#◈ *. | ⥽ THE WIND RISES AND SHE HEEDS ITS CALL ! ⥼ asks

[star-girl69]

I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: i suck at writing reunions also i’m sorry for the cliffhanger and i promise everyone is fine 🙏

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of blood, swearing, incest, violence, tell me if i missed anything!!

Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Chapter Thirty Four- I Miss You on Me

—-

The last time you saw your mother, she was cold and unmoving. You were still young- barely five- but you do remember thinking that she looked like a rock.

Cold and gray, eyes closed, chest still. She was as still as a rock, unmovable, unmovable.

You were confused, understandably, death not being a concept you could quite wrap your mind around. You wanted your mother to hold you again, hug you, whisper to you, kiss you.

You promised yourself you would never let your children see you like that.

—-

Jace’s words ring in your ears long after you sunk the blade into the flesh of the man’s throat. Blood sprayed your face, and as he scrambled for purchase on the ground, hands flying to the knife, you caught him. You laid him on the ground, and he was a strong man, so it was with great difficulty.

Jace sat beside you, out of breath, in slight disbelief.

By the time you laid him on the ground, he was dead. Gravity had taken its way- blood dripped down his neck and chest, poured around him. It stained your legs, the edges of your nightgown. Your hands were covered in it when you placed his hands over his heart.

Jace placed a hand on your shoulder, and you remembered why you did it. It helped, slightly. But not enough to absolve you of the guilt.

Faintly, you realized he was talking.

“Mother, mother, please. We have to go, mom, please,”

When you looked at him, you saw the pleading in his eyes. He did not flinch as he grabbed your hand, tugged you up from the ground.

He told you that you saved him. Saved yourself. You should be proud. You wiped your hands off on your nightgown, but it was already drying to your skin.

Stained.

—-

Jace had led you through the side door, through to the city below. He stayed to the outskirts, away from the Street of Silk, so the dirt roads were mostly empty.

He still kept tight hold of your hand, even when, in your distressed state, you complained that his hands would be stained as well. He said it was as much on his hands on yours. You didn’t answer, and the two of you eventually made it through the gate. You slipped through, again, without trouble, and you could tell Jace was getting nervous.

“That was the trouble,” you whisper, and he nods, palming his dagger. He does not believe you.

He had long since taken yours back, stuffed it in his back holster, so you did not have to look at it, the blood that still stained it.

The journey passed in silence.

You thought about your mother. You thoughts about death, your children, your husband and wife, your Cannibal.

Instead, you put your arm around Jace’s shoulder. He did not mind the blood. Not even when dried flakes of it fell off into his hair as you kissed the top of it.

You told him he was brave. You could tell he was only humoring you when he thanked you, but at that moment, that was all the right you had left in you.

When you finally reached the woods, the sun just minutes away from rising, maids would go to your rooms soon, the body would be discovered, that Jace let go of your hand and called out to Vermax.

He appeared, a whirlwind of apple green and red wings, a flat nose and wide eyes. He clicked at the sight of you, happy, but Jace only ushered him to silence and prepared him to fly.

The sun rose just as he finished adjusting the saddle to two, and you knew Aegon and Aemond would be informed in mere minutes.

You ushered Jace to take flight quickly, and he heeded you, asking if you would be alright as Vermax raised into the air. You pretended his voice was lost to the wind.

—-

Rhaenyra wanted to stay in bed.

But, she was a Queen, and she knew she couldn’t. So instead, she kissed Daemon’s cheek, held onto him for a little longer, then rose just as maids filed in.

Daemon groaned from the bed as one of them opened the blinds, and Rhaenyra smiled from her chair at the vanity. She realized, faintly, it was probably one of the only few times she had smiled since her Y/N was taken.

She sighs, pushes the thoughts away as handmaidens tend to detangling her hair.

Her lips ache constantly for the press of hers. Her hands shake to hold her, skin burning without her touch. She is losing herself, losing her body, her mind, to the absence of her Y/N.

She finds that the only remedy is to pretend, for just a moment. Pretend she is just around the corner, pretend she never existed, bury herself in Daemon lest she heads to the bluffs and throws herself off of them.

The handmaidens shuffle around her, one pressing powders onto her face, the other beginning to tame her hair. She only wears it simple, now. She feels unworthy of such elaborate designs if she cannot even keep her wife. Another two pour over her closet, compare dresses, whispering about which one is better suited for the day.

She lets them do it. Let’s them make the decisions for her.

If the Gods were cruel Y/N would be with Daemon, curled up in bed, their husband still groaning about the light. When the handmaidens left, Rhaenyra would force Y/N to rise, brush her hair, put powders on her face, pick out her dress.

Ever since her father died she finds her days filled with council meetings. The Princess of Dragonstone is long gone, replaced by a busy Queen.

She likes to take that moment, touch her wife, love her wife, without the prying eyes of others.

Now, Daemon lays alone, and she has no one to care for when her handmaids leave.

A roar rents the air, and one of her handmaidens fumbles, the brush of powder falling.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she murmurs, as Rhaenyra whispers it is fine.

Cannibal was terrifying before, but with the loss of his only rider, he is despondent. Wild, cruel, hungry to fade his sorrow into nothing. His roars are commonplace, now, so Rhaenyra thinks nothing of it.

It isn’t until he roars again that she becomes slightly suspicious. She is used to the sound of him screeching and wailing, pained and longing. This is different. Excited, hopeful.

“What is wrong with that godsdamned beast?” Daemon asks, sitting up, now fully awakened by his roars. She watches in the mirror as he dresses, the handmaidens finally finished with her hair and face.

They are just tying the strings on her corset when the unmistakable sound of a dragon flying above them is heard. Too large to be Moondancer or Arrax, too large to be Syrax or Caraxes. It must be Cannibal.

She meets Daemon’s eyes- Cannibal is a sore reminder, but now they are just mostly concerned. Has he finally had enough of his sorrowed? Moved onto anger? Rhaenyra is lost, but her children are still with her. She won’t lose them.

“Hurry,” she snaps at the handmaidens, as Daemon straps Dark Sister to his hip. Then they are storming through the halls, stopping when a maid screams she saw a dragon approach the island.

They share a look. Have the traitors finally come for them? Rhaenyra bunches her dress in her hands, Daemon unsheathes his sword.

She will have their heads and her throne.

—-

When you land at Dragonstone, you feel faint. You had refused meals for the past few days- the memory of Blood dying in your lap too much. Your adrenaline had faded, and you only felt worse with the death of the guard.

Jace helps you off of Vermax, and you see Cannibal circling in the sky. You let out a smile, even though your shaky legs. Your Cannibal.

You place a hand on Vermax, leaning into him, the press of his warm scales, while Jace attempts to sling your other arm over his shoulder. A guard runs forward, taking Jace’s place, as your son runs over to Baela and Rhaena.

You barely notice them, too busy trying to focus your feet to stay on the ground, to stay upright. You hear the doors slam, silence, before the sounds of someone running to you are heard.

But your mind is woozy, and you can barely register the guard leaving you, new arms, familiar arms, circling your waist.

“R-rhaenyra?”

Your vision clears, and she holds your face in her hands, studying, looking, memorizing.

“My sweetest girl, my best girl, my love, you’re alive. You’re alive, you’re alive.” She kisses your face, tears falling from her eyes.

“Rhaenyra-”

But another body barrels into you, and you almost fall into Vermax. He presses kisses into the top of your head, pushing your head to his chest.

“Daemon…” you try, but your eyes are closing, and you can barely stand, and you are so weak.

You could not save yourself, nor Blood and Cheese. You could barely save Jace, and you were dying for all those weeks, and everything you have ever wanted is wrapped around you and it is too much.

Your eyes close, and it all slips away.

—-

taglist:

@wondergal2001 @akiraquote @a-lil-bit-nuts @anginoguera @thatkinkylesgirl1 @stitchattacks @honeypillowsblog @kaloafd @blackhoodlea @softtina @wallace02sblog @tetgod @hotd-fanfic @rxscpctals @iramagnus

[mostthingskenobi]

CASSIAN'S RECKONING - Chapter 15 The Interrogation

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Cassian is forced to face his superior officers.

READ THE FIC ON AO3

THIS IS A WHUMPY FIC W/GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS ON AO3.

——————–

CHAPTER 15: THE INTERROGATION

Once again, Cassian’s status afforded him the right to a private room aboard the Redemption, which, similar to his quarters on Yavin, were hardly larger than a closet. After thanking the 2-1B medical droid for its care, he made his way through the winding ship passageways to the new place he would call home. There was a bunk partially built into the bulkhead with storage underneath, a narrow upright locker, and a small desk. Cassian never needed much to be comfortable; the room had a door that locked, which was all he wanted.

He snapped on the desk lamp, preferring its warm glow over the blinding, sterile overhead light. He didn’t have any possessions—they’d all been abandoned on Yavin—except for the blood-stained imperial uniform he’d been rescued in, but he pulled open the locker anyway. A half-smile crept over his lips. Two fresh shirts and pants hung inside, and a new pair of boots sat on the shelf. Amused, he thumbed through the garments. They were all the right sizes. “How does she know this stuff?” he wondered aloud.

Then something else caught his eye; behind the clothes hung a familiar item. Cassian pulled his well-worn Corellian jacket off the hanger, surprised by the relief it aroused. He slipped it on and pulled it tight against his chest, appreciating how a commonplace item could become a touchstone. The jacket made him feel a little more like himself and he knew he had Jyn to thank for it. Despite her aloof exterior, she was one of the most thoughtful people he knew. Cassian figured she wasn’t consciously aware of her kindness; it was a reflexive behavior that he’d observed in her many times.

A rap on the door interrupted his thoughts and he opened it to find one of Draven’s aides. “Sir, the general has asked that you please report to the Intelligence ready room asap.”

Wasting no time, Andor mused internally. “Let me change and I’ll be right there.”

The man saluted and left.

Cassian pulled out the clothes Jyn had bought for him and dressed. He shrugged into his jacket, feeling more confident than he had in a long time, and hurried to the unavoidable meeting he’d been dreading.

Draven, Mon Mothma, and several other high-ranking officials stood around a glowing, greenish-blue holo table in the dark ready room. “Andor,” Draven acknowledged him as he approached. “Good to see you up and about.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cassian took position at the table’s edge and crossed his hands behind his back. In truth, he didn’t feel remotely prepared for the interrogation that was about to take place, but he knew a debrief was a necessary evil. He’d been in the same position, forced to question comrades before they were ready to talk, evaluating how a tortured fellow spy may have compromised the Rebellion, choosing the cause over his own humanity.

“You know why you’re here?”

Cassian nodded.

“Then let’s get on with it.” Draven was pragmatic and had no desire to drag unpleasant business out longer than necessary. “Lieutenant Erso retrieved footage of your time in captivity. This was from an IT-O interrogator droid?”

“Yes.” Andor felt his pulse begin to rise; he tried to subtly steady himself with a deep breath.

“There is missing footage, correct?”

Cassian forced his nerves to go cold. He had a job to do and he would damn-well do it right. “Yes. The IT-O droid wasn’t present at first.”

“How long were you in captivity before documentation began?”

“I don’t know. I had no sense of time.”

“Can you confirm whether or not you divulged Alliance secrets during this undocumented period? According to the footage we do have, you looked as though you had already undergone…” Draven suddenly seemed as though he couldn’t find the words, “…harsh interrogation,” he finished.

Cassian continued controlling his breathing. “I can confirm that I did not divulge anything during the undocumented period of my captivity.”

Draven eyed the young man, waiting for further explanation.

“They didn’t ask me any questions,” Andor finally offered.

“Did you resist their efforts?”

The rebel commander smiled mirthlessly. “I didn’t really have the chance.” Hoping to satisfy Draven and prompt him to move on he said, “Tarkin wanted to loosen me up. They wanted revenge for Scarif. So, there was a lot more punching than talking to begin with.”

The general nodded once, understanding. “Did you divulge crucial information at any point?”

“Have you watched the footage?”

No one responded.

Cassian knew their silence was a tactic. They were testing him, seeing if he would lie. “Yes,” he said, silencing his internal shame. “I identified Lieutenant Erso by name.”

Mon Mothma lifted her chin and looked as though she had won a wager. She’d been certain Cassian would be fully honest with them.

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Andor admitted. “I honestly can’t remember even telling Tarkin Lieutenant Erso’s name, but he proved beyond a doubt that I had. As for any other admissions, I really can’t be sure. By the time I was beginning to break I was barely conscious. I’d been injected with an array of toxins. When I try to remember what happened, I have large empty spots in my memory. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific; the details are murky.”

“What do you remember?” Mon Mothma asked gently.

Cassian glanced at her, not sure he wanted to be entirely honest now. Screaming. Pain. Cold. He suppressed the unpleasant memories and, instead, reached for one that would satisfy the senator. “I remember Rogue One coming through the door.”

After a long silence Draven spoke. “That will do for now. We’ll spare you reliving details we can glean from the recordings. If we have questions about any specifics, we’ll call you back in. We only need to know one more thing. What happened to the rest of your crew?”

Blood instantly drained from Andor’s head and his chest became tight.

“Where did things go wrong?”

Cassian’s eyes drifted down as he struggled to breathe. He could not bring himself to speak.

“Commander?”

“They were waiting for us,” he finally said, his voice struggling to stay even. “Tarkin knew we were coming. Our contact on the Death Star was a double agent.”

Mothma and Draven exchanged concerned looks.

“They lined us up on our knees.” Cassian still couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. “Death troopers shot everyone in the head.”

Draven was visibly disturbed. “Why did they let you live?”

A dark expression passed over Andor as he looked at the general. “Because I was a Scarif rebel.”

Though the endeavor had been worth the risk, Draven knew the Alliance would be paying Scarif’s price for a long time, knew the Empire had kept Cassian alive so they could punish him. Humiliating a man like Tarkin would always have consequences. “Does anyone else have questions for Commander Andor?” he asked the others. No one spoke so he turned back to Cassian. “Do you have anything else you’d like to add?”

“I’d like to ask for some paid leave.”

“I think you’ve more than earned it, given this and what you endured on Scarif.” Draven turned to his personal aide. “Four weeks, paid, full rations, no access to ships.” The aide started inputting the details into a datapad. Draven spoke to Cassian again. “Since the armada is in a state of flux, we cannot let you leave the ship. Firstly, we can’t spare the fuel and secondly, if we did let you leave, we can’t be certain you’d be able to rendezvous with us upon return.”

“Understood. I don’t want to go anywhere. I just want to sleep.”

Draven smiled. “You’ll have plenty opportunity.” He closed the file he’d been referencing during the debrief. “Stay available. We may call you in from time to time to answer questions or provide intel, but you have my word, no missions for at least four weeks.”

“Thank you.”

“Dismissed.”

END NOTES

NEXT CHAPTER IS CALLED “THE ROGUES" - Time to balance things out with a fluffy interlude.

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome!

Much love!

——————–

READ IT ON AO3- Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1 “The Razor”

READ CHAPTER 2 “The Scythe”

READ CHAPTER 3 “The Cold”

READ CHAPTER 4 “The Expendable”

READ CHAPTER 5 “The Truth”

READ CHAPTER 6 “The Detritus”

READ CHAPTER 7 “The Salt”

READ CHAPTER 8 “The Power”

READ CHAPTER 9 “The Betrayal”

REACH CHAPTER 10 “The Ruse”

READ CHAPTER 11 “The Reprieve”

READ CHAPTER 12 “The Ghosts”

READ CHAPTER 13 “The Redemption”

READ CHAPTER 14 “The Spoils”

READ CHAPTER 15 "The Interrogation"

READ CHAPTER 16 "The Rogues"

READ CHAPTER 17 “The Absolution”

READ CHAPTER 18 “The Reach”

READ CHAPTER 19 “The Hologram”

READ CHAPTER 20 “The Divide”

READ CHAPTER 21 “The Cost”

READ CHAPTER 22 “The Fallout”

READ CHAPTER 23 “The Wounds”

READ CHAPTER 24 “The Hand”

READ CHAPTER 25 “The Heart”

READ CHAPTER 26 “The Beginning”

[liightbringr]

𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝.

@kismetwilled asked: The Queen stirs in her slumber. Bed of silk encases wounded form, still she wishes to reach out, to comfort and calm. Shepard. Guardian. Mother. She cannot abandon her charges. Even when they forget themselves. Even if they forget her. But in this solace, this pocket of calm before exhaustion claims her, Mothra feels another before her. Unique. Healing. Holy. Mothra shifts to allow compound eyes to shine their cerulean light through the fibers of her cocoon. To witness the brilliance of the soul before even in her obscured vision. ❝ You… you are different, yes? Brighter than the others… not of this world. ❞ Though voice is quiet it reverberates like a rolling thunder and yet it washes over like a warm breeze; mild and soothing. ❝ And yet… I feel a… familiarity between us. Protectors, you and I. Though as I am… I ca-cannot… ❞ Slowly the light from her eyes begins to fade, fatigue beginning to overtake her. ❝ But you, child, I… can help. If you would take up… my charge. ❞

𝐎'𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐒 && 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄 -- what weave has found her now? To heed the call that brings her to this domain. Ancient energies && an existence that predates her own by millennia; it calls to her, reaches out for her like maternal refuge. A song of the multi-verse, transcendent light all-consuming. The way with which it settles over the flesh && melds to the very core of her being. It makes a home in the sinew, brings peace to the bones. Is this a sensation similar to feeling so immeasurably at home? The ship since battered against relentless swells, the pilgrim whose feet have since gone sore but the sight of their destination wills them in perseverance, or the soldier that looks upon the portrait of their beloved before a grueling battle so that they might find the mettle, the bravery, within them to press on--- the will to live. The Warrior of Light looks upon such beauteous display in awe, in wonder. Countless occasions have seen this warrior speechless or caught in the throes of her curiosity, for at the base of all that she is comprised of she so innately clings to her humanity. But it is also within this moment that familiarity washes over her in all-encompassing light && gives way to a breathlessness. As if the wave itself drags her under && leaves her at the mercy of its undertow before sparing her in the same instance. A sobering experience, a realization that she is not the only being of assimilated power. Of a light that could scorch no different than it can save. Eyes alike paradise fall upon the cocoon before her && its silken splendor. Wondrous blues of one's own are caught thereafter in the irrevocably comforting ones of the being hiding within the chrysalis thusly. Supple tiers part as though words might usher in an adequate conveyance, && yet the intention falls flat. To naught, she stands there in her awe still yet. For in the coming moment are words of an ancient tongue she should not know. && it occurs to her therein that this being allows her to understand. Two beings born of the cosmos && destined to defend it with their lives. && from her feet does she rise in a delicate imposition of one's own magical prowess. A small feat to bid herself aloft, suspended in the air as winding currents of wind circle around her ankles to sustain her hover. A better look at the creature that addresses her. But in that coming moment is a realization. This being has become one of her charges in a moment's notice. The rite of passage that is the safeguarding of the universe && existence beyond; the joining of higher purposes, the convergence of destinies like colliding stars. Time plays against her. She's not a fool. She sees the dimming of the light within, the exhaustion that bids the other to stillness. && it moves her to act. This boon would be hers to carry---it's like looking into a mirror in ways she cannot explain. "Let me lighten the load. I will bear the weight of our light as one." She's almost desperate to administer her aid, to bring about an end to the pain the other experiences. It's second nature, in truth. All of the times she has had to fight && still remains. Still here to be a beacon of hope for the hopeless. She made this choice so long ago && yet naught could sway the decision to cling fast to that mentality all the while. So she draws nearer to the cocoon. A plucking of leather from her hands, gloves removed so that the flesh might yield sincerity in the conforming of her palm to silk; she breathes deep what may come. Pain? Peace? Comfort? Would she be remade from the inside out && put together in the image of-- Mothra. Mothra? That's her name. A smile quirks at the corners of her lips. Small, but genuine evermore. Of pride && warmth. "I'm here."

[molnitsa-a]

i thought you were jewish?

… puerto  rica.n  jews  exist  and  i  really  don’t  feel  the  need  to  explain  myself  past  this  

[kazeofthemagun]

Worth of Wolves

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

[First meeting with Silver Storm. The very beginnings of the cursed one’s untold legend. Pre-series, expanded backstory drabble. 7.5k words.]

[cw: blood, war, death, child abuse, child death, trafficking, child slavery mention]

Day of the Ox. Fifth morning hour.

Windaria was waking to life. Like an animal in its own right, stirring with the earliest light. Having rested the previous day, it was time to set to work, let sleep-heavy blood flow faster, open eyes behold a new dawn. Much needed to be done before the first hour of the Sun rendered the cobblestone streets a scorching deathtrap, a forced halt in the bustle of the city. Then, when evening came, once again would the diligent animal of the city toil in blood and sweat.

He awakened along with the very first rays of morning. A boy, eleven or perhaps twelve cycles old. Ask him his exact age, and he would not answer.

In fact, the boy without a name seldom answered to anyone. The Land of the Winds was a harsh nation, prideful like the eternal golden sand. The Winds only ever danced across the heavens, paying little heed to those that dwelled in the dirt. The worm could only reach up, curiosity brought on by rain, rearing a mulch-soft head to gaze at what lay above.

Those who lived below quickly learned to keep their head down. And their hood up. A distant rustle of metal plates and the sound of kivani hooves beating against stone saw the boy's left rise instinctively to pull down the worn fabric that sheltered his features. In his right he held a small, rusted knife. All the polishing in the world would not absolve that wretched thing, reddish-umber patterns clinging closely to the place its handle met metal.

He was not alone here. Blue eyes swept slowly across the church hall, meeting a pair of orange staring back from the half-shade.

"Maru?"

Less a name, more a form of address by necessity. After over a year of living together, it became quite awkward to only call the nameless boy precisely that.

It was one of the rare moments the ever-sealed lips of his moved, stretching out into an almost shy smile, as though the smallest softness came difficult to a creature of sharp edges and hard shells. The persona of silence he had built - it protected him. The animal that made less noise was less likely to be hunted.

"Ïsta."

The foreign name rolled off his tongue in a hoarse voice - one as rusted as the knife he now carried. She smiled, and despite her sunken-in cheeks, it could well be the sweetest smile in the world.

Maruku - the boy branded wolf - lowered his gaze to stare wordlessly at the bandage wrapped over the girl's right hand. The rag was tattered from use, yellowed and reddened in places where friction had sheared skin. She noticed his attention, hiding the injury from sight.

"Hand. How?" There was worry in his tone as he spoke in somewhat broken Lahriktaarese. Granted, considering the Temple had conquered and enforced its ways upon most of the world, the language could well be simply called Windarian. "Does it bleed, again?"

"A little. But I'll be fine, I can still work." Ïsta replied. Despite their shared predicament, fiery amber eyes were as full of passion as ever. Even so, there was a sadness and worry behind them, a maturity so uncharacteristic of a ten cycle old child. "I worry, Maru. Worry that Yani..."

The other children had begun to stir as well, some cries erupting here and there as an old, overworked Priestess of Soil worked to soothe them. In total, there were about ten orphans between two and seven cycles of age. War raged on in the south, bringing refugees to the small merchant-ran city of Tonnavrel. The Wind Warriors of the capital reinforced the army on the front, hoping to secure yet more territory from the struggling nation that had for so long denied their religion. It was clear the Keep Beyond the River would not hold.

Most of the immigrants were either executed for heresy, sold into slavery or converted, still doomed to a life of poverty. Age hardly mattered. In the eyes of Lahriktaar, the people from Beyond the River may as well be animals; Only good for servitude.

Though officially of Lahriktaarese faith, some local temples still believed in the true path of Soil and goddess Alaeyra, the kind bringer of rain. Like rain, they worked to mend the land. All spirits were equal in the Soil - deserving of equal chances at life.

Ïsta was a name from Beyond the River. In the open, she went by another name, one more palatable to the Wind cult. Though she had lost both her father and her mother, her true name was a dearest keepsake. Maruku idly squeezed the wooden clan sigil he wore around his neck, and rose.

"Church is poor. No food, again." He sighed, moving to aid the priestess with the rest of the kids. Loving words and gentle touch could only help the starving so much.

They spent a few hours helping around, both with the refugee children and the building's upkeep. Through washing the tiles and preparing the main chamber for morning mass, they earned what little coin the poverty-stricken priests could spare. Most of it was spent on sustenance, leaving very little to replace the torn clothes they wore. Even that was in short supply with the Wind armies' march south, stripping Tonnavrel of both resources and manpower. The lifeblood of economy ran ill with the plagues carried by war.

Windaria was a land rotten to the very bedrock by ceaseless slaughter. The boy's young mind found it all hard to understand. Politics were a distant, hazy shadow he could hardly hope to grasp when he still sometimes struggled with forming correct sentences. Such was his unfortunate fate after being neglected throughout his earliest years, kept hidden by the Scribe. Only after his reluctant safekeeper’s death did the outside world crash down upon him with all the weight of total indifference.

It had still been better than being left for dead at one cycle old. In the end, he had survived, and met people who looked at him with more kindness than malice.

