell him that it's alright and exchange phone numbers.

'See you tomorrow, then?' He asks, sliding his messenger bag down his shoulder, his curls toss as he fixes the strap and you fight the urge to push your fingers through them. You really wanted to.

'It's a date then,' you say, biting your lower lip. It was hard to contain your giddiness.

'I'll call you.' He says, passing you a little smile before finally walking out the shop.

Oh my god. It happened! You are going out on a date with Steven Grant. You are acting like a teenager getting asked out for the first time but you're too happy to care. You are happy - excited even - for a date, you haven't felt this like this in a long time.

Your friend finally comes back to the table, holding a sandwich in one hand and a coffee cup in another.

'You were ages.' You say, adding Steven's phone number into your contacts

'Was I?' Your friend replies, slurping her drink, 'well, the barista was super cute - not really my fault, besides, what were you chatting with Mr. Grant about?'

You smile. Your cheeks hurt from smiling now but you can't help it, 'I am going on a date.' You tell her, 'With your professor.'

Tagging: @wittyjasontodd (I didn't know if you'd wanted to be tagged since this is not DC related but here it is!), @fandxmslxt69 (bcs I was inspired by your math professor lol >.<)

Anyone who wants to be tagged, just lmk!

[kale-of-the-forbidden-cities]

KotLC OC tournament info post - 6/24

Estelle Mila Callahan

Name: Estelle Mila Callahan

Species: Elf

Gender/Pronouns: Girl, she/they

Creator: Oberon @wolfiestay1008 (he/they/void)

Picrew credit: Ultimate friend's face maker

Short desc: Wylie's best friend, a young Conjurer willing to do anything for her loved ones, even joining a fugitive organization.

Backstory: Estelle "Amaranthis" Mila Callahan is an 18 year old conjurer who works around the globe tracking the star movements. She has shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and colors the underside different colors. She's a broody and aloof elf but is kind and loyal with her loved ones. She was estranged from her family for not wanting to continue in her family's footsteps. Even tho she was a level below Wylie in Foxfire, they became very close friends. She never went into the elite levels, instead choosing to go to travel and record the stars. When Wylie got kidnapped, she walked straight onto the foxfire grounds and demanded to join the organization and get her best friend back. She cares for the Sophie gang like younger siblings, spending a lot of time with Keefe, Dex, and Biana. She admires Grady, Edaline, and Bronte.

Playlist:

If you would like me to edit anything on this post, let me know!

[verdemoun]

things my "cishet" "neurotypical" 25 year old (has never played a video game in his life) humanities teacher friend has said during his rdr2 playthrough

(dutch going off at bill at the start of revenge is a dish best eaten) well that seemed uncalled for. dutch is. dutch is starting to lose it, huh

visibly upset over having to shoot up the mansion, esp the stained glass windows. loves the double barrel tho.

(dutch going off at bronte) yeah dutch has full lost it. oh! oh! gator! :D DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!

only comment during banking the american art: papa hosea noooooo!!

(the diagnosis) ah yes well he’s dead he’s got consumption

(arthur's walk) why is there a moose in saint denis.

"the hot air balloon! first invented in 1793" (demanded i fact check, he was correct)

oh it's like the wizard of oz! there's no place like blackwater, there's no place like blackwater, there's no place like blackwater.

despite having no reaction to the diagnosis, immediately had tears in his eyes screaming ARTURO NOOOOOO as the funny man died

"mrs adler has the sort of perky butchness i can see you being attracted to"

meeting algernon: don’t you dare fucking say that’s me

five seconds into the intro cut scene: oh no he’s me

micah being on scene for any amount of time: i am dryer than the sahara rn.

i asked him to clarify. he paused. proceeded to refer to which characters made his pussy wet/dry for the rest of the evening. has never made this joke before.

thought abigail was the rat during guarma until seeing dutch muttering chess moves to himself. had decided dutch is very much unhinged and no longer trusts anything dutch says.

no idea who the rat is. does believe there's a rat. thought it was john until i said 'no try again'

bought a theatre ticket and missed most of the show admiring the foyer and guessing what sort of marble it was meant to imitate.

failed to steal the black arabian from the couple in saint denis and sulked because the red arabian is his fav.

spent an hour customizing arthur's outfit. (arthur is hideous pls send help)

spent an additional 20 minutes deciding on a hair style and going through every moustache option only to settle on day 2 stubble.

"i like bill. he might be homophobic and racist and dumb but - i don't know i just think he's neat"

(excitedly) OH I FOUND THE KKK QUICK HOW TO I THROW TNT AGAIN!!

(attempting to dismount a horse) "e for eject"

(getting a low honor dream after killing every single npc in strawberry for funsies) oh no oh no i do not like that how do we fix that

annoyed he can't actually listen to pearson's navy stories

[tcr55]

Named after the British military figure Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, Duke of Bronté, Sydney’s Bronte Beach is a great spot.

Large grassed area, ocean pool, ancient man aided water enclosure (Bogey Hole), and of course the beach and ocean.

Perfect for a dawn shot.