And for once, the nameless wolf's distant eyes learned to smile. Even when he and Ïsta held Yani's tiny hand as he passed on from illness. Not even half their age, a sickly forgotten son of yet another fallen warrior. It was the best someone like him could do. He could not heal him, for he was useless. Nobody could, when even Alaeyra herself failed. But he could sit there, and attempt to do what Ïsta did best. Comfort.

Even as their statues adorned the walls, chiseled stone bodies at an arm's reach, the gods were so awfully absent.

Ïsta was crying. Now that the others could not see her, emotions flowed freely past ever-strong eyes. He sat with her, unable to do the same. Was there something wrong with him? His heart wept yet his eyes could not. More than sorrow, he felt that strange gnaw again. An insidious gnawing sensation that made the bones itch, brows furrow and teeth grit, fangs on display. The feeling of someone exposed to injustice from his earliest days - to the point it was all he had ever known.

It made him angry. So, so angry.

"Maru..." She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. It was all she could say. Small hands dug into the dark fabric of the wolven boy's tattered poncho. It was alright. She could cry here, into his darkness, and he would hide her tears from the very world. A weak swallow. "When you finally get out of here, what will you do?"

Ïsta wanted to be a painter. She always said so. When she asked him, he never answered. But this time, he knew. He knew what he wanted to be.

He had seen it, that day. During the annual celebrations, when the military rolled through the city, adorned with ceremonial capes. The weapons they carried were meant to bring death, but in that moment, he was captivated by their gleam and the verses that carried on the Winds like a song of fire itself.

The creature they had called - it was named, "Phoenix." And it was magnificent.

If he were the Phoenix, so brazen and strong, he could eradicate the evil that poisoned the land. He could take flight on blazing wings and burn away the rot and corruption. He could stand against those foul beasts that enslaved children and render them all into ashes, melting accursed chains to usher the wronged towards new dawns. He could become the Sun and shine with kindness, not cruelty.

He wanted... above all, he wanted to be strong.

He was sick of being weak. Sick of being powerless.

"I'll become a warrior." Oceanic blue met amber orange. His right hand found and squeezed the hilt of the knife hidden beneath dark fabric. "I'll... fight. But now, I go." He pulled up his hood once again and walked towards the entryway. "I'll get food."

And like a passing shadow of a hawk, he was gone. A wide-eyed Ïsta wiped the last of her tears and yelled good luck.

The wounds on her hand had opened again, soaking dirtied rags.

---------

Seventh morning hour.

The thief had found himself a target.

Blue eyes observed an elderly Windarian as she opened the back door to the bakery, bringing in crates. There was a muffled hiss of pain as she attempted to lift one, and a wrinkled hand rested on the woman's spine. She remained bent for a little while, massaging her aching back. Everyone in town was simply trying to get by, small businesses hit especially hard by the nearby war. So, too, was he.

It was not personal, never was. A few pieces of pastry would help feed the starving children and the owner would not go hungry herself. Deep down, Maruku hated stealing, but he had little choice in the matter. It was best to desensitize himself.

Especially for things like him, it was a dog eat dog world. And today, the dog had its sights set on as much fresh bread as he could carry.

He waited for the woman to engage in a conversation outside before sneaking behind a barrel, then slipping inside. The smell hit him first, mouth watering in an instant as he practically sprinted towards a fresh batch laid out upon the closest shelf. Good, good - the boy snatched several large loaves, cramming them beneath his poncho, under an arm. He had what he came for - it was time to escape. Blue orbs scanned the room, weighting the pros and cons of using the back door again instead of the proper entrance.

The owner and the man she was talking to were still there, chatting idly about something. Maruku leaned against the wall, listening intently and gauging distance. Yes, they had moved closer. They were now standing close to the wall on the right side of the rear entrance, and the chances they could spot him were high. On the other hand, using the main door meant he would run right out into the crowd - someone was bound to notice his unlawfully-acquired cargo and Tonnavrel had little tolerance for criminals. Especially serial offenders. He swallowed, then decided to peek out the way he came. Just a little.

As his shit luck would have it, the man was looking directly at him. "HEY!"

All rhyme and reason to high hell. He bolted in the opposite direction.

He made it through the storage and leapt over the counter, scattering neatly stacked coin. The man was hot on his trail, fit of body and jumping the counter without much effort. Oh gods, gods - the wolf's small heart drummed loud as thunder as it thrashed wildly against ribs. The chase. In that moment, his insult of a nickname proved hardly accurate. He was no wolf. He was a rabbit, and the man behind him was the predator with gnashing teeth. The people gathered on the street gasped.

Run, rabbit, run. Your life could well depend on it.

He felt a hand clasp over and yank the back of his poncho - pulling down his hood and spilling the bread over pavement. Blue eyes went wide, feral. He had a knife in hand. A rusty shard of metal, the only claw to his name.

The man yelled something, snatching the fabric at his chest and lifting him into the air. Thin legs kicked hard at his captor's stomach, to no avail. He had a knife in hand.

He had a knife.

An ungodly sound, halfway between a hiss and a growl - and in a flash, the shabby blade found its way into the adult Windarian's eye.

The screaming was horrible. He was released in an instant, scrambling to collect at least two of the lost pastries before running like a mad wind, bloodied metal clutched in a vicelike grip of terror. He fucked up. He fucked up. This time, he fucked up. Oh gods, gods. Phoenix..! If only the Phoenix could save him now.

The shrill wail attracted the attention of a patrolling soldier. More yelling, and a set of armored footsteps followed. It was closing in, fast. Agile as the boy was, he was weak from hunger and his legs were still short. It was only a matter of time before his pursuer caught up, a-and then... No, don't think. Don't think. Be like you used to be.

Only silence. And instinct.

Like an animal.

He weaved inbetween passersbies, relying on his speed and others' shocked inaction to bring him closer to escape with each step. The civilians were too confused to stop him and deep down, most of them did not want to contribute to the apprehending - and subsequent punishment - of a thief that young.

Not when it was not their livelihood stolen. If it had been, he was positive they would be more than happy to see him bleed.

What he could not achieve with speed, he would with smarts. The redhead took a sharp turn left into a dark street, catching a glimpse of stacked boxes in the periphery of his sight. A quick assessment, and he leapt, making his way up and clambering onto a stone wall to then make for the roofs. More yelling, including that accursed word.

"The kiichimarichuril! Get him!"

His hood was down. No time to fix it, not with the food in one hand and reddened knife in another.

"He stabbed Vrynn! Medic!"

"Little fucking monster!"

"Hey! I know that one! Thief! Thief!"

His heart threatened to burst out his chest like a panicked bird. Flapping straining wings, pushing feathers like needles through ribs, searing pain surging in his lungs. He was just about to faint. But he couldn't.

No, no... He... Not only he... the others... needed...!

There was a sharp impact against his ankle. The dull sound of wood. Oceanic eyes widened, a pounding pulse skipped an entire beat.

His balance was -

A loud clatter signified his messy fall, small body slamming into an empty cart before rolling down onto the ground. Bread went flying everywhere, and so did his knife. His only defense. Maruku - Kiichimarimaruku - tried to force his body to stand, to do anything. Shaky limbs refused to move, a wheezing cough erupting from between dry lips and chipped teeth. His side...!

It hurt to breathe. Something warm pooled in his mouth, dripped onto the pavement.

The soldier approached slowly, smugly. In his hand - oh, the world was spinning - was a long, wooden object with a triangular shape at the tip. A spear. He had been got... swept off his feet by that spear.

A gloved hand reached down, and the boy could hardly fight back. By his hair he was lifted up, weak wide blues staring into the face of death itself. Such a striking visage, tempered by violence and unafraid to deliver it. He yelped, feeling his body dragged out onto the main street.

He wanted... saßu... he wanted to be strong. Stronger than this man. Never would he hurt children like so, even thieves. Surely there could be another way. If only... all that fighting stopped... everyone could live equal and never have to beg or steal.

Saßu...!

"Look what we have ourselves here." Another voice, one gruff as grinding stone. "A flea-ridden runt. Heard ya nearly killed that poor, innocent man." A kick delivered into his side. Another wheeze, and he spat warm blood. His tongue hurt like fire, he could not speak. "Oh, shit." The other soldier commented at the generous mouthful of red now splattered against cobblestone.

It was not the type of "oh shit" one would say when recognizing one's wrong. He learned that much when another kick drove a wedge of agony into his empty stomach; He let out a raspy screech. This time, he found the strength to bare his fangs, flashing wild eyes from beneath a curtain of disheveled crimson.

"Where's ya family, brat? Or are you an asiju?" Asiju. He recognized that word. Clanless. Yet another reason for them to look down on him. He replied not, panting heavily at the military man's feet.

That gnawing sensation... again. He could feel it. It dwelled deep within his bones.

"Weeell?" The warrior lifted him again, one bushy brow rising in mockery.

"Fuck... you." The wolven boy wheezed, and spat right in his captor's face.

The encroaching haze of deathly fear that suffocated him was gone. This was the growl of a living beast. He was alive. He would fight. Nothing else mattered, only the fury powered by his pain.

What blood and spit remained in his mouth all but turned to foam as he began to thrash, fingers outstretched as claws and digging into the exposed skin of the soldier's arm. Thick brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and disgust, briefly letting go at the boy's display of madness. Maruku heaved, eyes wide those of some disease-stricken mutt. Garlands of thick, reddened saliva hung from an open mouth, teeth poised to strike.

What burst from the depths of his throat was the most inhuman scream he could muster, sending gathered onlookers jumping several feet back in alarm and confusion. It was almost as though he had caught the desert-death. Going insane with illness, striking at anyone in range before going down himself.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. If this was the end, he would go burning like a wildfire.

He could not see her with his sights set on the man before him - he could not see Ïsta as she came running to join the crowd, the old priestess in tow as they heard the infernal commotion. He could not hear their voices nor glimpse the girl's outstretched bandaged hand as she reached in vain for her friend.

Instead, all he could see was a rush of red painting his vision in a singular shade of wrath.

The dark-clad boy lunged with speed he hardly should have been able to muster, grabbing onto the man and digging his teeth into the fabric of his glove. There was a staggered yelp, a deep crease between furrowed brows that only spoke of violence in return.

"This brat is fucking insane!"

Another gloved hand buried into his hair, yanking him off his target and throwing his body ragdoll-like against the pavement. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, and with it, the mad spirit that seemed to possess him. Another cough, and the youth could only focus on the pain.

"Enough with this nonsense! You are guilty of theft as well as a violent attack with a sharp object. Now you're guilty of assault on a Lahriktaarese warrior as well." The last part was added with an ugly grin. This was it. The feeling sank in, a freezing sensation taking hold and stifling the flame that yet burned within his chest. This was it. He would be punished. He would have his hand taken off - perhaps his entire arm. And then he would die, because who would even help a wretch like him?

What fight remained inside would never save him from a grown warrior, let alone two of them. Even if by some miracle he slipped away, the crowd would surely stand wall and capture him again. The situation was hopeless and - oh, gods - he may have just killed a man over a few loaves of bread. What if he did? What if the knife went too deep and that man was dead?

Was this... justice? An innocent's life for one day of sustenance?!

He just wanted to help the church children. He just wanted... to help. For once, not be entirely selfish.

The remembrance of the Phoenix dominated his senses. The scent of soot, the warmth of fire. The brilliance of it all against the starlit sky, illuminating the night as if it were day. Summoners. They called them... summoners. Those who wielded power over those godly creatures. And the creatures were called... Espers. Each time they were invoked, it had to be done with the use of three souls.

A brief, second life before they returned to the earth with the breath of the Winds.

He remembered. He remembered the incantations well. A part of him wondered whether should he recite them, the great beast of fire would descend from the heavens to save him.

The verses... that summoner used.

The hold of the darkest earth, Mother Black.

The pyre of the gods, Fire Red.

The splendor of a living sun, Burning Gold.

The splendor of a living sun. He liked that. He would like to see it again so very, very much. But it seemed it was the darkness of the earth that would embrace him instead.

Once again he was dragged and thrown in front of the gathered crowd, a circle quickly forming. His captor’s boot found and dug into the side of his head, spilling a mess of crimson hair for all to see. He snarled like a beast as the city watched. A hunger for entertainment, eager eyes happy to witness another's agony. It was then that she registered to him.

Ïsta.

...He... had failed her. Had he? What foolish thinking. The notion that he could have even helped at all. What if they find out? That the church gave him shelter? Would they not pay for his idiocy as well? Kiichimarichuril. Little fucking monster. He mouthed her name, daring not speak it aloud.

The soldier’s boot pushed harder. He yelped, biting back tears as his arm was bent, cold steel touching his right wrist. The hand that had carried the knife - the tool of murder now abandoned somewhere in the dark alleyway. This is it. That sole thought raced through his mind, enveloping him in its entirety. He was shaking. His entire body was on fire and his battered side felt like it would split open at any moment. That damned soldier was saying something. Still quivering, with tears of pain welling up in those deep ocean eyes, he spat again.

Come on, get it over with. He fought not to beg. Do it. Spare me. He fought so hard. The metal felt frigid against tan skin.

"Hey! You there."

...Who?

A deep, grizzled male voice hollered from behind the circle of spectators, drawing the soldiers' attention. Maruku could only turn his gaze so much with the way his body was still forced against the ground.

There was a pair of... dark leather boots, the edges of a black cape. The way the newcomer stood was quite nonchalant, weight shifted to one side. "Let him go, I've seen enough. Taking this one."

There was a round of hushed, offended whispers. His captor let go of his arm, relieving the horrid pressure in his shoulder. "You what? Ohnzhejhar, you cannot possibly be serious."

"I am." The man - Ohnzhejhar, Silver Storm - affirmed, a hint of impatience in his voice. "By the law of the Wind Warriors, I choose to recruit this asiju. If he has what it takes. If not, I will return him here myself."

The whispers ceased, a stunned silence following in the wake of the strange Windarian's words. His tormentor saluted and stepped aside, side-glaring all the while but not daring to question a superior in rank. The wolven boy's body was beaten to hell and back and well on the verge of breaking in half - but he grit his teeth and rose, standing on wobbly legs to better see his savior.

The man was... monstrously tall, from this angle. Long silver hair adorned his head, eyes yellow like the Elder Moon staring unfathomable from overneath sharp cheekbones, the right of which was marked by a violet symbol of a crescent. Dark tan skin was painted with a long blue streak across the nose, seemingly sectioning his face into halves. His right arm bore some strange metal cuff - no, not cuff - a heavy engraved bracelet with what seemed to be a port of sorts.

"Done gawking? Then let's go." A gruff rumble, and the man began to walk.

...What? What did just... happen?

The man before him. His rescuer. He was more than a soldier. He was... a Wind Warrior. And what was that weapon upon his back? A gun as intimidating as its owner’s presence. Questions upon questions raced through a weary mind, but he could not help but search for her face in the crowd. Ïsta..!

There. There she was. In that moment, their gazes met.

Terror painted those orange eyes of one he had come to consider a friend. He wanted to reach out, to apologize. His lips moved, silently mouthing her name. The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back. He glimpsed a brief flash of fear shadow over her features, and she slipped away into the crowd. She was afraid.

Afraid to be discovered; As a friend to the kiichimarichuril criminal.

No, no... he had to talk to her. Back at the church, he could go back and explain - that way, she would not have to be seen anywhere near him. No, he - saßu - he could not just leave them all like that. Even if he...!

I'll become a warrior.

His own words. His very own wish. And at some strange whim of destiny, or as a morbid joke from the gods, it came true.

I'll fight. But now I go.

He had to. Had to go. He had to catch up to that man, battered bones and lost blood be damned. His bit tongue still hurt, a dull throbbing pain seizing his entire form with each step he took. No, no - the chance he was given, he could not squander. The first real chance... in his entire life.

In those blue ocean eyes, the man named Silver Storm became as the very divine; An earthly god extending a helping hand to the wretched omen child.

Kindness, even laced with thorns, would become deified.

A single tear fell from the wolven boy's eyes; He blinked the moisture away, turning his back to the audience that had hoped to spectate his downfall. Turning his back to her.

"W...wait.." He called after the silver-haired warrior, half-running, half-stumbling after his savior. His chest felt heavy, but so long as he could yet breathe, he could walk.

The man seemed to ignore him, continuing to walk at a steady pace on those long legs that rendered his steps closer to a plains lion's leaps. For each of Storm's strides, he had to take four. Droplets of sweat rolled down a dirtied face painted with blood and grime alike. Saßu... what was up with that man? Did he change his mind? Had he already forgotten about the tiny shape following in his shadow? Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him, after all. Saßu, he couldn't... keep up that pace.

He was going to lose him.

Or so he thought. With quite the massive delay, the warrior reacted to his request, slowing down until he eventually halted, half-turned head staring with a golden side-eye. The way he glared, it sent shivers down the young Maruku's spine. "Hmm..." That voice, powerful as a landslide. "Let me see."

He approached, and the redhead boy froze in place. His eyes sparkled with pure wonder, even as his body would much rather seize up in primal terror. Becoming stiff as a log, tense with anticipation, each and every one of his instincts trained to brace for danger.

The warrior knelt down, both hands enveloping the asiju's sides, forcibly rotating him once, then again. He could only stand there, allowing his body to be guided by that monstrous man's hands, a little inspection of his form he would endure until his rescuer was satisfied with what he saw. Moon-yellow eyes looked on with an utter absence of emotion, an all-encompassing boredom painting steeled features. Another hmm resounding, a guttural noise, as though excavated from the belly of a beast.

A hand left his side, reaching for a satchel hanging at the warrior's waist. A pinch of what seemed to be... shimmering emerald dust, set into motion by a circular movement of the Storm's wrist. "From life's ether... Evergreen."

A press of an enormous hand against his chest, startled gasp forcing its way past the wolf-child's lips as he watched the Soil itself glow and take hold of every ache in his body - snuffing them out like dying candlelight. Suddenly, his side no longer stung like so. He gawked.

The youth's awestruck expression must have prompted the mage to speak. "Close that mouth before a hornet flies in." Was that... a joke? Told in a deadpan dryer than the Sand Sea itself? "Here." A bottle of water was passed his way, snapping him out of his stupor as greedy hands immediately brought it to parched lips, chugging the clear liquid in large and messy gulps.

"Do you have a name, boy?" One silvered brow rode higher, the Storm's question hanging heavy in the air. The mage resumed walking, just a little slower than before.

A name...? A name.

The redhead lowered the bottle, staring with wide, shining eyes. The light within slowly dimmed as he finally looked down, burying his gaze into the dirt. "No... no name. They only call me Maru..ku." A pause, and the boy considered. He may as well give the full version - the brand he had carried since his earliest days. "Kiichi...mari...maruku."

The Red-Haired Wolf. The Windarian word for red was interchangeable with blood. The very blood that supposedly granted his hair that rich crimson hue, a mark of the calamity that followed in his wake.

The Wind Warrior walked in silence for a moment - weighting his words behind yellow eyes. "Kiichimarimaruku, huh? That is a curse you carry. One that runs deep in your veins. You cannot escape it. But you can fight it."

"Fight...?"

"You have iron in your eyes and fire in your heart, churil." Stated the silver warrior. "A blade is what you will make. With the Ladnajredvi as your crucible. If you want to survive in this land, that is."

Was that... the name of the Wind Warrior's clan? A word for the sea and another he did not yet recognize. Yes, it must have been. In a way, was the blue line across the soldier's face not like the calm surface of water? Perhaps, one day, he could venture out to see the sea with his own two eyes.

The lively main street eventually gave way to farmland; animals kept for milk, meat and hide alike mooing, cooing and yowling their way as they passed by. What little grassy fields clung to Tonnavrel's walls like a babe to its mother soon reclined into gravel, life-giving soil metamorphosing into rocky desert.

At the final city gate awaited the distinct shape of a wagon, a beast of burden standing in front and eating out of the basket attached to its muzzle. The kivani's long tail swayed to-and-fro as they approached, a low rumbling noise offered in greeting as Storm's left hand smoothed over its head, tracing overneath its ink-black eye and the ridged base of a horn. "Steel Shrike!" He called out. A warrior - painted similarly upon the face - turned to salute her elder. "Prepare the kivani. We're moving."

There was another quick salute and the Ladnajredvi soldier set to work; Dark eyes briefly falling on the boy in Storm's shadow. She did not question, attention focused entirely on her task; Removing the feeder, double-checking the harness. She, too, was tall. Maruku seemed to shrink further the more people drew near to greet their returning leader.

"Alihkar. Good to see ye. Who's this?" Another voice inquired, expression unreadable behind a helmet. The hefty warrior peeked around his chieftain's side - and the redhead simply walked out from behind Storm. Though uncomfortable he was, his eyes turned into a picture of conviction. Appearing pathetic in front of the people who offered him kindness was the very last thing he wanted to do. The man seemed pleased. "Oho! A brave lil young'un. What a crazy shade of hair you have there."

Maruku scowled, inciting the warrior into a bout of belly-laughter. Silver Storm let it go on for a while before raising a hand and prompting the man to stop. Hearty chuckling eventually calmed down. "Look at 'im face. What a threat display. I like 'im, Ohnzhejhar-vahree, I like 'im. Kinda bloody though, 'e aight?"

"Stabbed a man." The mage casually replied. Ah yes, knife violence. The absolute most normal thing in the world. "The hunter-zealots wrung out the kid's hide."

A head of crimson promptly whipped round, large blues staring dumbfounded at the man whose intervention prevented his own, rather untimely, slaughter. Yellow eyes looked down, quite unphased. "What’s the matter?" Storm seemed to know exactly what hid behind shocked silence. "I saw. The man will live, though short an eye."

The boy could only open his mouth like a fish, searching for words that never came. Instead, he closed it and sank lower into his tattered poncho, making a show of averting his gaze. Well, at least he had confirmation now. He was glad... he was no murderer, after all.

But.. did that mean Storm had seen everything?

The armored man whistled, head bobbing up and down before his gaze returned to his leader. "A criminal?"

The elder nodded. "Thief. Swift on his feet and not afraid to sting."

The boy's hand instinctively went to trace over his knife's handle only to find it missing. Though its condition was terrible, it was the only weapon he had ever owned. Thanks to it, he managed to peel back shells and kill small animals he would not be able to otherwise. With it gone, a part of him felt he had just lost a faithful companion. A fragment of himself. Now he truly was a wolf without its fang.

"You look proper hungry." The jovial warrior commented - reaching for a satchel to retrieve some dried meat. He knelt down and held the scraps out, a little offering of peace. It was then that Maruku's stomach growled loudly, only deepening the scowl already painting his features. The food was promptly snatched up, much to the man's amusement.

The warriors - including Silver Storm, there were four in total - quickly finished their preparations for departure. The supply cart began to move and so did armored feet, aiming to reach the nearest village before the height of the hours of the Sun. From there, they would continue westward as soon as the searing heat gave way to evening.

"You've been through a lot today. You can go sit on the wagon." It was an offer he had to accept, lest he faint from too much excitement. The wolven boy climbed up, positioning himself in the front of the vehicle, a sheet of dark green fabric stretching overneath to provide much-needed shade. From there, he simply stared on ahead, observing the slow change of the landscape and listening to the quiet crunching of gravel under hoof and wheel alike.

Before long, weary lids began to droop, and he laid upon his side, lulled to sleep by exhaustion.

---------

Day of the Rabbit. Ninth morning hour.

The journey to Keep Ladnajredvi lasted three days in total. They moved by early dawn and evening and rested by noon. The west of the province offered relatively safe passage, the only risk worth considering being wandering bandits but even they had long since moved further south to exploit the raging war. The trip was uneventful; Interrupted only briefly by a passing rock drake. Still, the beast knew better than to start a fight with four grown, armed Windarians - instead ignoring them as it dragged its scaly belly across the road and disappeared into a cave.

It was because of the long, boring hours on the march that the youth’s mind began to wander. From his earliest memories to the still-fresh scene of bloodied cobblestone and heavy boots and mocking gazes. And her. Disappointed, having learned of the violence that lived inside him. In the end, that gnawing anger shared its nest with guilt.

And from then on out, he would do his best not to dwell on the life - the lives - he left behind.

Rocky desert once again began to change; Almost as though Windaria herself was a dragon shedding scales. Sharp stone fell away to reveal a kinder, softer land, a stretch of plain peppered here and there with trees. In the distance loomed heavy, coiling spires, a special type of natural formation shaped by Soilwind.

The boy walked at Silver Storm's side, gazing in awe at the fortified Keep rising from the horizon. The longer they marched, the closer the city drew, a fortress built from chiseled stone dominated by a single circular tower.

"Welcome to Lir Hassan, churil!" Announced the heavily armored man - whom he now knew by the name Rurvakannu, Roaring Gale. "The Third Gate to the West, home to our people."

Strange-looking engines set to work on either side of the main entryway, extending a slab of metal over the dry moat that further protected the fortress-town. Storm's group rolled in, signalling for the passage to close. Stationed soldiers saluted, framing their little procession before returning to scheduled patrols. The metal drawbridge folded with the sound of turning machinery.

The town was not as big as Tonnavrel, but it could withstand an army. Ladnajredvi were a warrior clan - knowing just how to fortify their den to keep out unwanted visitors. From the very dawn of civilization, people had drawn teachings from nature. Like a rock drake piled sharp stones round its nest, so, too, did man raise walls and line moats with pikes. Lir Hassan was a city ready to meet violence with violence - it was made further evident by the various vehicles of war stationed inside the walls - rough and brutal looking hulls decorated in blue war paint.

The imagery of the sea. The boy's brows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recall seeing the Grand Blue anywhere near. Was it... a hidden sea, somehow? This made no sense. Why would the Ladnajredvi be named that if their Keep wasn't even beside water?

"Ohnzhejhar-vahree," He addressed the silver-haired mage. His broken Lahriktaarese had improved owing to his time in the church, but the phrasing could still be awkward at best. Particularly if he just blurted things out without thinking. "Why clan Sea-Risen if no sea?"

The Storm's head turned to allow a steeled gaze to fall on his pupil.

"This is not our original home. We were driven from our land, Malatuur, long ago." Unmoving moonlit eyes seemed to fill with a certain melancholy. "Ladnakutri Malatuur lies at the precipice of the Jewel of Windaria. Our ekkti and syajhiri, among other things, reflect the spirit of the waves."

"Ekkti... syajhiri?" Maruku asked, head tilting slightly to the side.

"The ekkti is the facial tattoo worn by warriors. If you do well in the eyes of Clan Elders and the Holy Beast himself, you too will bear your own." It was clear the man was not too keen on speaking this much a day - and yet, doing so was inevitable with a trainee such as the young Red Wolf. "A syajhir is a cape worn for ceremonies."

Indeed, this child was simultaneously the most ignorant and most curious one he had come to tutor. Even if something prevented him from speaking properly. A foreigner, perhaps? It mattered very little when he was already branded kiichimarichuril. "Come."

Maruku's time to awe at the city was short as the four warriors ascended up a stairway leading into the tower. The gate loomed tall, protected by twin stylized statues of mandible-bearing dragons. Their wings looked as though suns - propellers..? - had been fit into their wrists.

He could recognize the depiction of Lord Bahamut anywhere. He was the Ro Alihkar, after all. The Chieftain of the Gods, Lord of the Soil and Forge Patron of Firearms. It was this very dragon who lived within the Magun, locked in the central spire of the High Temple. Why would somebody imprison a deity? Even the God of Destruction was a part of nature.

They walked in silence. The only noise that accompanied their quiet ascent was the sound of reinforced boots meeting stone. The tower was not only tall, but wide. All around, the stairwell branched out into corridors, each leading to separate parts of the Keep. The stone walls, lit by what appeared to be veins of light carved parallel to the summit, displayed various scenes from history and mythology alike. Ancient figures and splendid creatures fought side-by-side, challenging a great darkness and its horned servants.

Eventually, however - the upwards spiral came to a stop, a singular opening remaining before the stairwell cut off with one final mural. The shape of a man holding a golden gun, with the same white dragon from before standing behind with claws perched protectively upon his shoulders. The hero's face was blurry, indistinct, and completely unremarkable. There was an ornate inscription below - not that he could read it.

Maruku's gaze was forcibly pried from the artwork when they walked out into the room sitting at the very top of the Keep.

The circular space they found themselves in was mostly overtaken by a long, wooden table of rather remarkable craftsmanship, seats lining both of its sides - some of which were already taken. The gathered Windarians' eyes fell on them in unbroken silence, awaiting for their alihkar to speak first. Silver Storm stepped in front, striking moongold gaze sweeping over his subjects, satisfied with what it was seeing.

"I greet you, warriors of Lir Hassan, my kindred. Today I return with the intention to acquaint you with the asiju I had recruited in the name of the Winds. May the Four Winds bless our Soil."

"May the Four Winds bless our Soil." Maruku caught on halfway through, reciting the greeting alongside the others. A greeting he already knew.

Once again did that same hum rumble in the Storm's throat. Before he knew it, yellow eyes fell on the gathered once again. "He is a warrior in spirit. A survivor. Henceforth, he will join the warband I mentor."

So... the man who had saved him would be the one to train him, after all. Blue eyes looked up, gazing at the warrior as though he were the Elder Moon. The wolf's very first guiding light.

He could feel Storm's hand rest upon his shoulder not unlike Bahamut’s claws did on the champion’s. A subtle, but clear enough, nudge to step forward.

So he did.

The other elders observed him with piqued interest, one that weighted heavy on the boy who had grown up always on the run. A long stare like that had only ever spelled trouble; His heart picked up the pace, adrenaline pumping to prepare the young wolf to bolt. He swallowed back instinctive alarm, remaining as unshakable as he could muster.

"What is your name?" An older, feminine voice eventually inquired, a grizzled veteran of war with a scarred eye leaning forward upon her elbows. Only one orb of green bore into his soul.

"I have none." He replied. There was no point thinking those words his name, anyway. Doing so was synonymous with granting his earliest tormentors the right to define him.

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

Ïsta, she... against the odds, chose to define herself. Even in the shadows, unheard by others; Diligently did she remember her true name.

But then, why had he never defined himself..? What was his true name? Did he ever have one?

There was a round of exchanged whispers, many pairs of eyes - ones both complete and incomplete - continuing to bear into his form. Like hawks, gazing on from above upon their newest meal. Don't think like that.

"Very well, nameless child. Soon, if your strength of will and the Lord of Espers allow, you shall have one."

A name... his true name.

The Ladnajredvi elders turned towards Storm and saluted. The alihkar responded with a slight bow of his head, an acknowledgement and a thank you. As feral as he appeared, the young wolf knew better than to leave without paying respects. For the first time in his life, he found himself lowering his head alongside the man who would become his mentor. Copying his movements, learning even now from the smallest motion. Even beasts could recognize authority and he was no beast.

He was ready to define his worth.

[sgwrscrsh]

winter days: underneath the tree

☁️a/n☁️ this made my heart very warm to write even though i pulled an all-nighter to get it done because my time-management has gone to shit after finals. requested by @sachirou-senpai​. thank you, ellie, for giving me a reason to bring back my boys. i’ve missed ‘summer on you’ so much. this can be read as a stand-alone or as a spin off of ending b, my fave. either way, merry christmas to my babes who celebrate! i have one more christmas fic for tmr and then i’m hiding away to plan + write an smau.

includes: female!reader, poly!seijoh four, post-timeskip (very minor manga spoilers), lots of domesticity, a little suggestive bit, a lot of eating and sleeping now that i realize, a christmas tree, matching pajamas, a very special christmas gift, makki slapping your ass once, a lil teary moment w tooru, homemade curry + pancakes (but not together), lots of cuddling, lots of love, happy holidays, 4.35k words

☁️masterlist☁️

shivering slightly, you unlock the door to the rather spacious apartment you shared with your four boyfriends later into the evening than you would’ve liked. 

yes, four boyfriends. whom you love very much and are loved by in return.

living with four towering hunks has it’s ups and downs, but you wouldn’t trade tooru’s extensive skin care regiment sprawled across the bathroom counter; hajime’s bag of protein powder that he always forgets to put away; issei’s boots that you always tripped over when you came through the front door; or takahiro’s costco-sized box of cream puffs in the freezer that he insisted he would finish by the end of the month, almost half a year ago, for the world.

you made sure to stomp off the snow stuck on your boots before entering the building, but you couldn’t help but sigh at the warmth that greets you once you toe them off.

“ahhh,” you think. “thank goodness tooru convinced us to invest in heated floors.” another perk of having four boyfriends was that two of them brought in enough bank for you to seriously consider becoming their cute little housewife. snorting, you shake your head, though the idea of prancing around in a maid outfit to tease them seemed very appealing. “maybe we should make hiro dress up and clean the house since he still hasn’t found a new job yet.” 

“what’s so funny, sweets?” speak of the devil. makki’s head pops out from the bathroom nearest to the front door, steam rolling out and droplets falling from his hair, signifying that he had just taken a hot shower. wordlessly, you stare at him, lost in thought imagining the water caressing his toned body, but a second later, he gets a better look at you and laughs. “you look like a wet dog!” your glare loses some of its edge when he takes in your own damp strands. 

“did someone say something about a dog?” tooru comes bounding round the corner, and you could’ve sworn he drooped a little when he realized it was just you in the hallway sans dog. turning your icy glance on the setter, you open your mouth to complain about how mean the two of them were being to you when your prince charming comes in to save the day.

“you two, stop bullying the poor girl and let her take a warm bath before she gets sick!” iwa chides as he helps you unbundle the layers that protected you from the snow and sharp winds of the winter. pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead and promising to pick out comfy clothes for you, he ushers you into your spacious en suite where a steaming tub full of rose petals awaits you. hajime chuckles at the starry eyes you give him, heart warming at the love and appreciation shining clear as day on your face, before he leaves to grab a clean pair of underwear, one of issei’s t-shirts, and a pair of his own sweats, knowing you much prefer to wear their clothes at home.

submerged in the bath, you exhale contentedly, eyelids fluttering shut as you enjoy the product of iwa’s consideration and foresight. letting the stress of work and the chill of the outdoors melt from you, you stay in the water until it cools and your fingers prune. a lone thought of how much more you would’ve enjoyed the bath if the boys had joined you flits through your mind, but you jolt when you open your eyes and find issei sitting on the counter with a towel and your robe in his lap, some of the water sloshing over the side of the tub. 

“oh thank god, i was scared you fell asleep and would drown or choke on a rose petal.” you giggle while he wraps you up in your robe before gently toweling your hair dry. “you can’t leave me to deal with the three of them alone.” 

rolling your eyes, you retort easily, “if anything, i’d feel bad about leaving hajime to deal with the three of you alone. the poor man puts up with enough from his team, he doesn’t need you guys ganging up on him, too.”

“well i’ll have you know, sometimes he really enjoys us ganging up on him.” his cheeky quip paired with his wiggling eyebrows earns him a smack on the chest but regardless, you let him sweep you up into his arms and drop you on the massive bed the five of you shared. “get dressed, babygirl. as much as i’d love to spend more time with you naked, i gotta help haji finish dinner.” with a quick peck on your lips, issei leaves you to do just as he said. 

emerging revitalized and relaxed, your mouth waters at the smell of homemade curry, distracted enough to not notice tooru’s arms wrapping around your shoulders and waist. 

“hey, cutie, i’ve missed you,” he sings, face snuggled into the junction of your shoulder and neck. you spin around in his hold to slip your arms around his slim torso, relishing his firm lines against your soft curves. 

“‘ve missed you too, tooru.” and you really did, grateful that all of you were able to take time off work and he was able to come home a week before the holidays, giving the five of you a whole month to spend together before he had to jet back to argentina for his next bout of training and practice games.

“hell yea! group hug!” makki comes running towards you guys, only for you to twist out of his reach at the last second, sending him straight into the sofa behind you. “oof, that was cold, y/n.”

you stick your tongue out at the strawberry boy. “yea, well that’s what you get for laughing at me when i got home. sucker.” still entangled in tooru’s embrace, you feel his body shake with mirth and bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from dissolving into giggles when you see a pout take over hiro’s pretty face.

“dinner’s ready,” comes iwa’s call, beckoning the three of you into the kitchen before you could antagonize each other some more. once you all got your servings of curry, you settle into your proclaimed seats on the large sofa, your body comically small compared to their tall frames dwarfing the cushions. noting the way tooru threw his long legs over iwa’s and how mattsun and makki leaned against each other as they ate, you fold your legs to tuck your feet under takahiro’s thigh and dig in to your meal with some trashy reality show lighting up the tv screen, completely certain that the warmth in your chest was from the company of your loved ones more so than the piping hot potatoes in your stomach.

during breakfast the next day, you blearily rub the sleep out of your eyes before taking a sip of your coffee, a satisfied “ahhh” escaping your parted lips as you lean against the kitchen counter. slowly peeling your eyelids open, you notice all of their gazes were focused on you. “yes? can i help you?” you ask amusedly, awake now that caffeine had be introduced to your tired body.

“how are you still so gorgeous in the morning?” you blink at the dreamy look on iwa’s face propped up in his hands with his elbows on the surface of the island. looking around, you see the other three matching the athletic trainer’s pose and expression next to him. thinking over your messy bedhead, mysteriously stained pajamas, and almost impressively dark eyebags, you want to scoff, but the unfairly handsome men giving you their undivided attention despite all of that (“because of all of that, y/n-chan,” tooru would argue) make you blush instead.

“you’re one to talk, haji,” you opt to remark, hoping to divert their focus from you and your rosy cheeks. “and don’t look at me like that,” your pointed finger swinging wildly between the four of them like the needle of a compass. “you already know you guys are way outta my league, you don’t need me to tell you that.” with one last flourish, you wave your hand dismissively before grabbing your mug with both hands, palms warming against the ceramic.

“as wrong as you are, you can’t blame us for wanting to hear the love of our lives compliment us first thing in the morning as we admire her natural beauty,” mattsun grins once he sees the success his words have at deepening the flush on your face. tooru nods gravely in agreement, but it’s makki’s one-two combo of a wink and an air kiss that breaks you. you roll your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a laugh but release it immediately when the playful atmosphere takes a heady turn. clearing your throat, you pay no heed to their hungry expressions, knowing full well that they all noticed your little action and how they would react to it.

“a-anyways,” you stutter, “i’m gonna go get ready ‘cause i have things to do today so-” you try to slip by, leaving your empty cup in the sink, only to get caught in your tracks by hiro’s long arms. 

“ah, ah, ah, princess. and where do you think you’re going?” soon enough, you find yourself surrounded by your smoking hot boyfriends and heat up in anticipation of their next moves. 

“this so isn’t fair,” you complain aloud, though you were just as eager as they were to get you out of your worn sleep clothes. 

“tough shit, babygirl. guess you’re just gonna have to add four more things to your to-do list, huh?” 

naturally, you leave your errands for some day later in the week when you’re able to walk properly again.

the opportunity comes when you rise earlier than the rest of them, a rare occasion where you found yourself graced with the freedom of sleeping on the outside instead of being sandwiched in the middle of the bed. tiptoeing about, you brush your teeth and get dressed, somehow managing to not wake any of the sleeping beauties. you scribble little love-filled messages on post-it notes and stick them around your apartment on your way out, but not without one last soft smile in the direction of the bedroom, the sight of the four of them cuddled together through the door left ajar renewing your motivation to accomplish your tasks and come home sooner. 

with your laptop bag in tow, you set out for your first destination, settling into a corner booth at the coffee shop with a full cup and a pastry. once you finish your breakfast, you pull out your laptop and get to work, scouring the internet for the perfect gifts for your lovably imperfect partners. you rack your brain for any recollection of any moment where they would’ve let a potential present slip into conversation and light up when you come across volleyball print pajama pants. you check the availability of the sizes you needed and upon realizing that they were all in stock and would be delivered before christmas, you place your order without a moment’s hesitation. satisfied with your progress, you pull up the animal shelter’s hours before heading out of the cafe, the barista’s greetings and the jingling bells echoing behind you. 

by the time you return home, it’s late in the afternoon and you’re greeted by a wall of warm bodies as soon as you step through the front door. 

“where’ve you been, babe?” once again, takahiro is the first to meet your return, but this time he plants a sweet kiss on your lips with his long fingers encircling your waist after his inquiry. 

“oh, you know,” you sigh, dazed from the saccharine embrace. “out and about.”

“busy day? hope it was productive.” you nuzzle into tooru’s chest, feeling the timbre of his voice through your skin, and nod.

“as a matter of fact, it was.” their eyes soften at the proud grin stretched across your face. but your grumbling stomach just had to ruin the moment, making the three of you stare at each other before bursting out in chuckles.

“you skipped lunch?” oiks asks, wrapping each arm around yours and hiro’s waists and guiding you into the kitchen. you rub the back of your neck sheepishly.

“i guess so? i didn’t really notice i was hungry until now.”

“good thing we saved your favorite from that chinese place down the street for you,” mattsun comes up behind you and lands a kiss on the crown of your head. you beam gratefully up at him and skip over to the fridge to retrieve the takeout.

“welcome home, love,” iwaizumi emerges from the bathroom to complete the set and gives you a once over. “you look tired.”

“gee thanks, hajime.” he rolls his eyes playfully at you while you wait for your food to heat up in the microwave.

“what time did you get up this morning?” 

“uhhh,” you start, mouth full. at iwa’s stern glare, you swallow before answering, “seven-ish? earlier than i would’ve like for a vacation day but it was worth it.”

“hm, well i’m glad you had a good day at least.” you shuffle over to kiss his cheek before dropping yourself on top of where tooru and hiro were cuddling on the sofa, eyes drifting around the room to take in the holiday decorations adorning the space.

“thanks, haji. but you’re right, i am sleepy.” suppressing a yawn, you lean back against the broad chests behind you and tuck back into the paper container. “can we take a nap once i’m done?”

“sure thing, babygirl.” the innocent smile mattsun sends your way turns mischievous with his added comment. “we really tuckered ourselves out while you were gone.” you nearly choke but makki’s hand thumping your back helps you dislodge whatever food got caught in your throat. iwa shakes his head and looks to the side in an attempt to hide his face, but the reddening tips of his ears give him away. meanwhile, oikawa catches your eye and winks.

“how else did you suppose we keep ourselves occupied when our baby wasn’t home?” you get up to toss your now empty container, shaking your head as you go. 

“i’m glad to see you at least got the christmas tree up before going at it. god, you’re all insatiable.”

“i mean, it’s hard not to be in this relationship,” hajime grumbles.

“aww, iwa,” makki pushes his lips into an overexaggerated pout. “you make me hard, too.” full-bellied chortles escape the four of you, ignoring iwaizumi’s indignant huffs.

“whatever,” comes his miffed reply, but you know he takes all your antics in stride. soon enough, he returns to the living room with a stack of blankets and finds you and issei added to the pile of limbs tooru and hiro founded. somehow, hajime situates himself to fit perfectly in your cuddle fest, blankets sprawled about to keep you warm.

one last yawn leaves your mouth before you mutter a sleepy, “night, guys. love you,” barely registering the quiet “love you”s you get in return as you drift off, the lights adorning your christmas tree twinkling above you.

christmas day, you wake up before the others again, this time more than willing to feign sleep and revel in the warmth of your shared bed. luckily, you don’t have to wait long for your boys to stir. sitting up, you stretch your arms above you head and begin to climb out of bed only to be caught by the wrist and dragged back down.

“haji, please,” you draw out. “we can finally open the presents under the tree!”

“i don’t care, it’s too early for you to leave me, princess.” you hum as he pulls you closer to him, revisiting your mental note that iwa is much more openly (and selfishly) affectionate in the mornings. 

“oi, the rest of us are still here you know.” face buried against tooru’s back, mattsun’s muffled complaint gets hajime to loosen his hold on you. 

“yea, yea,” he props himself up on his elbow to lean over you and kisses the former middle blocker’s temple. “unfortunately.”

“so mean, iwa-chan,” oikawa pipes up, stretching his arm across you to caress your boyfriend’s toned arm before lacing his fingers with makki’s. the pink haired man himself, still half-asleep, squeezes tooru’s hand before sitting up.

“hey, wait. it’s christmas, isn’t it?” takahiro’s question reminds you of the package you received a couple days prior, prompting you to spring out of bed before one of them could reel you back in. the four watch you rifle through the closet and resurface with the pajama pants you ordered.

“merry christmas!” you cry excitedly, tossing each boy their respective pair and eagerly awaiting their reactions. “they’re matching pj’s! look, i got one for myself, too.” thankful that you chose to go to bed in just one of iwa’s godzilla t-shirts and underwear last night, you rush to slip on your volleyball print pants. the boys take in your childlike joy, chests tightening at how precious you are. “hurry up, i want you to try them on so we can match!” at your insistence, they roll out of bed and dutifully don your gifts. 

“oh these are actually really soft,” tooru murmurs thoughtfully, fingering the fabric on his thigh.

“right?” you pipe up, nearly bouncing off the walls. “i wanted to do something to commemorate our first christmas together in this apartment and i thought these were really cute since volleyball is what brought us together in the first place.” eyes meet each other as you all reminisce that special summer, grateful that you stayed close despite your individual journeys after graduation.

suddenly, the doorbell ringing catches your attention. a brief glance at the clock on the bedside table tells you it’s much later in the morning than you though, but you’re quick to answer the door.

“who could that be?” the boys are left wondering, wandering out into the living room in time to see you wave goodbye to whoever it was with a large gift-wrapped box sitting on the floor next to you. 

“babe? who was it?” tooru is the first to ask the question on all of their minds. 

“oh, just my best friend. they wanted to drop this off on their way to their parents’ house.” you gingerly pick up the box and bring it to where your boys were waiting for you. “go ahead!”

“go ahead?” hajime parrots. 

“yea! open it!”

“it’s not for you?” takahiro ponders.

“well yes and no. c’mon just open it already!” you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet at this point. tooru finally takes the initiative to remove the lid of the box, eyes widening when he sees what it hid.

“oh my gosh,” he breathes. the other three nearly knock heads with how quickly they lean over the opening.

“is that-?” a furry little head pops up over the edge of the box, round eyes peering up at the four of them.

“a dog! yes!” you squeal. “he’s a shelter dog!”

“he is?” hiro is in awe, slowly reaching out to cradle the little guy in his arms.

“i met him the other day when i woke up early and ran errands without you guys. isn’t he just the cutest?” big hands dwarf the small pooch as they gently pet his head and stroke his fur.

“does he have a name?” tooru has the good sense to ask. 

“mhm, the lady at the shelter said his previous owner named him ponyo.”

“ponyo…” issei whispered, eyes shining. 

“i know we’re nowhere near ready to start thinking about kids,” you start, the topic of the conversation instantly drawing their attention. tooru even ignored ponyo’s little tongue lapping at his fingers. “but i thought we could use an addition to our family.” 

“y/n, princess, we obviously all love him already, but we’re busy with work- well, most of us are. who’s gonna take care of him?” hajime questions, almost reluctantly.

“i mean, hiro is home all the time since he’s still unemployed (“i said i was looking, damn!”), but i actually got promoted so my schedule is way more flexible and i can work from home most of the time.” your voice trails off bashfully, but they give you no time to be embarrassed, swallowing you up in a huge hug. 

“why didn’t you say anything sooner, baby? we’re so proud of you!” now you know how the dog felt being smothered by their affection, not that it was anything new for you.

“uhh, surprise?”

“fuck yea, surprise! god, you’re incredible. lemme make a list of things we’ll need to get for ponyo once the stores reopen tomorrow.”

“actually…”

“you didn’t.”

“i did, with help from my best friend.” going into the lowest cupboards in the kitchen, you show off the bag of dog food and water and food bowls you bought soon after visiting the shelter. “his bed and crate are in the other closet by the washroom.”

“how did we get so lucky?” takahiro asks aloud, making you blush as the others nod in sync, all of them blown away by your thoughtfulness.

“this is nothing. i just wanted to show you guys how much i love you.” you play with your fingers, a little overwhelmed now that the initial excitement has worn off. “oh wait!”

“there’s more?” tooru asks, shocked.

“but wait, there’s more!” mattsun and makki chime in simultaneously, making you laugh as you retrieve the last present. you hop over to where tooru was sitting on the sofa with ponyo on his lap, scooping the dog up and locking the two of you in the bathroom. a couple minutes later, you open the door to let ponyo scurry over to his dads, who coo softly once they see him come around the sofa.

“when did you have time to do this?”

“my pants were a little long, so i hemmed them one night after you guys passed out on the sofa watching your old volleyball matches. i kinda guessed ponyo’s measurements based on standard info i found on the internet, but it fits perfectly so i’m glad!” looking at the little sweater you made for your new family member out of the extra fabric from your pj pants, you couldn’t stop the pleased grin that broke out on your face. “now even ponyo matches with us!”

while your gaze was trained on the tiny dog that was exploring his new home, theirs were stuck on you, your resemblance with a proud mother struck something in them, giving them thoughts of you with their children. yes, children. but for now they shoved those images to the backs of their minds, meeting each other’s stares to confirm they were all in silent agreement.

“we’re gonna make breakfast, you just sit there ‘n look pretty while you watch ponyo, yea?” issei announces before pulling you into a searing kiss as he walks by. 

“not that that’s hard for you,” iwa tags on, kissing your cheek and ruffling your hair following mattsun into the kitchen.

“but i’m always hard for you.” you yelp when hiro playfully slaps your ass, flipping him off as he trails after the other two with a loud hoot. tooru comes up behind you and rubs your sore cheek, spinning you around so that you were face to face.

“why’d you do this to me, y/n-chan?” you meet his frown with a confused look of your own. “now it’s gonna be even harder for me to go back to argentina.”

“oh, tooru,” you wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes to bring him close. “you have the next few weeks to spend with us and our new baby.” as if he knew you were talking about him, ponyo pads over to sit by your feet, tail wagging. oikawa sighs melodramatically.

“a few weeks is nothing compared to the months i’ll be gone!” 

“oi, shittykawa, you better not be complaining after everything this morning,” hajime hollers from the kitchen.

“love you, too, iwa-chan!” tooru calls back instinctively then he looks back down at you, his eyes giving away how much leaving will hurt him and it nearly makes you tear up with him.

“tooru, baby, it sucks every time you leave us, but you’re following your dreams and doing what you love. and we want to support you all the way, even if it means doing so from across the world. but with my new work schedule, i’ll be able to call or text you pretty much whenever. and just think how much sweeter it’ll be the next time you do come home to us. so don’t be too sad, okay, my love? we’ll all be here waiting for you.” 

as the last words leave your lips, tooru has you pulled flush against him, arms wrapped tight around your body. his face was hidden, but you could feel the sobs in hot breaths against your shoulder. you guided him over to the sofa and let him cry, petting his hair and peppering kisses on his tear-streaked face until he tired himself out. 

issei, hajime, and takahiro come out of the kitchen with stacks of pancakes and all the fixings, setting them down on the coffee table in front of you once they see tooru snoozing in your lap. iwa picks ponyo up before he could get a bite of your breakfast while you gently shake your boyfriend awake. mattsun and makki set up ponyo’s crate and bedding, leaving him with a toy to keep him occupied while the five of you filled up your plates.

sitting in the living room of the apartment you shared with your four boyfriends on christmas day, stuffing your face with fruit and whipped cream topped pancakes that they made, in matching pajamas with your new rescue dog scampering about, you couldn’t ask for a better gift underneath the tree.

taglist: @lovemeafterhrs​ @sachirou-senpai​ @honey-makki​ @kenmaki​

[stealingpotatoes]

The Thorns of the Crown

ao3 link

summary: After everything Corvo’s family has been through in the past six months, he’s not so sure the throne is worth it all. (Emily doesn’t take the throne back au)

--

The Loyalists had been fools to think they could kill him and take his daughter, and still get away with it.

Corvo had silently fought his way through the Lighthouse, putting guards to sleep as he forced his way to the very top, where he knew his would-be murderers were. Where he knew Emily’s now-captors were.

He entered the foyer of the highest part of the Lighthouse as quietly as a ghost, and was immediately met with the grotesque sight of a golden statue of Hiram Burrows, standing proudly in the middle of the golden-gilded room. It was ironic to lay eyes on the false sight of the traitor Corvo had defeated, while on his way to deal with the very traitors that had ordered him to do it. The Loyalists had not learnt from the mistakes of those before them, it seemed.

A grand staircase wound around the circular walls that surrounded the beastly statue, leading to a room above. That was where they had to be.

I’m coming Em.

Corvo lifted his mask off as he quietly ascended the winding stairs. There was no point of hiding behind the face of Death; the Loyalists knew who he was. Or, at least they thought they did.

Corvo finally drew up to the entrance to the war room, and put his back to the wall beside a bust of Burrows. With a deep breath in, he channeled the Void through his hand, and watched the world shift into muted reds.

He looked over his shoulder, through the wall.

There were only two yellow shapes -- two men -- in the room ahead. Not guarding, but sitting at a table. No, slumped against the table. Are they sleeping? Or something else?

Corvo checked his crossbow, making sure it was loaded with sleep darts, and rounded the corner fast.

A dead man’s silence lay over the room like a heavy shroud, interrupted only by the harsh patter of rain.

The top of the Lighthouse was a purpose-built war room. It was finely wood-panelled like the rest of the building, but the left wall was covered with a huge map, places circled and labelled with smaller papers. There was a lit fireplace at the far end, with chairs surrounding it.

At the room’s main centre was a large war table -- where Burrows had no doubt spearheaded his campaigns and his war on the common people of Dunwall.

But it was not being used to plan any wars now; at the end of the table, fine foods had been served with expensive-looking wine. The food had not been eaten -- but the drink had been poured.

Martin’s body was slumped in place, and Pendleton had fallen half-off his chair. Neither of them were moving in the slightest.

Corvo slowly began to lower his crossbow, keeping a firm grip on it, and skulked towards Pendleton.

He put two fingers to the pulse on Pendleton’s neck, and heard the crunch of boots on glass. Corvo stepped back.

Shards of glass were shattered about by Pendleton’s limp hand, with drops of blood-- no, wine spilt around them.

Corvo glanced back up across the table; Martin had a glass in his hand too, and Corvo was willing to bet he had no pulse either.

Corvo stood up straight. From the glasses and past experience, he did not have to guess what had happened to them. Poisoned -- but with no boatman to save them.

But where was the man that had done this?

Corvo activated his dark vision again, scanning for any more yellow shapes that might have been out of range before.

His dark vision melted back away, unsuccessful -- but as it did, Corvo’s eyes halted on a purple shape on the floor behind Martin.

He moved over to it, a new sense of dread filling him, and crouched to pick it up. He inspected it for barely a moment; he didn’t need any longer to recognise it. It was Mrs. Pilsen, Emily’s favourite doll, the one Corvo had given her back upon his return to the Tower.

Corvo ran a thumb over a new, small crack in the doll’s painted porcelain face -- Emily must’ve dropped her. But she had been here. She had to have been. So where is Emily now? And where is Havelock?

A little girl’s scream was Corvo’s first answer.

Corvo’s eyes widened. Emily.

The voice had come from above, and-- outside? Corvo looked around the room again, and he zeroed in on the second set of stairs, behind the wall. She had to be up there. She had to.

As he rushed up the stairs, he noticed the small splashes of blood on the wood of the stairs and floor. If so much as a speck the blood is Emily’s, Corvo thought, running, then I am going to make damn sure Havelock wishes he had never been born.

The trail of blood continued into the office at the top of the stairs, out onto the metal balcony that began out of a door in the glass-roof and wall. Corvo continued his pace, unfolding his sword as he burst into the pouring storm once again.

There was no sign of her there. Corvo raced to his left, up another set of stairs. He paused on a landing -- the trail stopped there, on a maid, dead, surrounded by her own blood. It was no relief.

“NO! Let me go!”

Corvo’s eyes darted up.

On the walkway far above, two people were moving-- struggling, silhouetted against the sky. One far larger, one far smaller.

“Quiet now! And move already, child!”

Havelock.

A hundred words of vengeance filled Corvo’s head, but he said none of them. He only darted to his left again, bounding up the rest of the staircase to the entrance of a sheltered stairwell. The voices were audible again as he entered.

“Hold still you stupid girl!” Havelock’s voice boomed through the rain.

“Let me go! I am the Empress!”

Corvo kept running up the twisting stairs.

“Didn't you learn anything in your short life?” Havelock yelled seethingly. “Empresses are pieces on the board. And Empresses can sometimes die--”

Corvo stepped out of the shelter and onto the walkway. He didn’t need to announce his presence -- Havelock looked up the second Corvo laid more than two steps on the metal.

Another bout of thunder and lightning struck somewhere in the storm.

“No! Stay where you are Corvo, or I jump,” the Admiral yelled over the rain.

“Corvo! Save me!” Emily screamed.

Corvo stopped walking.

“That’s right,” Havelock said, a maniacally grim satisfaction rising in his voice at Corvo following his orders. “If you take one step closer, we’re both off the edge.”

I don’t need to take a step to get to you, Corvo thought.

He made a show of folding his blade back up and sheathing it, before holding his hands up slowly in a surrender. The rain was beating down on him.

Corvo let himself lock eyes with Emily -- but only for a moment. Then he fixed his blazing-ice gaze on Havelock, who wore the grin of a man that thought himself entirely in control.

Havelock opened his mouth to begin some taunting speech. Lightning struck beyond the edge of the walkway.

Corvo curled his raised left hand into a fist, feeling that sharp pins-and-needles sensation on the Mark and called the Void forth. It heeded his demand with a sharp whisper. Time ground to a complete halt around him.

The lightning behind Havelock and Emily stopped its descent half way down, looking like a harsh rift of pure light in the sky. Water droplets stood in place, small gems floating against the dark storm clouds.

Everything was still.

Corvo didn’t waste a second; he ran forward and at once pulled Emily out of Havelock’s unknowing grip, shoving the Admiral hard as he did it

Corvo took a short, undeserved moment to take in the frozen sight of Emily, half in his arms, before releasing his taxing hold on time.

The grey scream of the dragged-out present disappeared. and the world resumed its pace. Emily almost tripped onto the metal floor with the force of time’s discharge, but Corvo held her safe.

Havelock hung for a moment, as if time wasn’t yet properly flowing, his footing just lost and surprise written all over him. He had expected one last piece of control -- control over his own death. But he had fallen into the same trap as all those before. He had become too comfortable in his position, and he had forgotten that Death belonged to no man, and followed no man’s orders. No matter their station.

Havelock fell.

Corvo, still holding tight to Emily, peered ever so slightly over the edge. He watched the Admiral’s screaming descent until he hit the jaws of the rocks below.

After what felt like a moment too many, Corvo turned to his daughter, still holding onto him for dear life. He held her back, and tucked a drenched strand of messy hair from her face. The rain still beat down on them, ceaseless, soaking their already-soaked clothes and hair.

“Are you okay?” Corvo asked hurriedly.

Emily gave him a shaky nod, eyes still wide with fear. “I-- I think so.”

Corvo nodded in return. “We need to get out of the storm.” Logic was slowly returning, replacing the blood haze seeing Emily in such danger put him in.

Corvo made himself let Emily go for the moment, and she ran ahead onto the covered metal stairwell he had just come from. Corvo followed just as swiftly. They both traversed down the small stairs, the sound of Emily’s little shoes on metal filling Corvo with more and more relief.

He had only paused by the bottom doorway for a second when Emily barrelled right into him for a hug. “I knew you’d save me! You’re my hero, Corvo,” she said, voice half-muffled by his wet coat but slowly coming back to herself.

When she pulled away briefly, Corvo knelt down to just below her eye level and pulled her into a proper hug. He knew was probably hugging her too tight, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything but the feeling of his daughter in his arms. She was shaking and freezing-wet, but still warm enough. But still alive.

The storm raged on on the walkways outside of their small shelter.

Eventually, they both pulled back, and Corvo took Emily’s tiny hands in his. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“You-- you already asked me that,” Emily said, still shivering from the cold and the fear. When Corvo’s worried expression didn’t change, she told him, “I think I’m alright. I’m alright now you’re here.”

Corvo nodded, feeling some small part of the weight on his shoulders go.

“Is it going to be okay now? Will I-- will I be Empress?” Emily asked, almost eagerly.

Corvo glanced down.

He thought of Jessamine. Of her cold dead eyes in the Gazebo. Of her blood on his hands.

Empresses are pieces on the board. And Empresses can sometimes die.

The Heart was beating, an unrelenting pulse in the back of his mind. An incessant reminder that what Havelock had said was true; Empresses die. And who was Corvo to be able to stop it? He had failed once; he could fail again. Death followed no one’s orders; not orders from Empresses, nor those from Lord Protectors.

I know what it felt like to drive a blade into your Empress.

Empresses die. And for what? So men could take control of the damned city of Dunwall? This city didn’t care about them. It didn’t care about anyone. It ate everything alive. It would not let an Empress be safe, no matter how good or pure of heart she was.

The crown and throne were nothing but a curse and objects of desire for ambitious men who thought themselves the better of people. The curse of power nearly took the last of his family from him -- the family that, because of the crown and its rules and its curses, he had never been able to openly call his own.

Empresses die. And so did Burrows, and Havelock, and Pendleton, and Martin. And so did everyone else that tried to hold that kind of power.

Now I want nothing but to leave this wretched city, and fade from the memories of those who reside here.

Emily was just a girl. She was Corvo’s girl, his baby girl. She wasn’t meant to be a piece on a board, a piece in Dunwall’s deadly game of power. She wasn’t meant to hold an Empire in her small hands.

She wasn’t meant to die.

If they went home, if Corvo let Emily take back the throne… what fate would he be damning her too? She would be forever caught in the crossfire of power-grabs and the schemes of conniving politicians. All it took was one wrong move, and Corvo would lose her to that crossfire. That was not the life he wanted her to live. That was not the death he could ever let her die.

This was the only way he could protect Emily. He wasn’t sure if Jess would ever truly approve of it, but she had not been through what they had been through. He hoped what was left of her would understand.

Empresses die. But Emily wouldn’t. Not if Corvo could help it.

The Heart continued to beat.

Corvo pulled Emily closer and planted a kiss on her forehead, “It’s going to be okay now. I promise.”

A relief seeped into Emily’s big brown eyes, and Corvo felt something squeeze in his chest at her expression. “Are we going home then?”

Corvo swallowed. He shook his head.

Confusion knit itself between Emily’s furrowed brows. “What?”

“We can’t go home, and you won’t be Empress,” Corvo said slowly, forcing the words out. This was how it had to be. I can’t protect you from this city. Nothing can, Corvo thought. “Dunwall and Dunwall Tower-- they aren’t safe,” he said instead. “They aren’t ever going to be safe.”

Corvo had expected Emily to show more resistance, or be more upset at the idea they couldn’t return to Dunwall Tower -- but maybe he still expected Emily to be the girl she had been six-and-a-half months ago, before this all happened. But she was not that girl; Emily merely nodded, with a look she was too young to have in her eyes.

“So where are we going to go?” she asked.

Corvo tightened his grip on her hands. “We’re going to take a ship out of here--”

“Like a pirate ship?”

Corvo huffed out a half-laugh, relief at really having his daughter back hitting him hard. I love you so much, he thought. “Yes, like a pirate ship,” he said with a small smile. “We’re going to take a ship out, and-- and we’re going to make a new home, somewhere else. Just the two of us.”

“Three of us,” Emily corrected. After seeing Corvo’s confused expression, she made an obvious face. “Mrs Pilsen! I grabbed her when they took me, but I left her downstairs.”

Corvo shook his head, half-laughing again. All that had just happened, and Emily’s first concern was her favourite dolly. It filled Corvo with faith. They could do this. They could live a normal life, where Corvo could just be a father and, Emily could just be a daughter. Where she would be allowed to be a child, and not a piece to be manipulated.

He squeezed Emily’s hands. “The two of us and Mrs. Pilsen. We’ll make a new home. How does that sound?”

Emily’s eyes drifted to the floor below, and she bit her still soaking-wet lip for a moment. “I…” her gaze returned to Corvo, and she slowly gave him a small smile, “I’d like that.”

Corvo pulled her into another hug.

---

Emily woke up to the slight sway of the sea beneath her.

They had been on this boat more than a week now. It wasn’t like any boat she had been on before -- far less fancy, and far more dirty.

Emily knew a smuggler was a lot like a pirate, but this boat didn’t look like the boats from Emily’s story books. This was a big metal steam-ship, not a pirate’s sailboat with a flag of skull-and-crossbones.

And the pirates in the stories never had to check themselves for signs of the plague, or make certain no rats had come aboard, but the smugglers had had to. So had Emily and Corvo.

Emily wasn’t sure “Slackjaw” was a real name, but apparently it was the name of Corvo’s friend who set this all up. He owed Corvo one, because he had saved “Slackjaw”'s life. Which made sense -- Corvo was good at saving lives. He’d saved Emily’s life more times than she could count. He’d been saving Emily’s life since before she could even count.

But Corvo had saved Slackjaw’s life, and so Slackjaw owed him a favour. Corvo used that favour to get him and Emily on a smuggler’s ship with new clothes and made-up papers.

The papers didn’t have Corvo or Emily’s real names on them, but Corvo had said that he and Emily would need to take new names, to stay safe.

Emily hoped they could come up with something better than Slackjaw.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up in her cot-bed, before glancing to the other side of the tiny cabin.

The cabin -- if it could even be called that; oversized cupboard seemed more apt -- was flakily-painted metal, like the rest of the ship. The tiny room was almost empty, besides Corvo and Emily’s few belongings, and the two foldaway cots pressed against the walls.

The size of the room allowed very little space between the two cots -- and so Emily had a very good view of Corvo, sitting on the far end of his.

He was fully dressed already. It still was funny to see him in something other than a long coat, but Emily supposed the roughspun jacket and shirt he was wearing now suited him well enough. His folding sword was somewhere underneath the jacket, and that gave Emily no small amount of comfort.

She squinted in the near-dark. Corvo was looking down at his hands, clasped as if they were tenderly holding something. He mumbled something at his hands, entirely fixated on the empty space.

“Father,” Emily started, barely able to stop herself from grinning as she did every time she called him that. Corvo said she was allowed to now. “Father?”

“Mm?” Corvo hummed in an almost-startled reply, quickly looking up from the nothing in his hands.

“What time is it?”

“Early enough that you can go back to bed,” Corvo said fondly.

“Is it early early?”

“What does that mean?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Is the sun out yet?”

Corvo glanced back ahead, as if he could see through the walls of the cabin. “No,” he said, turning back, “but it will be soon. The crew’s beginning to wake up.”

Emily perked up. “Can we watch the sunrise? Please?”

She thought Corvo might say no for a second, but instead he smiled and nodded. “If you really want to.”

Emily nodded gingerly, then shuffled to the end of her cot and pushed herself onto the floor.

Corvo stood up too -- bent over slightly, unable to stand to his full height under the cabin’s short ceilings. He’d moved his hands apart now, as if he’d put the nothing he was holding back down somewhere. Emily paid no mind to it, only grabbing her coat from the back of the door and putting her shoes on, before giving her father a big smile to say she was ready.

Corvo returned the smile, and quietly opened the door, letting her pass into the cramped metal hallway.

He didn’t have to tell her to try to be quiet too. Emily knew that some of the crew would still be asleep, and they needed to be nice and courteous to the smugglers, as any guest would be towards their hosts.

Part of that meant Corvo had to help around the ship a bit, so he and Emily were more worth their while. The smugglers seemed to like him; they’d told him that if he ever wanted a solid job, he could join their crew. Corvo didn’t seem that interested.

After a short time of quiet footsteps in the hall, Corvo and Emily reached a heavy metal ship-door, which Corvo opened with ease.

The fresh not-yet-morning sea air hit Emily with a gentle breeze as they stepped onto the side deck of the boat. It had been getting warmer every day, as the ship got further from cold Gristol, and closer to sunny Serkonos.

The sea ahead was almost dark, but a peaking of the sun on the horizon drove a warm streak across the water.

Emily walked up to the ship’s metal side railing and peaked over it, but didn’t look off the edge. She had done that on the first day on the ship, and promptly regretted it, needing Corvo to calm her down and remind her that they weren’t at the top of the Lighthouse anymore. That she was safe.

“I can’t wait to be in Karnaca,” Emily said. “Will you show me everything you told me about?”

Corvo nodded with a small smile, a fond and loving look in his eyes. “I’ll show you whatever you want to see in Karnaca.”

“And can I go swimming in the bay, like you said you used to? Ooh, or climb the big trees? And-- and--”

Corvo chuckled, “You can do all of that, and more.”

Emily grinned giddily, and looked back to the sea ahead.

The sun was beginning to rise over the waters, painting the world around them hues of orange. Emily wondered if the sun was rising just the same in Dunwall. She supposed it didn’t really matter; what mattered was that it was rising, and that she had her father by her side to see it.

A new day was dawning for them both, and Emily found herself apprehensively excited. It would be a strange new future ahead, one that she did not know, but she had decided it would be a good future. She knew Corvo would make sure of that.

Emily leaned in closer to Corvo, who too was partly leant on the railing, and rested her small head on his arm. In response, he lifted his arm up and pulled her closer to his torso, before settling his arm on her shoulders in a warm half-hug.

Emily smiled, snuggling nearer and keeping her eyes on the rising sun ahead.

[carryonmywaywardcaptain]

You Have My Word

Pairing: Prince!Dean x handmaiden!reader

Summary: As Lady Charlie’s handmaiden, Prince Dean would surely never be interested in you...right?

WC: ~2,050

Warnings: floof, mutual pining, smidge of angst (i.e. self-worth, social class, forbidden love)

Square filled: Going horse riding for @spnmixedbingo

A/N: This was supposed to be a quick drabble to get some of my medieval feels out, but here we are. I was getting impatient with the Knight!Dean oneshot I’m working on and I whipped this out in one go, so please be gentle! Gifs by @lightjenvlp and @saneves-fan

“Y/N!” Lady Charlie called.

You carefully placed the last of her garments in the wardrobe and hurried to her side.

“Yes, My Lady?”

She spotted you in the reflection of her mirror, fussing with her hair a moment longer before she turned on her seat to face you. She quirked an eyebrow and pressed her lips into a thin line. “Is that what you’ve chosen to wear today?”

You glanced at your attire and sheepishly met her eyes. “Are they not to your liking? I can gather something else from my quarters, if it would please you.”

“No, no—they will do.” She pursed her lips as she appraised you. “Just...a few small adjustments.”

Lady Charlie dragged you back toward her wardrobe, wearing a sly grin as she kneeled to rummage through the contents you had yet to organize. Before you could offer your help, she soon withdrew a bundle of fabric and rose to her feet again.

“Put this on.”

Your eyes grew wide, beholding the luxurious cloth she extended toward you. It was a forest green cloak, as rich and vibrant as foliage after a gentle summer rain. The velvet material was soft and elegant, unlike the coarse, tattered fabrics that comprised most of your clothes.

“I-I cannot wear this.”

“It is a gift that belongs to you. Surely you would not refuse an item, carefully hand-crafted by my request?”

“Of course not, Lady Charlie.”

Despite your qualms, you donned the garment as she had asked. The delicate material cascaded down your shoulders and over your figure, with the seam barely grazing the floor. It was the perfect length, and more breathtaking than anything you had ever owned. 

After she adjusted your hair, she took a step back and regarded you with a manner of pride. “Lovely.”

“It is,” you answered softly, in awe of your appearance. “My Lady, I cannot accept this. It is much too—”

“Enough. You have been my trusted and devoted handmaiden for some time. It is the least I can do to demonstrate my thanks. Now, I need you to go to the stables and run my horse.”

“Your horse?”

“Off you go!”

Without another word, she guided you out of her chambers before promptly closing the door.

You began weaving your way through the maze of corridors, feeling slightly absurd in your new garments. Despite your loyalty to Lady Charlie over the years, you were simply fulfilling your duties. You didn’t dare reject such a generous gift, but you were certainly unfit to wear such a precious item—even if it was a beautiful token of gratitude.

Lost in your thoughts, you entered the stables and flinched back in surprise when you nearly collided with Prince Dean.

“My apologies, Your Highness! Please forgive my carelessness.”

Prince Dean bowed slightly and winked at you. He wore a white linen tunic, whose deep neckline revealed an enticing glimpse of his chest. The crow’s feet that framed his emerald eyes were further etched into his skin by his bright smile.

“You are, of course, already forgiven. Is that a new cloak?”

“It is, My Lord. A gift from Lady Charlie.”

“It suits you well.”

“T-thank you, My Lord.”

You could feel the warmth rising in your cheeks from his compliment, making you turn from his unwavering gaze. You admired everything about the Prince and, on most occasions, it was difficult to conceal how you felt about him. 

Aside from being the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes upon, he was also noble, charming, and kind. A courageous warrior, yet a fair and just leader. He cared deeply for the people of his kingdom, and treated every individual with grace and respect, regardless of their social class. You were sure that, one day, he would be a great king. 

Alas, the very qualities you admired about him were precisely why the two of you would never be together. Despite the adoring gleam you sometimes imagined when he looked at you, he was the future King of Lebanon, and you were nothing more than a meager servant.

“Are you ready?” he inquired.

“My Lord?” 

As Prince Dean strode away, you noticed two horses already saddled and waiting. His breathtaking chestnut companion tossed its head and whinnied as he approached. You watched as he greeted the stallion with a low and soothing voice, gently stroking its neck before he gathered the reins from the stable boy. When the Prince began making his way back, you realized the other horse was the dapple gray mare you had been instructed to exercise.

“How did you know I was to run Lady Charlie’s horse?”

He shrugged, but a mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “I know my sister well.”

Keeping the horses steady, he helped you clumsily mount before he climbed onto his own steed. The two of you departed from the stables, chatting with one another and nodding at townspeople as you trotted through the cobblestone streets of the kingdom. A few of his trusted knights followed close behind—their presence making you consider how difficult it must be for the Royal Family never to have any privacy. 

As you passed through the gates, entering the rolling meadows just beyond the castle walls, the Prince halted and addressed his men.

“Leave us and stick to the perimeter. We shall return in an hour.” Once the knights had dispersed, he turned to you with a smile that aroused a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. “Care for a little friendly competition?”

Without a word, you smirked and snapped the reins to send your Lady’s horse into a gallop. His faint laughter faded until it was masked by the sound of another thunderous pair of hooves quickly approaching. Your cloak billowed behind you, whipping in the wind, much like the banners of Lebanon during a storm. 

The two of you raced through the pastures, laughing and taunting one another for some time before the Prince finally slowed his horse. Following his lead, you prompted the mare to trot alongside him until you reached a wooded area.

“What are you doing?” you asked as he dismounted.

“There is a small stream ahead, just off of the path. The horses will need a drink before I best my sister’s steed and rider again.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in amusement as you carefully slid from your saddle. “We must get you to the physician when we return to the castle, My Lord. It would seem you are not well, for it was your horse who was bested—anyone with eyes would have seen that.”

He chuckled, leading the way down a mild slope as you guided the animals to the edge of the stream. “Fortunately for us, it seems it is your word against mine. What ruling do you suppose the court would come to?”

“And here I believed you to be a man of integrity,” you teased. “How nice it must be to have everything you want handed to you.”

While admiring the landscape, brimming with trees and shrubbery that skirted the brook, you patted the mare’s neck. A pleasant silence settled over the two of you, though you had anticipated the Prince retaliating with a clever remark of his own. You peeked at him over your shoulder, noting that he seemed preoccupied as he stared at the ground. As if he could sense your curious eyes, he looked up at you with a meaningful expression.

“I would argue I am not awarded everything I want…”

He gazed at you intently, closing the distance until his face was mere inches from your own. He slowly raised his hand, hovering just out of reach as he gauged your reaction. When you did not object, he gently traced his fingertips along your jaw.

“I find that difficult to believe,” you whispered, letting your eyes flutter closed.

Feeling the warmth of his calloused hand against your cheek, you instinctively leaned into his touch. He began rubbing his thumb back and forth along your cheekbone, coaxing you to look at him again. You heeded his silent request, finding his emerald eyes full of such longing that they seemed to pierce your very soul. He stole a glance at your lips, tentatively watching for any sign of protest as he bowed his head. Unable to resist the spellbinding force luring you toward him, you leaned forward until your lips finally met.

For such a hardy and powerful man, his kiss was surprisingly tender. His lips molded to yours, soft and unhurried. Your hands, unwittingly anchored on his broad chest, rose as he drew in a deep breath. You sighed in return, giving him the opportunity to explore your mouth with his eager tongue. Just as you began to feel breathless and weak from his impassioned touch, you pushed away from him and stumbled backward when a sudden wave of conflicting emotions swelled inside of you.

Prince Dean’s hand chased after you, lingering in the space you had occupied mere seconds ago. “I… My apologies if I was too forward.”

“No, My Lord, the mistake was mine. I should not have come all the way out here. It was careless and I will see myself back to the castle at once.”

As you rushed toward the horses, he sidestepped and planted himself in your path. “If that is what you wish, then I will happily escort you back. But, I must confess…I wish that you would stay.”

You gaped at him, knowing someone like him would surely never enjoy the company of someone like you. But as you searched his face for any hint of deceit, all you could find was sincerity behind his words. In truth, he seemed disheartened by the thought of you leaving.

“I can assure you that you did not take advantage. But we should not be here. If anyone were to see us—”

“Then let them see.”

“You are a prince! Not just any prince—the Crown Prince. The rightful heir to the Throne of Lebanon. One day you will be King and...” You trailed off, noticing his halfhearted smile.

“Are you simply listing my titles, or is there reason behind your speech?”

“You are royalty, My Lord. I am only a servant.”

He grew serious as he cradled your face in his hands. “You say that as if it is something shameful. If my sister had not been graced with you as her handmaiden, I might have lived my entire life without ever knowing you.”

When your trembling hand sought his chest, he captured it eagerly and clutched it to his heart. His words steadily chipped away at your resolve, but you maintained your feeble argument, knowing there could be consequences for both of you.

“The King would never allow you to be with the likes of me.”

“My father may have rule over the Kingdom, but that does not mean his word dictates my actions.”

“Does it not? He may be your father, but he is also the King. You know better than anyone that his word is law.”

He smiled fondly at you and pressed his lips to your forehead. “Perhaps some laws are meant to be mended.”

“What would you have us do? Meet in secret?” you asked quietly.

“If that would make you comfortable, for the time being. Lady Charlie has already proven to be a worthy ally.”

“You mean to say she helped arrange this?” You tilted your head with a furrowed brow.

“Though I wish I could accept a portion of the credit, the entire outing was her doing. I believe the words ‘coward’ and ‘dollophead’ were tossed around when she told me of her plan. It seems she was irritated that I had not yet acted on my affections,” he chuckled. 

“Well, I suppose if My Lady insists…”

The Prince grinned, tangling one hand in your hair as he moved the other to your waist. You circled your arms around his shoulders as he hugged you close and kissed you once more.

“I will find a way for us to be together,” he murmured against your lips. “You have my word.”

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@teelagurl558​

[wolf-and-bard]

The Edge Of The Edge Of The World

Prompt: Human Shield

Relationships: Jaskier/Filavandrel

Rating: M

Content Warnings: some violence, not graphic; implied minor character death

Summary: When Jaskier starts to have the same apocalyptic dream from Filavandrel's point of view over and over again, he decides to go a-looking for the elven-king. He finds Filavandrel in the valley of flowers, finds also that his old crush has not dampened. Just when they are reuniting, they are disturbed by a hired assassin... In which: Filavandrel bears the weight of the world upon his shoulders and Jaskier is drawn to him, helpless to fix it, but willing to try anyway.

Word Count: 4.6k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​ I AO3-Link

It's the dreams that ultimately bring Jaskier back to Dol Blathanna. After everything was said and done - the clutches of the elves escaped, his song written, Geralt pestered - he swore himself not to meddle with Filavandrel and his sundered court ever again. Out of respect, yes, and out of fear, and out of a strange mixture of both. The latter concerns a part of Jaskier that is all lust and greed, and would have been strip-dancing for Filavandrel if it hadn't been for the imminent threat to his and Geralt's lives. Jaskier finds no shame in that, he was eighteen then, but he also isn't quite so certain that upon meeting the elf again, he wouldn't fall prey to those same desires. His heart has a strange way of becoming stuck in time like that. And Jaskier wasn't going to give in and go. He wasn’t going to return to the Valley of Flowers, no matter how often he thought back to his time among the elves, no matter how many sonnets he dedicated to the stern eyes, proud figure, golden locks, and tragic history of one Filavandrel aén Fidháil. He wasn’t. But then the dreams start around the same time that Geralt starts being tossed more prophecies than coin and Jaskier has to attribute some significance to that, right? Destiny tends to meddle in heaps like that and while Jaskier is no firm believer in higher powers, he can see clear as day the strain it puts on Geralt, avoiding it day and night.

On top of that, the dreams repeat. Jaskier never has the same dream twice. He just doesn’t. Only this one, he goes through every night for a fortnight straight and it comes to the point that even Geralt - who's still treating Destiny like his lavatory - calls him out on it. "You've been crying through the night again," he grunts one morning by way of greeting and when Jaskier gently brushes his own cheeks with sweat-sticky fingers, they come away wet. Salty air clings to his nostrils and he sniffles, still caught in the undertow of the great melancholy that suffuses every moment in that other world. The inn room around him feels thin, see-through, and Geralt wavers around the edges, fuzzy like smoke so much so that Jaskier doesn't dare reach out to his friend for fear of him dissolving.

“It seems I have,” he mumbles to himself and glances at his lute. The instrument sits idly in its case, having caught dust as they’ve been away on a three-day hunt for a rabid, enchanted bear, and the ornamental swirls glitter in the first sunlight of the day. Jaskier can feel her like a presence, the same way Geralt can feel his medallion, he suspects. She hums with a similar sort of magic.

A treasure from Filavandrel himself. More than a kingly gift, the instrument serves as a constant reminder. To remember and shut the fuck up about it. Jaskier gets up and ignores Geralt’s confused grunts. He’s in nothing but his smalls still, but this cannot wait.

“Jaskier, are you awake?”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier says, waving Geralt’s inquiry away. Careful not to upset her – something Geralt would roll his eyes at him for, no doubt – Jaskier picks his lute up by the neck and props his foot up on the chair the case sits on. He balances her on his knee and puts his fingers down on the neck to play the first chord he ever strummed on her. Jaskier does and it sends a jolt through his body.

The notes go straight to his chest and he sobs out loud. More tears stream down his face and he knows he has to heed those dreams. Filavandrel needs him. Jaskier is sure of that.

“There is something I have to do,” Jaskier says and puts the lute back into her case, then turns, scrambling about for his clothes. “A journey I have to take.”

“Jask, you’re crying. Is there… are you… do you need my help?” Geralt’s head is cocked, his eyes wide. Jaskier shakes his head. This is something he has to do on his own. Jaskier gets dressed and wolfs down the breakfast Geralt orders for the both of them, then disappears. He only notices when he’s two days out of town that he forgot to tell Geralt where he’s going. Destiny holds his life in her hands then and Jaskier find he doesn’t mind.

---

Jaskier doesn’t know the way to Filavandrel’s halls exactly. It takes him a week or so to travel to Posada where he stops for a rest. The people there remember him, well they remember the white-haired witcher that took care of the devil, but they also remember the bratty bard they threw bread at once prompted, and Jaskier gets a chance to update his reputation with beautiful renditions of his top three songs. They earn him a hearty dinner and a feather-stuffed bed for the night. He sleeps like a rock for the first time in forever, and once more wakes with mournful tears staining his cheeks, his skin thin. The dreams have been more intense, more vivid and real. Jaskier can barely remember what it felt like to wake up without this great grief weighing him down and still, he pastes on a smile. Whistles a tune as he gets ready to search for the elven-king.

Jaskier leaves his horse with the lovely innkeeper in Posada, as well as the rest of his belongings – spare clothes, spare lute strings, his journal – all save for the instrument herself. The woman will keep them save in exchange for his promise to play at her establishment some more to draw customers once he returns. Before he knows it, Jaskier’s out in the valley again, by himself this time. Without Geralt there, the pervading aroma of onion doesn’t subtract from the rich smell of the flowers that are in full bloom all over. It seems Jaskier just about managed to capture the right season for his visit. Colour explosions burst to every side as far as his human eye can see. He is not here for those though, he is here for a very particular flower, and he finds Filavandrel not among his peers, not in the caves that are hidden, interspersed in the jutting hills.

He finds Filavandrel on the edge of the Edge of the World, keeping watch over the valley atop a steep peak. The wind gently ripples through his hair and the beige cloak he wears over his clothes to blend in with his surroundings. His feet are bare, his stare solemn and distant, and Jaskier watches him from behind a boulder for half an eternity.

“Come out, bard. You need not hide nor cower before me ,” Filavandrel says eventually. His voice is soft, low, but the gale carries it to Jaskier’s ears as though the elf was standing right beside him. Jaskier’s heart picks up and he swallows before yielding his spot. He approaches Filavandrel from the side and sinks to one knee when they are mere feet apart, chin pressed to his sternum. To show his enduring respect and to get his facial muscles under control because his eyes prickle as though he’s going to cry again, but his lips want to slip into a grin and his nose itches. Filavandrel is a marvel, even forlorn and lost as he currently stands. Jaskier decides to strike the word beautiful from his vocabulary the moment that Filavandrel places a crooked index finger under his chin and bids him to look up.

The word ought to be reserved for the sight that greets Jaskier, and that sight alone. Filavandrel peers down at Jaskier from under hooded lids, his eyes dark and mysterious. His hair glows molten yellows and golds, tinged orange from the descending sun, and specks of that light dance on his pale cheeks. His long lashes cast shadows, his lips are parted ever so slightly, pink and wet. His throat is sinewy and strong, shifts with the long inhale he draws. Jaskier blushes, thinking that this is not a king, this is a god, and he should be captured in paint and music, and yet, each medium trying to depict his splendour would undoubtedly be a shallow caricature of the true beauty that is before Jaskier. He is about ready to swear an oath of servitude, but his voice fails him.  

“Why do you kneel?” Filavandrel asks, breaking the spell with the bitter undertone of suspicion his words carry. “I am not your king.”

“Common courtesy,” Jaskier says and rises to his feet, dusting off his breeches. Filavandrel merely raises a brow, then goes back to staring out at the crashing waves of flowers below. Jaskier takes it as an unspoken invitation to remain, to join him in gazing out at the world. It feels so small, so far away from up here. With bated breath he waits for Filavandrel to say something, anything. Where usually, Jaskier would burst from having too many words, he finds himself coming up short. How does one breech this topic?

‘Yes, hello, I’ve been having terribly crushing dreams from your perspective for the past month. Do tell why, if you please.’

That’s no good.

So, Jaskier waits. And Filavandrel gathers his words and speaks, still so softly, as though he doesn’t want to disturb the peace of Dol Blathanna with crude human words. Falling from his lips, they sound like small caresses, but they still break the clandestine atmosphere.

“What did you do with the life I spared?”

Jaskier glances sideways, gazes at Filavandrel’s set profile for a breath before he answers the question. This is something he has endless words for. How he travelled with Geralt and gained renown for both witcher and bard, how he returned to Oxenfurt to teach and research, start writing papers, and comments, and reviews, and essays, how he’s been trying to appreciate perspectives other than his own and has not been brilliant at it.

“… but first and foremost,” Jaskier concludes on a small smile. “I’ve been pouring my heart into song.” This time, Filavandrel doesn’t hesitate with his answer and his hands clench into fists at his sides, something which Jaskier did not anticipate.

“Tell me then, little scholar,” the elf says. His voice is lightning that crackles under Jaskier’s skin. “Are all of them as deceitful as the one you wrote about our army? Or do you only lie when it caters to the ideology of the masses?”

“Nothing quite so political, I assure you. I sing what I want,” Jaskier replies. If Filavandrel would just look at him, he might be able to read what Jaskier feels. No hostility, no inclination to cause harm. Yes, Toss A Coin was a selfish piece of writing, meant to entice and enthral, embellishing the events in order for it to spread more quickly, but Filavandrel has to realize that it was never meant at the expense of the elves. It was drama, poetry, a story.

“I see.” Jaskier jerks around, half his body turning at Filavandrel’s tingling laugh. What in Melitele’s name?

“Beg pardon?” he asks and finally, Filavandrel meets his eyes. His are pure mirth, lip curled in mischief. He is so fucking divine that Jaskier’s mouth dries up.

“You are a creature of selfish lust, then?”

“Quite,” Jaskier says, grinning and bows his head. He was right about one thing at least, right in his hunch that in the presence of Filavandrel, he would be reduced to a bashful eighteen-year-old boy who is unable to tear his eyes off anything even remotely pretty. With Filavandrel, he thinks he’ll find anyone else lacking.

Filavandrel opens his mouth to say something else, but right then, a hiss cuts through their amusement and they both whirl around to find that they are no longer alone. Someone has joined them, a massive man with a silver medallion gleaming atop his breast. In each hand he holds a knife and his teeth are bared in a growl, his head bald. Two swords, strapped to his back, gleam in the sun.

Oh fuck.

A witcher.

And he doesn’t seem in the mood for talking.

Jaskier’s body takes over for him and he builds himself up between the approaching figure and Filavandrel.

“Stop right there,” he says and mentally pats himself on the back for how steady his voice comes out. The witcher halts, staring at Jaskier with his head cocked and his form blots out the low-hanging sun. Jaskier stands his ground, arms and legs wide, but his only weapon is his glare, the set of his mouth. Don't, he thinks. Don't. They don't stand a chance. Geralt already has the capability to crush Jaskier's neck in a strong grip if he so wishes, this man looks like he could lift a leg and flatten Jaskier to the earth with one precise step. Filavandrel wouldn't fare much better even if he had steel on him. They are doomed.

“I’m here to kill a king,” the witcher says and his voice rattles like a cart full of armour being pulled across a cobbled street. “Step aside, human, and your life will be spared.”

“I will not.”

The witcher musters him for another long minute, then shrugs. Tucking one of his knives under his beefy bicep, he shoots out his hand. A blast of air hits Jaskier and he’s thrown backward into Filavandrel. They’re not close enough to the edge that they fall off, but the blow forces them to the ground. Jaskier is quick to get into a crouching position before the fallen king, arms open wide once more. The witcher approaches, his glare punctuating Jaskier’s resolve. But no, he will die if he must, die if it means preserving that which he cherishes so.

“Bard,” Filavandrel says under his breath. “You’re being foolish.”

“No such thing,” Jaskier replies. The witcher stomps ever nearer, blades raised, but before he can attack, a whirring noise fills the air and a dagger buries itself in the witcher’s left eye socket, buries itself to the hilt.

“HNNN FUCK,” the witcher yowls and pulls the knife out, casting it aside. He stumbles about blindly, his hands pressed to his face and Jaskier jumps to his feet. This is about the only opportunity they will have if they want to come out of this alive. He hurries over to the witcher and shoves. There is no way a bard like him has enough power to topple over a giant like this, but the witcher is already off-kilter and he doesn’t expect the push. He barely catches himself, still howling through his pain and Jaskier follows the few steps he takes backward and in doing so, gets caught by the flailing arm of the witcher. He winces as pain breaks out across the side of his face, but he pushes again.

The witcher teeters where the hill falls away sharply, and Jaskier has no time to think about how he’d rather not be hurting this man. He gives one last determined shove and with a yelp, the witcher tumbles over the edge and rolls down the mountainside in a cacophony of crashes and dust, branches breaking and rocks rolling after him. His cries fill the valley until, with a suddenness that is jarring, they stop.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, panting hard. Fuck. Fuck, he might have just killed a man and he doesn’t feel guilty one bit. He is here to protect Filavandrel, he understands that now. Understands that that’s what the dream was about. To protect Filavandrel and to be his advocate. It’s an unsettling certainty, one that only Destiny can have created. Jaskier sighs, thinks up a silent prayer for the fallen man and mentally apologizes to Geralt for hurting one of his kin.

“That was an impressive showing of determination,” Filavandrel says. Jaskier opens his eyes again and squares his shoulder. The elf has picked up his dagger and is cleaning it on his cloak which he has pulled off to reveal a simple set of faded blue linen clothes. He looks at Jaskier, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth and Jaskier bows low.

“My king,” he says.

“Come with me.” A hand on his arm that tugs lightly. Jaskier’s blinks, but lets himself be guided by Filavandrel. “I know somewhere were we will not be interrupted again.”

---

Filavandrel’s rooms – which section off from the ones Geralt and Jaskier were held in last time – are barely more than a hollow in the mountains, furnished with a narrow cod and few planks of wood that have been nailed to the stone opposite it. The elf has Jaskier sit down on the hard straw mattress, then disappears for a short time to retrieve a wet cloth. “Who was he?” Jaskier asks when Filavandrel returns and crouches before him so that they are on eye-level. His face aches properly now and he suspects that a plethora of bruises is already blooming on the side the witcher caught with his fist.

“You are the one who congregates with witchers,” Filavandrel replies. Jaskier huffs indignantly. “I only really know one of them and we don't congregate so much as keep company.” “Really?” Filavandrel raises a brow as he dabs Jaskier's jaw with the cool cloth. It soothes some of the sting and he sighs. “Does that shock you? Geralt wouldn't let me touch him with a fishing rod,” Jaskier laughs. It’s not true exactly, they have touched of course. It is inevitable when travelling together, but the kind of touch they’re referring to has been strictly off the table. “How very unreasonable,” Filavandrel laughs and brushes back Jaskier's hair to access his forehead. His hands are gentle, his smile shy and Jaskier finds himself blushing. This is another Filavandrel altogether. Not the rageful king that almost had him and Geralt executed, nor yet the solemn figure atop the hill. He’s sweet and teasing. Oh, dear. “Tell me, little scholar, do you want to touch him?” “Are you asking me if I want to fuck him or if I have feelings for him?”

“Both. Either. No matter.”

“Ah… well, I find myself tempted ever so often, but the feeling does not endure and any sexual draw I feel to him is not worth risking the friendship we share. Of course, his attractiveness stands in no comparison to your beauty.” “It is a non-human fetish then?” Filavandrel asks. He wipes Jaskier’s forehead one more time, then puts aside the cloth. “Brought that upon myself, didn't I?” They both laugh, Jaskier shaking his head, Filavandrel privately, behind his hands. Jaskier wants to pry it away, wants every bit of that laugh for his eyes and ears to feast on, a remnant of the bells of the elven towers of old, wants this beauty, but for once in his life, Jaskier practices restraint. He basks in another few seconds of shared delight, then catches Filavandrel's gaze again. “Who hired that witcher?” “Doesn't matter who hired him, there's always a price on my head,” Filavandrel grumbles and Jaskier could kick himself for killing the light chirping laughter, for turning this conversation back to a serious avenue. But he had to, didn’t he? Because a witcher almost killed them both and the dreams are still in the forefront of his mind. “Always a price.” With that, the elf gets up and starts to pace the small perimeter of his room. Jaskier watches every step. "You can share your pain with me,” he offers. "So you can fashion pretty rhymes from it? No thank you. I will pay you in gold,” Filavandrel snaps, eyes distant now. So very changeable, strange for one so old. But Jaskier supposes that Filavandrel lives in extraordinary circumstances. "Pay me?" he asks weakly.

“That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? More… of us. More of our artefacts, our names, our stories, our emotions. More for you to accessorize and capitalize on, more to feed your disgustingly human greed with. I gave you your life and your lute and you stayed away for how long? Nigh on two decades. What will it take for the next two?”

Both elf and human glance at the lute that is propped up in the corner upon Filavandrel mentioning it. The instrument has survived the scrap without harm, not even a speck of dust on it. Jaskier’s fingers itch for it, but he folds them in his lap. Two decades, yes, twenty years in which he’s had time aplenty to think. Churn over the events of those days when Geralt was but a stranger and Filavandrel an enemy, an outlandish creature sprung straight from Jaskier’s lecture notes. Now, Geralt is Jaskier’s oldest friend and Filavandrel is… a god descended. A god that has been battered and beaten, treated like a dog. Fuck, but Jaskier is not here to uphold the tradition of exploitation and near-to-kin-slaying. He is here because after traversing the maze of his thoughts and closing the covers on his books, Jaskier cares. He cares, he treasures, he worships, he loves. He loves so much. Jaskier looks up at Filavandrel until the elf can’t help but return the gaze. His eyes are wide, wild.

"Have you had dreams of late?"  Jaskier asks simply.

A breath. And then: "What do you know of it?”

"Let me paint a picture for you, golden one, then you can decide what I have come here for.”

Filavandrel considers him, inclines his head a fraction as if to listen for the backstabs Jaskier is trying to veil with his words. The cavernous halls are eerily silent and finally, Filavandrel gestures for Jaskier to speak. Jaskier clears his throat.

“It is like this: You open your eyes and you stand upon the very hill we just got attacked on, all by yourself. Before you, you see a firmament in bleeding reds and yellows into which the grey ink of the end days has been spilled. At your feet, a vast desolation, hundreds turned to dust, obliterated by your hands, and it still does not satisfy your hatred for the humans. You feel as though upon your shoulders, you carry the weight of all those who have come before you, all those who are yet to perish. Each step you may take, in whatever direction, feels like the last. There is thunder in the distance, but it is not of this world. It rumbles off-key, distorted and cacophonous, and you try to catch that sound in your own throat to guess at its origin. You can’t. There are cries of woe also, just beyond the next peak, and you are determined to absolve those souls of their agony. You begin to walk, are weighed down, your limbs burn and your knees tremble. No matter how badly you try to reach that place from whence the pain stems, you make no progress. Your back aches so much, so fucking much. All you want is to lay down your crown and die. The world may well splinter and vaporize around you and still, duty would bind you to remain and see your people safely through the gates of heaven. You feel alone. So very alone,” Jaskier concludes, the last words naught more than a whisper. Tears stream down him his cheeks.

"How?" Filavandrel sobs and claps a hand over his mouth.

"Trade secret."

"Who are you?"

"A friend.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“To share some of your burden as I have been sharing in your dreams. To save your people.”

“There is no salvation for us, little scholar, none at all,” Filavandrel says, voice trembling.

“Filavandrel of the edge of the world,” Jaskier says and stands up. “Filavandrel of the pain of the gods.” He takes a step towards the dumbstruck elf. “Filavandrel the kind-hearted and trustworthy.” Another step. “Filavandrel of the old tragedies.” A foot separates them and Jaskier reaches out to gently cup Filavandrel’s jaw. “Filavandrel of the dawn of a new age.” He brings up his other hand, cradling the elf-king’s face in his lute-worn hands as though it is a precious piece of china. Jaskier smiles softly and wipes at Filavandrel’s tears with his thumbs. “Just take your pick and I will write you into the stream of history,” he finishes. Filavandrel squeezes his eyes shut.

“You don’t have that kind of power,” he says. “You simply cannot change our fate.”

“I can make you beloved. Immortal.” Jaskier leans closer, ever closer, but he doesn’t dare break the barrier between them, not when Filavandrel looks so very pained. More so when he softly utters his next words.

“That is what you don’t get. What would I be but an exception to prove the rule? Even if you turned the tide of human hatred in my favour, they’d still murder my kin and I would stand alone because I had been dubbed friend-of-men. You would make my dream turn reality.” “I don’t-“

“I do not begrudge you the ambition,” Filavandrel cuts in and the sun of a chuckle breaks through the heavy tapestry of clouds over his face. He shakes his head as his eyes flutter open, and one hand comes up to wrap around Jaskier’s wrist where’s he’s still cupping the elf’s cheeks. “I was perhaps wrong to judge you by the standards of your species when the crime you have committed is a rather personal one.”

“And what crime is that?”

“That fetish we spoke of, of course. Though I cannot tell whether your infatuation is genuine or whether you are but a magpie.” Jaskier's mouth feels dry and his gaze drops to the pretty curve of Filavandrel's lips. He lets go of his face, touches one of Filavandrel's silken curls and wraps it around his pinkie as he holds the king's gaze. He can’t think of a retort to that, not even an earnest one. "Is this your wit's end, little scholar? Is this where words fail you?" "Kiss me," Jaskier replies in a surge of confidence. It's insanity, even with the weird carnival of feelings they've gone through today. Insanity. It's also the right thing to say, apparently. Filavandrel leans closer and kisses him softly, holding onto Jaskier's shoulders and Jaskier reaches for the elf's hips to steady himself. He inhales sharply when Filavandrel deepens their kiss. The poet in Jaskier hoped he would taste like flowers or honey or sunshine or anything worth putting in a ballad. The romantic in Jaskier rejoices in how perfectly sweet and slow their kiss is, how they both close their eyes and lose themselves in the simplicity of the connection. The realist in Jaskier – and he is very quiet and small – knows this is fragile. A moment suspended in time and bound to pass. After a while, Filavandrel pulls back, a small smile playing about his features and he traces Jaskier's reddened lips with his thumb. "I could be your consort," Jaskier blurts out. Filavandrel laughs and steals another kiss. "The valley isn't entirely safe at night so you may stay until the morning," he says and lets go. "And after that?" "After that you return to your books and your songs and your witcher." "And you?" "I will try to make sense of these dreams. I will find a way for my people to survive. And I will cherish the sentiments you offered, useless though they may be. Come now, little scholar, come to bed." 

[unbloomingmoonflower]

undead.

The betrayal of the heart is the most wicked thing. 

That was the moral of the story when many whispered of the betrayed, murdered bride. 

No one knew the origins of the deceased bride, except that her beauty known throughout the small towns. It was said that a stranger arrived in her hometown and they had crossed paths. Her heart was stolen by this mysterious man, and he whispered sweet nothings to further lull her deeply into love.

The story goes that the bride went to meet her beloved deep into the woods for them to run away together--only for her to never return.

What else was there to assume, but that she was killed in cold blood?

 The story was whispered and told to any young bride-to-be to be wary of whom they were to marry. Some grooms were wolves in sheep’s clothing. Many brides-to-be have been fortunate with their grooms. Yet there was always a bride who would be wary of her husband-to-be, fearing that he may indeed be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

This young bride ventured into the selfsame forest where the rumored murdered bride lay still, her corpse decomposing to the earth. Her eyes darted around nervously, the fog dense in the forest. The trees were withered as though it were a perpetual winter in this forest, the sounds of crows and other animals ringing hauntingly in the air. 

After what seemed to be an eternity did the young bride find herself before the rumored tree that the bride was murdered beneath, large and ominous, its branches hanging dangerously low to the earth. She knelt before the tree, clasping her hands in a vain prayer. 

After all, her gods have abandoned her in her time of need.

“Please,” she whispered, “I fear that my groom simply wants my family’s money. I fear he may dispose of me once we are wed. I beseech thee...I have no one else to turn to.”

The air was still, no noise to be heard. The bride feared that maybe her pleas were in vain after all. This marriage will happen, will bind her to the wolf she feared. No one was going to rescue her from her fate. 

She bowed her head, aiming to rise to her feet, before a voice called out. “Your gods have not heeded your please, so you turn to me?”

The bride lifted her head, a gasp leaving her lips as her eyes widened at the sight before her. 

Mismatched eyes spilling streaks of blood fixated on the bride, lips pressed into a thin line with her face of stone. Long, white hair, matted with dirt, framed a delicately structured face. The dress, once a pristine white, was tattered and greyed, blood stains and decay evident on her skin. Save for her horrific appearance, the corpse bride looked as radiant as when she was to be flee with her intended. 

Before he murdered her. 

The corpse bride’s countenance was cold, unforgiving, as she beheld the living bride. The living woman’s face was full of wonder and fear, as was to be expected when one sees an undead. “You fear your groom. You have retained your wits, unlike I when I once lived,” she rasped, lifting a hand to point at the bride-to-be. “You suspect your groom to take your life once you bind yourself to him in marriage. What do you expect me to do about it, young bride?”

The bride trembled while trying to stand tall. “I wish to be freed from my fate. I fear I may befall...” she trailed off, her voice but a whisper. 

The winds suddenly began to howl, the crows sounding their dark song anew, and before the living bride could blink, the undead one was close to her, face-to-face, to lift a decayed hand to caress a pale cheek. 

“Before you befall my fate. And a tragedy it would be, would it not?” the corpse breathed and the living bride tried not to wince at the rancid stench of rotting flesh. The corpse bride’s eyes were devoid of any emotion, as though what made her human had died when she did. “You want me to free you? What would you give me in exchange?”

The living bride could hardly breath with the close proximity of the undead. Yet she was the one who summoned the being, who brought her from her grave. What did she expect? For the corpse bride to free her on a whim?

With shaking breath did the living bride make her offer. “A chance at vengeance. Even if it not to the one who wronged you, surely it would appease you?”

The corpse tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her lifeless eyes for the first time. She withdrew, throwing her head back with a wild laugh. “Vengeance, is it? You’ve more wit than I give credit for. Very well, then.”

The living bride scarcely could let out another breath, could blink, before the corpse bride vanished, seemingly into thin air. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The storm was beginning to brew and his wife-to-be has not returned. 

The man paced impatiently. The day of their marriage could not come soon enough. He had suspected his bride-to-be was becoming wise to his plan to get his hands on her fortune, to put her to rest from a “tragic accident” once his goal was accomplished. 

Yet this marriage was arranged. There was no way she could escape it. No way he would give up his plans. 

Thunder boomed and lightning crackled when he turned, only to jolt at the silhouette near the threshold of the room’s door. He pressed a hand to his chest in an attempt to imitate his surprise. “Ah, my dear. Wherever have you been?” he asked in mock concern. 

His bride was silent, obscured by the shadows. Something felt amiss. Why ever would she remain silent? Why would she lurk in the shadows?

The man approached his bride, stretching his hand out. “Come, my dear. Why hide in the shadows as you are? Let me behold you,” he murmured, false sweetness like honey practiced in his tone. 

There was only a few heartbeats of silence before his bride stretched her own hand out to clasp his--only for the man to let out a shout of disgust at the rotting hand that grasped his own. The grip was tight, to the point where it could shatter the very bones, refusing to relinquish his hand. 

“So...how ironic that we meet again like this.” 

The raspy voice, devoid of emotion, was still familiar. His eyes widened as the woman came into view, her features unobstructed by the shadows. “Shuri?” he gasped in genuine shock. 

A wicked smile curved the woman’s lips, her grip finally shattering his hand and wrenching a scream from the man and she watched him crumple to his knees. “I was simply another of your victims. You have not changed, marrying this maiden for the same reason as I,” she snarled. “Did you run out of my money so soon? The jewels I’ve brought for you? The gold? So soon after you took my life?” 

“I’ve left you!” the man howled, gripping his wrist with his remaining unbroken hand. “I’ve left you!”

The corpse bride leaned close to the face of her murderer, kneeling herself, the wicked smile still on her lips. “For dead.”

The undead bride closed the distance, her lips against her murderer’s before his vision went black. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The young bride-to-be returned to find her fiancee laying upon the floor, his eyes wide and expression petrified. His countenance was pallid, his broken hand at such an odd angle, his lips blue. 

The corpse bride stood over the body, a self-satisfied smile on her lips before she turned to look at the newly-freed bride. “Your offer was fortuitous. Your betrothed...was my murderer,” she hummed, stepping over the dead body of the man who stole her life, who would have stolen another’s. 

“Enjoy your freedom, freed bride. The hells know, I will not have that chance.”

[wintersongstress]

What Remains of a Butterfly

Summary: A glimpse into the after; of where you and Arthur find yourselves after the fall of the Van der Linde gang.  

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Tags: fluff, mild mentions of smut

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: a gift for the lovely and kind-hearted @actuallyhansolo​, though this piece was inspired by a prompt I received in my inbox ages ago. I hope you enjoy ♥ Also a big thank you to @the-halo-of-my-memory​ for being the best beta I could ask for :)

1905 — Gallatin, Montana; 

“Try not to squeeze ‘er with your heels, else the horse’ll canter. You wanna grip her sides with your legs,” calls out Arthur from across the front pasture. A little neigh follows, carrying through the heavenly sigh of the breeze whistling down through the forests and into the valley you called home. Thistle and larkspur waver in its wake, flowing and flawing with streaks and splashes of color, and the hum of bumble bees fills the air. The only intrusion to the symphony of nature’s awakening is the occasional creak of dead wood as your seat on the front porch leans, forwards then backwards.

Overhead, a flock of warblers glide across the sky. Their song, a rising whistle, twittering and sweet, melds with the leathered yet honeyed tone of Arthur’s voice. A gentleness he reserved for one special person laces his rough timbre. Your eyes draw away from your knitting needles at the sound, and the sight that greets you warms your heart.

Your daughter Cora sits astride a chestnut pony, the straw hat covering her head askew. From beneath the floppy brim the early morning sunshine warms her cheeks, revealing the determined twist of her mouth as she heeds her father’s instruction. She hangs onto the reins and her hat, her neat braid bouncing as the horse trots in circles in the grass. Autumn’s hooves below her thud the earth softly, her cinnamon tail flicking and catching the gold of the sun all the while.

A long, satisfied breath fills your lungs. The windsong, calm as a seaside, lulls you into a deep state of bliss as you listen to the harmony it inspires in the surrounding land. Your porch chair rocks as you hum a thoughtful melody, stitching together the tight, blue row of a sock while taking in the splendors of the hour.

From a thousand places in the grass, little gems of dew wink back rainbows in the sunrays. Clouds drift seamlessly along the horizon like the verses of a poem, embellishing a sky flushed the color of a ripe peach. The sunlight has breached the distant snow-patched mountain peaks, its golden warmth lifting the mantle of fog settled deep in the green dark shadows of the valley. The wind rises forever and again, breathing life into the lungs of the cottonwood forest and stirring all that lay deep within wide awake. Woodpeckers flit amongst the treetops in their quest for insects, but all around far and near bird song prevails.

Comforted by the gift of your present, you tug free more yarn from the basket beside you. A hummingbird visits the columbines growing along the side of your homestead as you knit, gone in a flash of bronze. You pause at the boon of its appearance, but your eyes distractedly settle across the way.

Arthur leans on the paddock fence with his elbows propped up as he watches over Cora. A cup of coffee steams in his hand. He raises it and takes a sip, and you note with amusement that only three of his fingers fit through the handle. His fingernails are clean and square against the tin.

In all of your time together you never tired of the way the morning light poured over his tall frame. A heavenly gold illuminates the outlines of his arms and shoulders in his cotton white shirt. His sleeves, rolled humbly up to his elbows, display his tanned forearms, and a pair of dark suspenders divide his strong back handsomely. You never ceased to appreciate how lucky you were to have this view daily, and with each day, your love for Arthur and your family grew tenfold.

After a hearty breakfast of pancakes and eggs, Arthur took your daughter out to the horse pasture to learn how to ride—much at her own insistence and prodding. From a young age Cora shared his deep respect for horses and spent time with the ones you kept every day, grooming, feeding, and bonding with them. In the mornings you washed the dishes together, and afterwards, Cora bolted outside eager to start her lesson.

Today Arthur had lingered in the kitchen once the porch door slammed shut behind her and you were at once alone. The tick of the clock on the floral-papered wall was the only sound for a moment, until Arthur withdrew from the table.

You stood before the washing basin, drying a plate with a dish towel and adding it to a stack on the counter when he slipped his arms around you from behind and held you close. All of your quiet thoughts of the arriving day paused. Together, you breathed in. Your eyes closed. No words were needed between you to speak of the content that settled in your hearts then. He had only hummed a deep sound that passed through you, and began to gently sway you in a dance as you both basked warmly in the window. A jar of amber honey on the sill bloomed light, pouring gold like a waterfall. The birds sang—they always sang in this heavenly place—and you tilted your head back against his broad chest. You melted in his arms when his mouth pressed upon yours and it was a long, blind time before he pulled away.

When the kiss ended his forehead softened against your brow, him stealing a moment to remember you like this. He traced his thumb along the curve of your cheek, a sense of deep wonder speaking through his touch, and you sighed your assent.

In the beginning doubts plagued him. Years before when he knelt before you with a ring amidst a meadow of lupines, his hands held the slightest tremble until you took them into your own, guiding the pale stone down your finger and kissing away his uncertainties. He made promises to do right by you, and he kept every one of them.

In time, he came to believe in the second chance life had granted you both. It made it all the more fortuitous that your first child was a girl.

The embrace in the kitchen was one of beyond number. Arthur was a man of few words but many looks, so you understood his silent language of showing thankfulness. From the careful touch of his hands, moving as if to measure and memorize your importance to him, to the curve of his blooming half-smile, his expression voiced an ineffable gratitude and a disbelief that you shared this life together. His devotion never waned, but the encumbrance of the past did, the fetters that once hindered your steps toward freedom breaking when he built this homestead for you. They shattered forever when you first told him you were pregnant, standing on the porch in the twilight, his arms in their favorite place around you.

When the tingle of his kiss dissipated from your lips, your eyes had been slow to open at last.

“What was that one for?” You murmured in the space between you.

His soft, sage green gaze found yours, and the love in his eyes could not be misunderstood or undervalued. As always, your heart melted like the April snows at the warmth that look bloomed in your chest.

“Nothin’. Jus’…all you do is make me happy,” he confessed, following the gentle ways the angle of the sun fell upon your face.

“Oh you.”

With your heart strings plucked, you turned in the circle of his arms to embrace him. You nuzzled your nose along the endearing divot of his and let the softness of his smile melt against yours once more. The tannic scent of oak and pine and the musk of gun oil seeped into your senses, and you let yourself get carried away and intoxicated with his nearness and the rasp of his beard beneath your touch.

Cora’s prompting from outside tethered Arthur to his promise and he broke away from you with a sigh, although his warm hands slid down your hips longingly before departing.

“Real eager, that one is.”

“You better get to it,” you laughed and made to finish putting away the breakfast dishes. The other chores of the household could wait for an hour, you decided, as you made to rejoin them on the porch with your knitting.

Cats lazed about beside you presently, preening and stretching their legs before turning their watchful golden eyes to the high grasses in search of mice. One of them stalks up to Arthur at his post, weaving between his feet and brushing a white tail against his knee with affection. He reaches down and scratches its neck, the cat lifting itself on its feet to meet him halfway.

Doubtlessly he was smiling beneath his hat, as you were. You could only imagine what the sunlight must be doing to the color of his eyes as the sides crinkle with amusement.

Cora’s pony begins to straighten its gait and walks in a line, causing her to squeal with delight from her saddle.

“Daddy! I’m doing it! I’m doing it!”

“There you go! Keep holdin’ the reins, just like that. Lead ‘em to the left and right to steer.”

“Mama! Look!”

Your joy is instant.

“You’re doing wonderful!” You cheer. Cora giggles, her cheeks dimpling from her contagious glee. The bow laced at the end of her braid flutters like a butterfly’s wings as she rides through the pasture gracefully. The image of her with her gingham neckerchief around her throat, sitting proud in the saddle struck you with familiarity. She looked so natural, so at ease; so much like her father.

They mosey along at a steady pace and Arthur laughs under his breath. “Well, look at that. You’re a natural.”

He was always so patient and attentive with Cora, shushing her cries and soothing her when she was a baby, encouraging her every little step as she grew. Long ago you envisioned how great of a father he could be, despite his own uncertainty and the paucity of his self-worth. It took years for him to believe he deserved any of the happiness you found in each other, but he always wanted to protect it, never wanting to lose what mattered most to him.

Dutch abused the protective nature of Arthur’s heart, channeled it for his own gain and allocated it to his benefit. For years he strove to bring pride to his surrogate father, giving his all. But he knew. Arthur knew before it was too late when he was being used. You were the first to confess the hidden fondness you held for him, and it was the push he needed to start thinking for himself. Much as he tried to convince you of his own lowly opinion of himself, you persisted in your beliefs that he was a good man, deserving of happiness. Regardless of whether or not he found it with you.

Moments like this were the ones you wanted to capture and hold. Because reaching this place was worth every pain you endured, every mistake, and every misfortune if it meant it all led to this moment.

A breeze stirs the porch wind chimes. Their soft notes tinkle, joining the songbirds singing the joy of another sunrise. In the warm blanket of the wind the scent of alfalfa chases up your nose. You close your eyes against it, listening to the earth and the skies and the peals of Cora’s laughter. When it settles you open them again, finding Arthur’s gaze fastened to you from across the prairie. Caught, he smiles to himself bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck while his gaze dips to the slight swell of your belly and the pair of baby socks in your lap.

Warmth floods through you at the remembrance of that same smile earlier this morning, when the first blue light of day came and slipped through the gossamer curtains. Thoughts of Arthur’s mouth—soft and warm with sleep against your bare shoulder—tucks your lip behind your teeth and turns your gaze shy under his. But it lingered all the same.

The way he traced your skin with the lightest drag of his fingertips as you laid side by side in the early dawn light. How his touches led to languid kisses along your neck until he reached the spot that always made you sigh, your hands slipping along the lovely angles of his stubbled jaw to get lost in the soft, golden brown strands of his hair. How you let him lay you below him before he settled over you, the bedsheets catching on the small of his back. The roughness of his palms sliding along the delicate lace of your chemise, raising it all until it bunched around your shoulders. Parting your legs and lifting them around his hips, his calloused thumb drifting between—

“I think horsey is getting tired,” Cora announces, and Arthur snaps his attention back to her. You cross your legs and take a deep breath to compose yourself, returning your thoughts to the chaste exercise of knitting.

“Let’s give her a rest, then.”

Cora pulls up on the reins and Autumn yields.

Arthur dumps the remaining dregs of his coffee and leaves the cup on the fence, swinging his way through the paddock gate. In a few minutes he would be leaving for town, a star pinned to his vest and a promise to return before sundown. It made it all the more precious that he spent this time with her.

He lifts Cora off the saddle, his hands swallowing her tiny waist. She yelps with delight as he spins her around once, twice, exclaiming how proud he is and how fast she is growing up. Her braid and her skirts swing around her small frame until Arthur sets her down, squatting down to her level. With a mellow voice he speaks, encouraging her to thank the animal and explaining how important it is to show your horse you respect them. Cora nods. She reaches out and strokes Autumn’s neck, patting it alongside Arthur until she whickers and leans into the girl’s touch. With a grin, Arthur produces a crumbling oat cake from his satchel and Cora obediently holds out the treat. She laughs when a wet tongue tickles her hand.

They begin to lead the horse into the stable and Arthur squeezes her shoulders, telling her how well she did. Their words fade into the barn, indiscernible from where you sit, but your heart swells with contentment and a great rush of affection floods through you.

The gold band of your wedding ring rests coolly against your finger. You admire the smooth facets of the oval stone, the mounted sapphire twinkling in the light, thinking again of the first time you saw it and the pure happiness it brought as you trace its edges. Long ago and far away were the days of turmoil and gloom, for as dark as the past was is how bright your future together became. For you were safe at last, harbored in the arms of one another, thriving under the roof Arthur built where your family could grow. And it was all more than you could ever dream of.

A butterfly alights the roses growing along the trellis on the side of the house. Orange and black wings dance, flitting among unfolded dark pink petals and seeking the golden centers within. From one, to the next, to the next, the butterfly graces each bloom and delivers the promise of a sweeter future from its visit, leaving your world also a little better from its passage through it.

[shannygoatgruff]

Engendered

Genre: Pain and grief

Story Type: One-shot

Rating: M+18

Summary: Lagertha’s grief causes her to make a decision that may change things forever.

A/N:  I know it’s been a minute since I’ve posted anything. Truth is, I’ve hated everything I’ve done lately. But, I had a dream about this and just decided to write it. For some reason, I find writing internal conflict to be so much easier than fluff. 

As always thanks to @xbellaxcarolinax​ for being my beta reader. 

Engendered 

en·gen·dered / ənˈjendər·ed /  - verb; (of a father) beget (offspring).

“Be careful, Shieldmaiden Lagertha, Once Queen of Kattegat. Wishes granted by the gods are not always what we, in Midgard, seek.”

When the Seer had spoken those words all those many years ago, she had thought the old man crazy. Truth be told, the entire village thought him crazy, but none would admit it. He, with his blackened lips, fleshed-out eyes, and collection of potions and poultices that cluttered the small hut in the side of the hill that could scarcely be called a home. This hovel, with its animal bones hanging from the scaffolding like ornaments was hardly a dwelling fit for a pig, yet they had always flocked there to see him. 

She was no different from the rest of those who sought his visions. She needed him to tell her what the gods had in store, no matter the cost. The Seer’s readings were often so cryptic, they hardly could pass as law. Other than pondering the true meaning behind his words the price to pay for his company was relatively small.

What harm could come from licking his palm? Possibly the same harm that could come from enacting a ritual for the goddess many years past? 

Lagertha should have known better than to be so trusting, especially when galdr was involved. Nothing good had ever come from witchcraft, even if it was blessed by Freya, herself. She hadn’t been in her right mind. She was hurting and she needed him to hurt just as much.

When the new Queen of Kattegat had her first child, a son called Ubbe, Ragnar was overjoyed, and it crushed her even more.

She remembered seeing that sparkle in his eyes when their children were born. At Bjorn’s birth, the women of Frigga who had assisted with his delivery commented how beautiful he was and was destined to be a great warrior. When Gyda arrived, Ragnar announced that the goddess, herself, would be jealous of their daughter’s beauty. 

How proud both she and Ragnar had been.

Both times Lagertha had seen Ragnar’s eyes shine like the stars in Asgard. How she had looked forward to seeing that twinkle in those crystal blue eyes again with the birth of their third child. 

Their son, the boy that she would call Eluf, though he would never live to hear himself be called that name, looked so much like Bjorn. 

Eluf came too early. 

He proved to be the one thing their union could not overcome. His death would not make Ragnar stay. 

That is why she called him Eluf, if only in the confines of her heart. For he would always be her eternal heir, even if his father had forgotten the promises he  made to his family.

She tried to keep their family together. Oh, how she tried. The queen of Kattegat tried to save her marriage, much like she tried to save her stillborn son. She prayed to Freya and Frigga for strength and protection. She held onto everything she loved as tightly as she possibly could, suffocating Ragnar with her love with the same strength she used to clench her thighs together to ensure her precious Eluf stayed inside of her. 

But her grasp weakened and as he drew closer to Midgard, he tore her apart from the inside out. 

How much like his father the boy had been. 

Just as her precious son had pulled away from her, so had his father. Ragnar’s growing obsession with England made the promises of returning to the simple farm life they once shared a fantasy. How could a homestead with children ever again be enough for a man with such ambitions? 

Lagertha would swear that she could feel pieces of him tearing away from her every day. It was that tenacity that forbade him from being by her side when she needed him most. 

Secretly, she hated him for it.

Ragnar’s prophecy was told to him at their marriage that he would have many great sons. It was the idea of building such a home that kept them so in love and happy in their lives past. Lagertha had always assumed that she would be the bearer of those sons; the gods already blessing them with Bjorn. 

Never once did she imagine that she would have to endure the heartache of seeing Ragnar’s eyes dance with such pride over his sons born to another woman.  

Witnessing the birth of his first son born to a new wife was devastating, but then came another and another. With every healthy birth of Queen Aslaug, more of her died inside.

Why should this interloper take everything that was rightfully hers? 

This woman, this völva, had traveled to the former queen’s home and prospered from her pain. Lagertha had loved Ragnar from the very beginning, when they had nothing, were nothing. She had encouraged him, fought with him through his rise to power - buried two of his children, all to be replaced by this ... despot?

What right did they have to be happy? What right did Aslaug’s sons have to live when her beloved Eluf did not? The gods could not possibly be this cruel. 

It was her grief that made her do it - always going to the mound of earth in which her beloved Gyda and Eluf lay, desperately trying to make soft flowers grow in the frozen earth that covered their bones. No matter the strength of the frozen wind that whipped through the valley in the winter, or the smell of rotting wood from docked ships that rose from the lake in the spring, she was there, knelt at their marker whispering to her children. 

Lagertha just wanted a sign - some signal that the Valkyrie had taken their souls to Odin and been permitted to enter Valhalla on the merits of their ancestors. 

That’s how she knew that Freya had answered her prayers when the sedir had come to her at dusk that day. The rain had finally slowed, producing only a light drizzle and the smell of the earth was fresh. The soil that she had been running her hands over for hours, weeping and speaking to her children was soft in her hands. 

The hand on her shoulder was gentle and the voice in her ear was almost a whisper. She sounded like Freya, herself. The woman told her that Gyda was safe and was now enlisted as a Valkyrie. 

The witch with the voice of a goddess also told Lagertha of a way to see her son again and get revenge on those who scorned her. For so many years she had prayed for this. She had asked, no begged the gods for help in mending her broken heart and here Freya was answering her prayers. 

All she had to do was open the earth and remove the blood-stained rag of Eluf’s.

She also needed to retrieve a strand of hair of Aslaug, who was again with a child, sure to be Ragnar’s fourth son with this trespasser. Once she had those items, she was to burn them in an open flame and the goddess would do the rest. 

It could not have been more simple. The ground was already soft enough for digging and though it would break her heart to disturb the resting places of her babies, she would do it. If it would make the pain stop, she would do anything. Including being cordial with the queen and wishing her well on her fourth child. Sitting at the table with her and enjoying a meal, getting close enough to her to hug her and take a hair, would be easy. It would please Ragnar to see his two loves befriending each other. Lagertha could play that part.

And as the open flames grew hotter and the items were dropped inside, Lagertha closed her eyes and begged Freya to heed her prayers. 

That is when Queen Aslaug doubled over in pain, knowing that this pregnancy was unlike any other she had experienced.

********

“I understand everything perfectly. I want revenge.”

She had thought she saw glimpses of familiarity in his eyes before, but it was so fleeting that she dismissed it. Since the ritual in the woods, Lagertha hardly ever thought about Ragnar and his queen or his tribe of boys. Her son, Bjorn Ironside, had proven himself a mighty warrior, and she too had grown in reputation. She had taken over Hedeby. With so much to celebrate, she hardly had time to ponder on the absent Ragnar or his drunkard wife. 

Admittedly, there was a tiny bit of guilt when the youngest boy, Ivar, was born with twisted limbs. Lagertha knew how disappointed Ragnar had been knowing that he could never truly be Viking. The shame that must have put on his head. The same type of shame he should have felt for abandoning his first family. 

And the pain the queen had to deal with having a child that needed so much. Lagertha was sure it hardly matched the pain that she felt at losing not one but two children by the same man that she now called husband. Let alone not having that same husband not be there for the death of either of them.

The goddess had fulfilled her promise, no matter what the Seer warned.

Yet, there was something not quite right about the fourth boy. He had a dark presence - a brooding about him. Always sheltered, but always in pain. Not just physical pain, there was a pain behind his eyes. Lagertha saw it in the few interactions she’d had with him. 

It was not until that day that he slid across the floor of the Great Hall with all in attendance, while Queen Lagertha addressed her subjects, did she fully understand. 

Each time his knives stabbed into the wooden floor and he slid closer to her, his eyes became clearer. She had seen those eyes before. Not Ivar’s eyes, or even Ragnar’s, but someone else’s - an acquaintanceship with something behind them.

The boy, Ivar, perched himself on a stool and glared at her with such hatred. 

Eluf?

She stepped down.

Eluf?

She stepped down from her throne.

Eluf?

She stepped down from her throne and tried to speak calmly. 

Eluf?

She stepped down from her throne and tried to speak calmly, placing her hand on Ivar’s shoulder as if to touch her son through him. 

How was it that her son inhabited this boy’s body? Why was he speaking to her in such hateful tones? The words seeking revenge for the death of Aslaug were not Ivar’s, they were Eluf’s. She could tell by the cold, dead tone behind his eyes. 

She had seen it before. The quick flashes she thought she recognized between the vibrant deep blue of Ivar’s, to the murky pools buried deep within. Had those been the eyes of Eluf staring at her all that time? 

Surely, her baby boy wasn’t telling her that he wanted to kill her?

But he was. He did all the time. 

Eluf, her sweet baby, who never drew his own breath, breathed deeply through Ivar Ragnarsson. He wreaked havoc wherever he went. He was masterful and spiteful. He was brilliant and cruel. He was beautiful and destructive. 

Eluf brought about pain and death. 

This was not what the goddess promised. This was not what was supposed to happen. Ragnar was supposed to suffer the way that she suffered, she had not meant to suffer the whole world. Never did Lagertha mean to raise her boy from his peaceful death and reanimate him into the destroyer of Kattegat. 

Watching the flames lick the rooftops of the home just outside of the center of Kattegat, Lagertha could smell the rotting stench of the dead lying in the street, mixed with the burning tar and charred remains of her fellow countrymen. She thought back to how the Seer had warned her. 

Was that truly Freya that had spoken to her years ago, or Loki? What right did she have to ask the gods for revenge? She should have not interfered; just let them do their work with Ragnar’s fate.

All of this was her fault. All of this death was her fault. 

And to know that she would meet her death at the hands of one of his sons. But which one: Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Ivar or Eluf? 

Oh Odin, what had she done?

******

“You are a god.” 

Legs dangling off of the back of the cart, Ivar watched as Kattegat grew smaller in the distance. 

The inexplicable anger in him had been sated for now. That inner voice, the one that made his heart pump faster and his jaw clench seemed to be at peace. He could rest; if only for a moment, he could rest. 

He knew this would not be the last time he saw his home, just like he knew no one would ever doubt him again.

Maybe this time, with the voice silenced he could find happiness. He thought he had found it with Freydis, but the voice grew louder than her most days. In the end, the voice was right. She was just like the rest, an obstacle in his way to greatness. She needed to be quieted. 

She had been right about one thing, he was a god. Not in the traditional sense, he now understood that. He had been engendered by the gods. Created by the seed of his father, in the womb of his mother and fused with Hel’s knowledge provided by his brother. 

He would go on to do many great things. Kattegat was just the beginning. 

The world would never forget Ivar the Boneless. 

His brother would always ensure that he would be ruthless. 

Fin.

@xbellaxcarolinax @youbloodymadgenius @zuxiezendler @peaceisadirtyword @peachyboneless @ivarthebloodyking @a-mess-of-fandoms @didiintheblog @we-are-only-halfway-home93 @conaionaru @flowers-in-your-hayr  @geekandbooknerd @inforapound @nukyster-blog​

[basicjetsetter]

Part V

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Fluffy scenes, anxious moments, cliff-hanger

▹ Words: 3.3k

▹ A/N: We are reaching the eye of the storm. Happy reading!

“ ‘Kay, so there’s no way they’re gonna win this game without him turning into the Wolf, right?”

“Finish watching it, Peter.”

Peter musingly shakes his head, mouthful of his fourth slice of pizza. “There’s no way.”

You level a patient smirk at him and point to the television, wordlessly telling him to see for himself.

The screen’s brightness fills your otherwise dark living room, casting shadows along the angles of Peter’s concentrated face. His body is sloped forward, and if he didn’t possess the body control of an enhanced being, he’d fall face-first into your carpet.

Tonight’s movie selection was your choice, and you didn’t want to disappoint. So when Peter said he’d never seen Teen Wolf, you were over the moon. Usually, you’d watch every single second of the classic film, but with Peter sitting cross-legged next to you, his hip pressed against yours as your crossed leg rests on top of his, you spent the entire time covertly peeking at his fascinated expressions.

Well into the third month of your friendship, Peter’s presence in your apartment remains to be an odd sight in a good way. Out of your ordinary. His first time in your apartment came on a day you both chose to escape the sun’s sweltering heat with A/C and ice cream, and like your first conversation in Hal’s, he never made it weird.

It was effortless. Every moment with Peter was like breathing.

If anyone else suggested Friday-night movie nights, you’d have spared no time shutting them down. But your yes to Peter harbored no resistance.

“No way!” An excited smile spreads across Peter’s face as Scott steps to the baseline to take the game-winning free throw shots. “Is he seriously gonna make these?”

You seal your lips, choosing not to spoil the moment, but Peter doesn’t see. His eyes never stray from the screen, and his lips slightly part from the nail-biting suspense. As the last shot falls through the hoop, Peter’s whole jaw drops.

When the end credits roll, he slowly claps. “That was awesome. Like I’ve got some serious chills. How am I going to top that?”

“Eh, you probably won’t,” you reply with a boastful grin. Hidden joy thrums through your body from his excitement. “Might as well call a wrap on movie nights.”

Peter playfully nudges you with his elbow, then checks his watch. “Ah, man, it’s late. I needed to be on patrol half an hour ago.” He’s up in a flash, slipping his shoes on and chewing up the rest of his pizza.

“Do you have to go?” A hint of sadness tinges your words. 

“Yeah, the city would be a mess without me,” he jokes, but you weren’t remiss of his undertone sincerity. “Oh! That reminds me. Some bad guys are out on a robbing spree lately, tailing people at night, so if you work late, can you ask Chris to walk you home? Y’know, just in case I’m not there.”

He does this every time he’s over. Each week, there’s a new thing or group to be leery of, and each time he asks, you immediately nod to erase the gut-sinking concern in his brown eyes.

You rise from the couch and follow Peter to the door. He turns just as he’s about to twist the handle, stalls for a second, then envelopes you into a small, reluctant hug, leaving his arms lax just in case you wanted to pull away. 

Hugging is new, something you’ve only done about five times. The first was an unplanned disaster featuring a hard shove, repeated apologies, and a long, awkward moment of silence. 

You didn’t mean to push him away. It was one of those moments where, even though the urge to reciprocate was there, you couldn’t allow yourself to find comfort in such an innocent gesture. You weren’t ready. He respected that.

You knew your rash reaction bruised Peter more than he let on, but he learned to ease his way into your comfort zone with small touches. An intentional brush of his hand against yours, scooching closer to you on the couch, hi-fives with minimally laced fingers.

It took a while for the second hug-attempt, but you were cautiously prepared when it happened.

This time around, you return the gesture, winding your arms around his middle and setting your chin on his shoulder, resisting the urge to nuzzle your nose against his warm neck. His closeness frazzles you, even more so when he diminishes the gap between you, holding you tighter to his chest before releasing you and clearing his throat.

“Be safe,” you warn softly.

He puffs out his chest. “I have nothing to fear except fear itself.”

“That confident, huh?”

“Comes with the job. You get knocked down enough times, you get pretty confident once you realize you can always get back up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And yet you still have a fear of heights.”

“Never said I wasn’t afraid of falling. Just that it gets easier getting back up. ‘Sides, most of those petty offenders scare easy. All I gotta do is say I can plant eggs in ‘em.” He shudders at the idea himself.

“Please, Peter,” you implore, a smile sullying your stern frown.

Peter’s grin, always so wholesome and calming, blankets over your nerves. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, I think Spider-Man needs someone to worry about him, sometimes. Even if he can get back up. Just… let caution work alongside confidence.”

He heeds your words with a more allayed smile, curtly nodding. “Vigilance. I can do that.”

You’re tempted to wrap him back into your arms to protect him from whatever dangers lie outside of your apartment. Instead, you exchange simple goodnights and shut the door once he reaches the stairwell.

The room and your shirt preserve his crisp evergreen scent long after he’s gone. It lingers as you crawl into bed. An aromatic reminder of his caress and warm skin.

As far as friendships go, you’ve never had one quite like this. The line you drew in the sand moves. Accommodates. Shrinks. Whether he’s aware of it or not, the time you spend cracking jokes with Peter at Hal’s, listening to his adventurous feats, becoming comfortable with his physical proximity, seeing his smile and the way his eyes light up when you smile at something funny or interesting he’s said, you fall just an inch.

He's growing on you. His presence. His laughter. His beaconing smile. His tentative touch. His uncanny ability to endear himself to your foreclosed heart.

It was easier to deny the connection when you didn’t know Peter. But now that you do, every moment you’re with him intensifies what you’ve painstakingly tried to avoid.

You’re falling in love with your Soulmate.

✦ ✧✦ ✧

Once again, it’s the Saturday brunch rush, and once again, Hal’s is up to its neck in bloodthirsty customers. All the booths are packed, as well as the stools. Some of the parties compact a seat meant for two with four people, and the aisle clogs with those who just came to grab a cup of coffee and conversation.

Chris is in his element, swinging from one booth to the next like a controlled tornado collecting orders, while you and Wendy are the unfortunate bunch who have to clean up desecrated tables and feed the greedy.

“If someone asks me what the specials are one more time, I’m going to rip my hair out,” Wendy grouses behind the counter as she puts away five menus.

You grumble back the same sentiments. Menus exist for a reason. And most of these people aren’t new to Hal’s, so the fact that they always have to ask grinds your gears.

11:30 a.m. is your saving grace. If you can hold on until Peter gets here, you’ll be fine.

Chris stops by the bar, pocketing what appears to be a twenty-dollar bill. “Lighten up, ladies. At least you’re off tomorrow.”

Wendy, in her 5’3’’ stature, looks feral. “I want to be off now.”

A rowdy group of high-schoolers sitting in the farthest booth is holding a contest to see who could drink a milkshake the fastest, and the two unlucky contestants shriek like banshees from self-inflicted brain-freeze. All three of you wince.

“We don’t get paid enough for this.”

Hal shouts from the back. “Order up! And stop slackin’ off out there!”

Wendy’s eye twitches as she marches to the back to pick up the orders. You’d have acted the same way if you didn’t have something to look forward to.

“They’re not going to tip me. I just know it,” Chris says to you, despondently looking over at the teens’ table again.

“They’ll come around. No one can resist this moneymaker.” You lightly bump him on the chin to indicate his smile. Heck, his whole chiseled face is a moneymaker, but that exuberant smile sells it all.

Over the last three months, just like your friendship with Peter, your friendship with Chris has improved. Even with Wendy. You aren’t at each other’s throats nearly as much as you used to be. Last week, she complimented your hairstyle, though it was immediately followed up with a snide comment: progress, either way.

Chris laughs. “And here I thought my friendly personality racked up all the tips.”

“It’s a bonus.”

He chuckles again, then blows out a hesitant breath. “So, Y/N…”

“So, Chris…”

“There’s, um, there’s gonna be another music festival in Cunningham Park tonight, and I was wondering if, y’know, you and Peter might want to come and hang?”

You and Peter… As if you were a pair. An item. A couple. To unsuspecting eyes, you knew you and Peter seemed to be just really good friends. Not even Hal questioned why you spent half an hour talking to him every weekday. If he had an inkling of who Peter actually was to you, he’d have confronted you by now.

Chris, on the other hand, kept a sharp eye on you when Peter was around. As meticulous as you were about keeping up pretenses in public, sometimes you’d slip. Your smile would be a tad too bright when Peter walked through the door and took his usual seat. You’d giggle at his jokes too loud. You’d stare into his eyes too long. Signs too blatant for Chris to miss.

You’re just waiting for him to put the last piece in the puzzle.

“I’d… I’d have to ask Peter.” You take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “But, yeah, I’ll go.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Sure. Sounds like it’ll be fun. What time is it?”

Chris lays a hand on your forehead. “Temp seems fine. Pupils aren’t dilated. How many fingers am I holding up?”

You swat his hand down with a laugh. “Shut up.”

“Look, I know you probably don’t want me saying this out loud, but I’m glad you met Peter. We all are.”

“Why?” Evidently, you’re not that great at hiding your feelings as you thought.

Chris leans against the bar top, keeping an eye on the door just in case customers walked in. “Well, for starters, you literally just agreed to hang out with me for the first time since you started working here, which was—what—two years ago. And… you… I don’t know. You’re more open, y’know? Smiling and such.”

“I smiled before,” you say, a little defensive.

“Not like you do now. Before, it was all—,” Chris screws his mouth up. It’s strange. Alienated and wire-tight. The corners of his lips don’t fully come up, and it barely reaches his eyes. You instantly recognize it—the smile you hid behind.

Did you really smile like that? How is it that you never noticed how off-putting it was? If a server ever smiled at you like that, you’d assume they wished you disappeared off the face of the earth. Is that the smile people saw? More importantly, when did you stop putting it on?

“Two more strawberry milkshakes over here!” shouted one of the brain-freeze victims.

Chris hops to it. Always the perfect server. On his way to make the shakes, he says, “7 p.m.”

“I’ll be there.”

You weren’t going to confirm for Peter until he was there to answer for himself, but he doesn’t show. 11:30 a.m. and the rest of your shift flies by without a sight of him, which is strange, but not uncommon. Homework might have him tied up. September is a pretty busy month for schoolwork, and mid-terms are approaching, so he might be buried in assignments.

Worry doesn’t settle in until you’re getting ready for the music festival at 6:30 p.m., and Peter still hasn’t sent so much as a voicemail.

Evening summer sunlight filters in through your open window, the active sounds of Queens’ busy streets and subway station not allowing your room to fall quiet. Nights like this are perfect for outdoor festivals because it’s warm enough to sit in the grass and not bring a jacket.

Rather than enjoy the idea of getting out for the first time in years, your mind remains hooked on Peter.

It’s not like him not to leave a text if he’s caught up in other things. He’d make sure to tell you where he is, how far away. Since the beginning of this friendship, starting with his little notes, Peter’s constant communication wasn’t something you expected. But now that you do, this behavior just doesn’t match what you’re used to.

You pace the floor of your small bedroom, back and forth, wall to wall, abusively chewing your lower lip and turning your phone around in your hand, working up the nerve to call him, summoning up the will to voice your concern if he did answer.

When you do call, you get his voicemail. Trying again, you end up with the same result. Okay. He’s not picking up his phone.

Fear foregrounds your frustration. It bleeds into your words as you leave your fifth message. One after the other, they morph from mild concern to despairing panic. As the sun dips lower and lower on the horizon and the orange sunlight dwindles, so does your desire to go out.

Because… maybe you shouldn’t go. Maybe you should search for Peter. Finding any trace of him at all would be a stretch, and Chris might be upset about you ditching your plans the next time you see him, but you can’t possibly go out knowing something may be horribly wrong with Peter.

No. No, you won’t cancel plans like that. Peter is fine. Of course, he’s fine. He’s Spider-Man. His duties as a hero come first, no matter what. And he wouldn’t want you to stress so much about him.

Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he is okay. He’s alive. You feel it.

Somehow, you break the trance of your pacing and convince yourself to grab a cab ride to the park. When you arrive, the festival appears to be at a content standstill. It’s not as crowded as you assumed it would be for a Saturday night. Many of the attendants, ranging from all ages, are sitting on the grass, soaking up the fading rays of the sun while the bands finish up prepping. You’re greeted by the distinctive smell of hotdog vendors intermingled with ripening leaves.

There is nothing truly scenic about Cunningham Park, aside from the interspersed trees and trails. You’d been here a handful of times when you were younger, hanging out with friends during summer break, and one thing you loved about the park back then is how the sun shone through the leaves, casting an ethereal glow on nature.

You’re more appreciative of its beauty without the sun’s effect.

It wasn’t that hard finding Chris. All you had to do was look for the person most likely garnering friends from other groups. He’s on a blanket, seated in the center of the crowd and chatting with a group of three people.

When you’re close enough to be spotted, Chris’s face mouth out into a wide smile.

“You came!” Then his eyes roamed around. “Where’s Peter?”

You try for a carefree grin but let it fall when the effort became too much. “He couldn’t make it. School stuff.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine.” His smile drops fractionally, less joyful and more sympathetic. “I’m really glad you made it. Hey, guys. This is Y/N, my friend from work.”

You wave a little and hope for a genuine smile to grace your lips as they all scoot to make room for you on the blanket.

Chris introduces them all. He points to a buff, curly-haired guy named Dez, who you wouldn’t have guessed would be the type of guy to enjoy small park festivals. He looks like the kind of person who regularly crowd-surfs at huge concerts and somehow always winds up with a VIP pass. The next person is a slender girl named Asha, who has thick black hair knotted into a messy soccer bun and a glowing smile. 

The last person Chris introduces you to is his Soulmate. You knew just by the way he said his name. Resounding. Reverent. Borderline fanatic. His name is Quint, and unlike the others, he wraps you up in a surprising hug. What’s even more surprising is you hugging back.

“Nice to finally meet you.” His voice is richly robust, exactly how you would expect someone with his Adonis-like face to sound. Two gorgeous, outgoing Soulmates just seems unfair.

“Nice to meet you, too.” You can’t help looking from Quint’s face to Chris’s, then back again, and wondering if this is what people see when they see you and Peter—a perfect match. “Chris has told me a lot about you. All great things.”

“He better,” Quint says, jokingly gazing at Chris as a blush flared across Chris’s cheeks. “And he’s told me a lot about you and Peter.”

There it goes again: people pairing you two. It’s hard not to notice how natural that sounds, as though you two were meant to be spoken about as an inseparable whole.

You brush off your startled expression as best you can and ask, “Good things, right?”

He nods, then shares a smile with Chris. “I would’ve liked to meet him.” You roughly translate that to mean, ‘I would’ve liked to meet you both.’ The blush on Chris’s face deepens into an embarrassingly bright shade of red when he catches your eye.

A plucked, low-pitched guitar string echoes out to the crowd and effectively commences the start of the music festival. You must’ve missed the band's introduction because they got right into their music, playing a melancholic pop song that sounded pretty good. You were more interested in the guitar riffs and melodic piano notes than the lyrics, but they’re no doubt about love.

Halfway into their set, your stomach growls, and you remember that you didn’t have anything to eat since you got off work. The whole thing with Peter staved off your hunger. He’s still in the front of your mind, but you’re doing your best to enjoy the night with Chris and his friends.

Standing up, you tell Chris, “I’m gonna get a hotdog.”

He tilts his chin up in acknowledgment, then goes back to swaying his head to the music.

You got up just in time to beat the line. There are only two vendors in the park, and they’d be slammed once the music hits its intermission. The one you’re at resides near the outskirts of the crowd, closest to where you left the group, and two people are in front of you.

You wish Peter were here.

Your hand touches the outline of your phone in your back pocket while you wrestle with the idea of calling him again. Maybe he’ll pick up this time.

You’re just about to unlock your phone when you hear someone calling your name—a girl.

The voice gets closer and more breathless, like they’re running at you full speed ahead and couldn’t reach you fast enough. You turn to the sound just as the body slams into you, yanking you out of line and clutching you to their frame.

“Where the hell have you been?!”

You pull away and stare straight into her face, not trusting your own eyes. “Manda?"

...

Taglist: @alexandria-euphoria​

[beebubbly]

Ever After

Prince Ethan x MC  

A twist on A Cinderella story 

SUMMURY: Casey, a beautiful young woman, is treated as a servant by her stepmother and stepsisters. One day, she crosses paths with Prince Ethan, heir to the kingdom, who falls in love with her.

There are those who swear that Perrult’s telling of Cinderella with its fairy godmother and magic pumpkins would be closer to the truth than many of the other versions, one including the legendary slippers to be made of fur.

Perhaps its time to set the record straight; what’s that phase?

Once upon a time...

There lived a young girl who loved her father very much. Her father was a merchant who went abroad and often brought a tribute back for his darling daughter. Casey missed him terribly when he was away, but knew he would always return. 

Casey’s mother had passed away not long after Casey was born. Her father had started to believe it was time for change, hopefully for the better. Upon his travels he met and fell in love with Baroness Rodmilla de Ghent and the two married quickly making their little family complete with the addition of Rodmilla and her two stepdaughters.

But like all stories, there is an unhappy event. One day as Casey’s father was leaving for a new trade, he had a heart attack and sadly passed away. It would be ten years before another man who would enter her life, a man who was still a boy in many, many ways.

In the years that passed since her father’s passing Casey became more of a servant than a member of the family. She worked hard, allowing the hard chores as a distraction from the grief of losing her father.

Luckily, she still had the other servants who she had grown up with and loved like family. Unfortunately, Rodmilla was used to the luxurious lifestyle and the household fell into debt, one of the servants- Elijah had been sold in attempt to pay off some of the debt.

Casey found herself in the forest that was near the house, she picked apples for the household to enjoy. Casey picked an apple and was studying it when the sound of hooves caught her attention. The palace guards rode past her paying her no heed.

Once satisfied with the apples Casey made her way back to the house when a horses whining caught her attention. Curiously, she paused in her walk.

“Come on, you stupid beast” she heard a man’s voice follow.

She watched as a man on the back of one of the families horses jumped the hedge and galloped near.

“Oh, no, you don’t” Casey shook her head running towards the man, dropping most of the apples from her hold.

Taking one of the apples Casey threw it hard at the man effectively knocking him from the horse. The man tumbled from horseback and fell into the hay. Casey grabbed more apples from the ground.

“Thief!” she yelled at the man, attacking him with apples. “This will teach you for trying to steal my fathers horse!”

Another satisfying hit to the man, who attempted to scrambled to his feet, a cloak covered his head and face.

“Please, my own slipped his shoe. I have no choice” The man said as Casey attacked him with more apples.

“And our choice is what? To let you?” Casey asked him.

“I was borrowing it!” 

“Get out, or I’ll wake the house” Casey warned him pelting him with another hit.

“Ow!” 

The man managed to get the cloak from his head, and stand up enough for Casey to see his handsome face, dark hair and blue eyes. Imminently, she recognised him to be the prince. With a gasp, Casey fell to her knees, dropping the apples.

“Forgive me, your highness. I did not see you” Casey said bowing her head to the ground, not daring to look up at the man before her. Prince Ethan looked down, realising he was wearing the royal coat of arms- clearly visible.

“Your aim would suggest otherwise” Ethan said, rubbing at the welt that was forming on his head. She had a powerful arm.

“And for that I know I must die” 

“Then er-” Ethan hesitated, he was not about to be caught by his guards. “speak of this to no-one and er- I shall be lenient”

Ethan climbed back onto the horse, he glanced down at the young woman. She had long dark brown- almost black hair with a thin braid. She glanced up at him for a split second.

“We have other horses, Highness” she told him. “Younger, if that is your wish”

 “I wish for nothing more than to be free of my gilded cage.” he found himself telling her. “For your silence”

He tipped a number of gold coins onto the ground in front of her, with one last look at the young woman he clicked his tongue and rode off.

Casey looked up watching the dark haired prince ride off with her horse. She wondered what had brought him to  run away from home. Glancing down at the coins before her, Casey sucked in a deep breath.

There was a lot of money, quite possibly enough to buy back Elijah! But the only problem was her stepmother, if she caught wind of money- it would be gone in a heartbeat. Casey picked up the gold coins, carefully tucking them into her dress before she stood and started to pick up the apples.

This might just be her lucky day, first the prince speared her life and now she would be able to help her family, with Elijah back, his girlfriend would be reunited with him and that would mean the world to her.

Casey made her way quickly to the house once she finished picking up the apples. She had just entered when she heard her name being yelled by her stepmother.

"Coming!" Casey called back, tipping the apples into a basket.

"Ooh, she's in one of her moods." Jackie warned her as she entered the room with the two older women.

"Did the sun rise in the east?" Sienna asked looking at Casey's bright smile.

"Yes, Sienna, it did" Casey said tipping the gold coins onto the table. "And it is going to be a beautiful day."

The two women gasped at the sight, taking a step closer to the table.

"Look at all those feathers! Child, where did you get this?" Jackie asked.

"From an angel of mercy. And I know just what to do with them." Casry smiled at Sienna.

"Elijah?"

"If the baroness can sell your boyfriend to pay her taxes, then these can certainly bring him home." Casey told her. "The court will have to let him go."

"But the king has sold him to Cartier. He's bound for the Americas." Sienna shook her head.

Casey moved around the room, picking up a cup of salt and the bread.

"This is our home, and I will not see it fall apart." Casey told her firmly, putting a hand to her shoulder.

"We are waiting!" Rodmilla called.

"Oh, take heed, mistress, or these coins are as good as hers." Jackie warned her putting the coins back into Casey's dress handing her another plate.

"Morning, madam." Casey greeted as she entered the room where her mother and two stepsisters sat eating breakfast. "Marguerite. Jacqueline."

"Hello." Jacqueline replied softly.

"I trust you slept well."

"What kept you?" Rodmilla questioned as Casey put the salt carefully on the table.

"I fell off the ladder in the orchard, but I am better now." Casey told her.

"Someone's been reading in the fireplace again. Look at you, ash and soot everywhere." Marguerite commented in distaste.

"Some people read because they cannot think for themselves." Rodmilla said as Casey put the bread onto the table.

"Why don't you sleep with the pigs, cinder-soot, if you insist on smelling like one?" Marguerite told Casey.

"Ooh, that was harsh, Marguerite. Casey, come here, child." Rodmilla grabbed Casey's hands. "Your appearance does reflect a certain crudeness, my dear. What can I do to make you try?"

"I do try, Stepmother. I do wish to please you." Casey told her. "Sometimes, I sit on my own and try to think of what else I could do, how I should act-"

"Oh, calm down, child. Relax."

"Perhaps if we brought back Elijah, I would not offend you so." Casey suggested.

"It is your manner that offends, Casey. Throughout these hard times, I have sheltered you, clothed you and cared for you." Rodmilla said. "All that I ask in return is that you help me here without complaint. Is that such an extraordinary request?"

"No, my lady."

"Very well. We shall have no more talk of servants coming back. Is that quite understood?"

"Yes, my lady." Casey nodded as she turned to leave.

"After all that I do, after all I have done, it's never enough." Rodmilla turned to her daughters as Casey left the room.

If Rodmilla wasn't willing to help get Elijah back, then she was going to do it herself. Casey had a plan.

Dressed in a nice light blue dress and her face clean, Casey made her way to the castle where she knew Elijah would be. She spotted the cage where men were being pushed into. It set off.

Casey ran up stopping the men from leaving by grabbing the rein of the horse.

"I wish to address the issue of this gentleman." Casey told the man on the waggon with the cage, motioning to Elijah.

"He is my servant, and I am here to pay the debt against him."

"You're too late. He's bought and paid for." The man told her.

"I can pay you 20 gold francs."

"Madam, you can have me for 20 gold francs. Now drive on!" the man ordered but Casey stood her ground.

"I demand you release him at once, or I shall take this matter to the king." Casey demanded.

"The king's the one that sold him. He's now the property of Cartier."

"He is not property at all, you ill- mannered tub of guts." Casey said furiously. "Do you honestly think it right to chain people like chattel?"

"I demand you release him at once." Casey repeated stepping closer to the cage.

"Get out of my way!" the man yelled in her face.

"You dare raise your voice to a lady, sir?" a voice called out to them.

Casey turned to find Prince Ethan sat on a horse watching them. She bowed her head at him respectfully.

"Your Highness." the man chuckled. "For- Forgive me, sire. Uh, I meant no disrespect."

"Uh, it's just, uh, I'm following orders here. It's my job to take these criminals and thieves to the coast."

"A servant is not a thief, Your Highness, and those who are cannot help themselves." Casey turned to look at Prince Ethan. The attention of the many people were now on them.

"Really? Well, then, by all means... enlighten us" Ethan motioned a hand for Casey to continue.

"If you suffer your people to be ill- educated, and their manners corrupted from infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them" Casey told him passionatly.

"What else is to be concluded, sire, but that you first make thieves and then punish them?"

"Well, there you have it. Release him." Ethan ordered the man after a moment.

"But, sire-"

"I said release him."

"Yes, sire. The man nodded getting down to release Elijah. Casey followed behind, but sent Ethan a thankful smile over her shoulder.

"I thought I was looking at your mother." Elijah said as he hugged Casey, she handed the man the bag of gold coins.

"Meet me at the bridge." Casey whispered to Elijah.

"Prepare the horses. We will leave at once." Casey announced in a louder voice. Elijah, curious nodded and walked off quickly.

Casey made her way over to Prince Ethan, she curtsied slightly.

"I thank you, Your Highness." she told him sincerely before she set off wanting to get away in case he recognised her or someone realised she wasn't a courtier.

Ethan climbed down off his horse and followed after the woman that had peeked his intrest.

"Have we met?" Ethan frowned at her.

"I do not believe so, Your Highness."

"I could have sworn I knew every courtier in the province." Ethan told her.

"Well, I am visiting a cousin" Casey said thinking quickly as Ethan walked alongside her.

"Who?"

"My cousin."

"Yes, you said that. Which one?"

"Th-The only one I have, sire."

"Are you coy on purpose, or do you honestly refuse to tell me your name?" Ethan almost huffed.

"No. And yes."

Casey paused for a moment before she continued walking briskly.

"Well, then, pray, tell me your cousin's name, so that I might call upon her to learn who you are." Ethan said walking in front of her and backwards so he could still see her.

Ethan stopped for a moment letting her brush past him.

"For anyone who can quote Thomas More is well worth the effort."

This made Casey stop and turn to face Ethan. She was intrigued that he knew of the book.

"The prince has read Utopia?"

"I found it sentimental and dull." Ethan told her as he took a few steps towards her.

"I confess, the plight of the everyday rustic bores me."

"I gather you do not converse with many peasants." Casey noted as Ethan stepped closer again.

"Certainly not. No, naturally." Ethan gave a light scoff.

"Excuse me, sire, but there is nothing natural about it." Casey shook her head lightly, frowning at him as she walked away.

"A country's character is defined by its 'everyday rustics,' as you call them. They are the legs you stand on, and that position demands respect not-"

"Am I to understand that you find me arrogant?" Ethan raised an eyebrow as he stepped in front of her again, standing close to her.

From this distance Casey could see the prince had bright blue eyes and feel the warmth from his body.

"Well, you gave one man back his life, but did you even glance at the others?" Casey glanced back at the others who were still imprisoned, Ethan followed her gaze.

She had a point.

Casey started walking again making Ethan follow.

"Please, I beg of you. A name. Any name."

"I fear that the only name to leave you with is Comtesse Sophia de Lancret." Casey told him.

"There now. That wasn't so hard." Ethan smiled at her.

"Ethan!"

The pair paused again for a moment, Ethan turned to find his mother heading their way.

Casey used this distraction to slip away from the prince. A small smile stayed on her face as she and Elijah made their way home.

[molnitsa-a]

who would zoya be if she were not grisha?

ooooh  boy  i  love  this  question  because  we  get  a  glimpse  of  zoy.a’s  past  before  discovering  her  abilities  in  ko.s  and  she  comes  right  out  says  what  her  dreams  were  as  a  child  that  had  no  hope  of  leaving  her  village  outside  of  the  draft  .  so  ...  let’s  set  the  scene  shall  we  !

“i thought the draft was seen as a curse.” “for some,” zoy.a conceded. “but for others of us it offered an escape, a chance at something other than being someone’s wife and dying in childbirth. when i was little, before my powers emerged, i dreamed of being a soldier.” “little zoy.a with her bayonet?” zoy.a sniffed. “i always had the makings of a general.”

first  ,  i  can’t  stress  enough  how  important  the  context  of  zoy.a  growing  up  in  a  warring  country  is  .  she  has  never  known  a  time  of  peace  .  given  ravk.a’s  geographical  placement  between  two  enemy  nations  at  this  point  in  time  war  IS  ravk.a’s  biggest  industry  .  one  could  say  technology  and  grish.a  invention  come  second  to  that  but  all  of  these  industrial  advancements  have  ultimately  served  the  purpose  of  improving  ravk.a’s  battle  prospects  .  so  ,  with  this  in  mind  it  really  isn’t  surprising  that  even  as  a  child  zoy.a  saw  no  other  future  for  herself  outside  of  fighting  for  her  country  .  

not  only  was  this  the  only  way  out  of  her  village  without  becoming  a  stranger’s  wife  and  a  young  mother  but  becoming  a  soldier  meant  honor  ,  it  meant  becoming  more  than  she  was  because  before  she  found  out  she  was  grish.a  she  was  a  nobody  .  her  own  mother  didn’t  even  seen  her  worth  outside  of  marrying  rich  despite  zoy.a  being  a  clever  child  :  stealing   food  for  the  sake  of  survival  ,  stealing  jewelry  for  the  sake  of  recognition  that  was  impossible  for  her  to  gain  in  her  position  .  

that  being  said  the  common  thread  throughout  zoy.a’s  arc  is  defiance  —  she  doesn’t  settle  for  mediocrity  ,  she  doesn’t  settle  for  injustice  ,  she  doesn’t  settle  for  only  being  a  soldier  .  grish.a  or  not  there  was  really  no  way  zoy.a  was  going  to  be  sent  off  to  join  the  first  army  and  die  a  meaningless  death  on  the  front-lines  .  she  would  have  stopped  at  nothing  to  become  a  general  .   she  would  live  out  of  defiance  just  as  she  does  as  a  grish.a  because  ...  steel  is  earned   and  powers  or  not  zoy.a  has  always  worked  for  what  she  has  gained  .  nothing  has  ever  been  simply  handed  to  her  and  because  of  that  she  continues  to  be  relentless  in  all  that  she  does  .  if  zoy.a  wasn’t a  grish.a  she  would  have  lived  and  died  as  a  decorated  first  army  general  and  those  are  just  the  Facts  .

META QUESTIONS (  ALWAYS  ACCEPTING  !  )  /  @quinnflames

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Nightmares

A/N: Takes place after 2x01, after Ichabbie return from purgatory. Be forewarned: it’s sangsty (soft and angsty)! 

Abbie ran, as hard and as fast as she ever had before. Breath hitching, legs pumping, feet barely finding purchase on the ground before propelling her on, she willed herself to keep moving, to put as much distance between them as possible. She clung to the shadows, avoiding the light she didn't understand, the way it came from nowhere but lit up just enough of Purgatory to make Moloch's pursuit of her more dangerous than any foe she’d escaped from before. Branches struck at her as she flew through the woods, slicing her arms and her cheek, leaving lashes worth taking if it meant her escape. "Lieutenant.... Lieutenant?" Crane's voice came to her on the wind, and she ached to follow it, but this place breathed treachery, and she knew better than to succumb now. She'd lasted this long here only by keeping her wits—what little she had left—about her, and allowing Moloch or one of his minions to trap her using Crane as a disguise seemed the easiest way to go. Still, him calling her name felt like cool water in the desert: refreshing, life-saving, necessary. And a veritable mirage. No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them take her down now. And most especially not by using Crane’s likeness as bait.

“Lieutenant.”

Breathing burned her lungs, but she drove herself forward, away from his approaching voice. She knew he couldn’t be right behind her. He’s not here, she screamed to herself when everything in her demanded she stop and look at him, let down the walls of fear and self-preservation for just a moment while she made sure he was real, that he’d returned for her and would help her fight this demon that’d hunted her since childhood. She could use a boon right now, and having Crane here would certainly lift her spirits—and her chance of survival.

“Lieutenant!”

The urgency in his voice increased, and she screamed when his hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her back, causing her to trip. Her hands and knees landed hard on the ground, and her instincts and sheriff’s training had her rolling onto her back to see her attacker, to face him with even a chance to fight back. But no one was there and she suddenly felt woozy, the inky blackness and the unnatural light swirling together, creating a maelstrom of dizzying effects and causing sparks to flash in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tumult as a whirring sound filled her ears, building up until it was nearly unbearable.

And then it suddenly stopped.

For a second, Abbie wondered if she’d gone deaf, but then Crane’s voice came again, soft and tender and full of fear.

“Lieutenant?”

She slowly eased her eyes open, afraid of what she might see, where she might be, as she tried to slow her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, she commanded herself.

The low lighting inside Corbin’s cabin came from the fireplace before her and the small lamp beside her, both of them chasing shadows into the corners of the room. The couch beneath her felt tangible, the heat from the hearth flushed warmly against her skin, and the man standing next to her appeared solid and real. And definitely concerned.

“Are you alright?” Crane asked quietly, worry written on his face as he sat down next to her, angling himself towards her, placing a steaming cup of warmth on the coffee table before them.

Abbie sat forward, gripping the edge of the couch cushion with both hands. She didn’t answer him, couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure how. Was she alright? After a dream like that? Not out of Purgatory for more than two hours and already haunted and tortured by her time there? The sound of Crane-but-not-Crane chasing her? She’d already had to kill him once. The trauma of that…of the way that monster had hugged her, held her, knew exactly the right words to say to make her believe him. How he’d fulfilled his promise to her. How gentle and caring and concerned he’d seemed. And nearly at the cost of her life.

As both her strength and her weakness, Crane was a danger to her. And their enemies knew it.

Her stomach roiled with sickness, and she gripped the couch harder, trying to anchor herself to reality. To face the man next to her who only wanted to help her but couldn’t possibly understand what beheading him-but-not-him had felt like.

“I…”

She tried to assure him, but the words wouldn’t come, and she continued staring at the fire before her, trying to gather her thoughts, to eradicate the fear coursing through her body from the frantic nightmare.

Crane leaned forward a bit, trying to see her, and though she didn’t turn away, she wasn’t ready for his keen eyes to read what she knew must be present on her face. He seemed to sense her reticence and pulled back to sit up straight, returning to his military posture as his fingers absently drummed against his knees.

“Ah, I made you a cup of tea. I thought it might soothe you after…” He trailed off, unsure how to continue, even as he picked up the steaming cup and handed it to her.

Abbie accepted it, though the thought of drinking it made her stomach ill again. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye to find him surreptitiously watching her, his expression soft and apprehensive.

“Thank you,” she said, holding up the cup for a moment, wanting, without conversation, to let him know she was okay.

“You’re most welcome, Abigail.”

His voice, smooth like honey and gentle in that way he had when they were alone, washed over her, but it was his use of her name that had her freeze with the cup at her lips.

Abigail? she thought, her heart burning in her chest. He’d called her Lieutenant, Miss Mills, Abbie, even using her full name of Grace Abigail Mills once or twice. But Abigail? He’d never…

Blood pounding, the fear in her rising, she moved the cup away from her mouth without taking a sip, slow and easy, trying not to startle.

A disconcerted look stole over his face. “Is something wrong?”

Abbie swallowed hard. “No. It’s just too hot to drink,” she explained, her eyes darting around, looking for anything out of place.

There. Her jacket lay on the seat of the chair in a crumpled pile, not at all how she took care of such an expensive item, gifted to her by Corbin a few Christmases ago. She always hung it up when she took it off. And there, the door, always locked whether they were here or not, wasn’t bolted, a security measure she knew they wouldn’t have foregone after their return from Purgatory.

Abbie felt on edge, the hairs on her arms standing up as her brain scrambled to reason away her worries, her bone-deep fears that this moment, this place, wasn’t real.

Crane’s expression changed to frustration. “You really should drink up,” he scolded, and Abbie’s heartrate kicked up instantly, ice flooding her veins at his tone.

He’d never…  This isn’t real. Dear God, this isn’t real.

Her insides melted in defeat, even as adrenaline flooded her system. She tried to give him a small smile, though it came out more like a grimace, and moved away from him on the couch under the guise of getting more comfortable.

Crane—faux Crane, she reminded herself—leaned towards her as she retreated. “Abigail,” he sneered, his tone a warning she more than heeded.

Without thought, she jerked her hand in his direction, flinging the hot cup of tea into his face. Not-Crane roared in agony, and as Abbie grabbed the knife at her hip—a knife? she wondered. She’d never carried a knife. But it didn’t matter; she’d use it.—his mouth opened wide and snarled at her, a repeat of her last encounter with Not-Crane, and his appearance became distorted, jaw distended, eyes black, face red.

Abbie stabbed the butcher-sized utility knife into his chest multiple times, and the creature bellowed wildly, anguished and distressed. With her last stab, she left the knife burrowed deep in its chest, and as it grabbed at its wounds, she ran for the door. The screams behind her, still in Crane’s rich, full voice, followed her, and she felt sure she had time to escape before Not-Crane or some other demon could catch her.

She was wrong.

Her hand grabbed the doorknob, and she felt tension and dread swirling around her—she only needed a few more seconds to get outside, find the shadows, and run. Again.—when hands clapped on her shoulders, pulling her back.

“Nooo!” she screamed.

“Lieutenant!”

His voice came again, insistent and worried and sounding so real she could cry. And God, did she want to. To just break down and give in and let go and be done. Done with all of it. But it just wasn’t in her. She didn’t know how to give up.

“Let me go!” she hollered, flailing at the hands grabbing at her.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant, wake up!”

Crane’s hands, firm but gentle, held her shoulders as she came awake, his tall, wide frame filling her vision. She flung his hands away, instinctively shoving him back from her, and scrambled to the opposite end of the couch, as far away from him as possible.

His face went through a whole range of emotions within a few seconds: shock, worry, fear, hurt, confusion, uncertainty. And Abbie had to make herself not care.

How many times could this happen? How many times would she feel safe, let down her guard, have a moment to take a breath, believe she’d returned relatively safely to the world of the living, to Corbin’s cabin, only to have to kill a Not-Crane? It didn’t matter that it only happened now in her mind’s eye, not when she woke up in her dreams only to realize she was still trapped in her nightmare. She felt both kills in her soul, hated watching Crane’s handsome face morph into a monster, feared she might hurt the real him if she didn’t figure out a way to determine reality from dreams. Even now…was he real? Or was she still locked in that realm, tortured and haunted? Had he really returned for her, found her? Had they opened the portal and come back, or had that been a cruel demon’s trick of her mind, as well?

Crane flipped the edges of his coat away from him in that wonderfully distracting way he had and slowly eased himself down onto the other end of the couch, eyes full of concern never leaving her. “Lieutenant…?” he began. “I most graciously apologize for any offense; I merely meant to awaken you from your nightmare. Are you alright?”

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real,” she murmured the mantra to herself quietly, keeping her eyes open, mind aware, heart aching with the realization she was going to have to live this scenario over and over and over again, facing and killing Not-Crane each and every time.

“Lieutenant, please.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid her, and her heart spiraled into her stomach, the roiling sensation returning yet again.

Then she saw the steaming mug on the coffee table, the fire blazing in the fireplace, the cabin scene set up again. Did they think her mad already, that she’d fall for this once more?

“You’re not real!” she stated emphatically, eyes boring into the man she longed to cling to. She tucked herself further into the couch corner, even as she kept her legs free to sprint away when necessary.

Confusion clouded his face for a moment before realization dawned. “Your nightmare was of Purgatory, wasn’t it? Lieutenant, I can assure you with full authority you’re very much here, this realm is real, and I’m the genuine article.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said without guile. She held his gaze for a few moments, waiting for his face to transform into the demonic now that she’d confronted him outright, but he merely stared back at her, sympathy and pain etched on his face.

She couldn’t watch his emotional countenance, couldn’t bear to see the face that used to grace the sweetest of her dreams on a monster hell-bent on destroying her for one more second. Her eyes drifted around the room, the firelight flickering shadows into the corners, and she looked at the chair. Her jacket was missing this time. No, not missing…it hung on the coat stand by the door, just where she would’ve left it. She glanced at the door. Locked.

“Abbie…look at me. Please,” he pleaded tenderly, desperately.

They’d fixed their mistakes: the use of her name, the small details that meant nothing to them and meant all the world to her. Damn, they learn fast, she thought, wondering what other horrors awaited her.

“Don’t,” she warned, staring into the fire, at the mug on the table, at the floor. Anywhere but at the Not-Crane pulling her heartstrings with his desperation and fear. “Come on, Abbie…think!” she scolded herself quietly.

“Lieutenant, you’re here, in Master Corbin’s cabin. Miss Jenny took her leave less than an hour ago, and I left you here on the couch to rest whilst I made you dinner. I heard your distress—”

“Wait…you went to make dinner?” she wondered with sarcastic disbelief.

His head swooped a little to the left in that disconcerted way he had before meeting her ironic laughter. “I realize I’m no chef, but we have frozen pizza, and with your ordeal in Purgatory, I thought it best for you to rest.”

“No doubt. Please continue your charade,” she conceded with a flourish of one hand, seemingly amused.

“Lieutenant, I implore you, hear what I’m saying. I heard your distress and came to ensure your safety.”

“And the tea?” she queried, eyeing the mug cooling on the table between them.

“I’ve learned you enjoy your peppermint tea in the evenings to relax, and I thought perhaps you—”

“Stop it!” she cut him off loudly, all trace of irony gone. “You’re not real, none of this is.” She swept her arm around, indicating the room, the cabin, him. “And I’m sick of this game. Sick of it!”

Crane extended his hand towards her, his finger pointing up as it did when he sensed something amiss. “Abbie—”

“No! No more!” She knew she was losing her cool and her temper and likely her mind, but running through the woods and killing the Non-Cranes hadn’t worked so far. Maybe direct confrontation would save her some of the trouble.

“Look,” he entreated, stretching his arm out, fist facing towards her. “Fist bump.”

She laughed at him, the pain and terror and anguish bubbling up anew. “You think that’s gonna work this time?”

“What will? Tell me what I can do to assure you you’re here,” he implored, scooting closer to her.

She held her hand up in warning, all laughter leaving her face. “Stay there.”

“Abbie…”

He sounded so heartbroken, so sad, she almost let down her guard. Almost. But she’d been here before, right here, and he’d become a monster she’d had to kill.

“I made you a promise: I’d come back for you. And I did, do you remember? Granted, there was a…another me, but you beheaded him. Quite admirably, I might add…as disconcerting as that may be.” She remained silent, her expression blank and uncaring as she stared at him, unmoving, and he continued. “Miss Jenny was waiting for us on this side and brought us here a few hours ago.”

Abbie remembered the events but couldn’t be sure they’d been real, not after the repetitive dreams she was having. Couldn’t it all have been a dream? Nightmare, she corrected herself.  

His expression changed from pleading to resolute. He needed to make her believe his words—she saw it written on his face.

That damn finger came up again. So much like Crane. So familiar and irritating and wonderful. But no….

“Just after we met, you told me about your sister, how you elected to keep your encounter in the woods a secret, even if it meant alienating yourself from Miss Jenny. You’d never spoken of it to anyone, not a priest, a therapist, or Master Corbin. But you shared it with me.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. He’d have to give her more than that, more than words he’d whispered to her in Purgatory or something anyone could’ve found out by now. Something Henry or Moloch or Katrina or Andy or anything else that watched them couldn’t know.

“Abbie, please…what can I do?”

She concentrated on him, studying his every move and gesture, watching the pain in his eyes, expecting it to turn to deceit, trying to find a flaw that would reveal the creature’s true nature. So far, this was the best Crane they’d put forth, and she longed to accept his words, ached to ease up the fight for even a few minutes of respite. But not yet. She needed more assurances, to be absolutely sure before letting down her guard.

She swallowed hard, keeping her expression blank. “Where'd you find the password to Paul Revere's cipher, explaining the Horseman's weakness?”

He gave her a hopeful look, not quite smiling but some of the pain eased away from his striking features. “In the Horseman's skull, on the back of his teeth,” he answered quickly, proudly. “What was it?” “Cicero.”

Abbie eyed him curiously, feeling giant cracks snake up the façade of strength she’d erected as he answered her questions correctly. No one in Purgatory could know these things. Despite the fear that this could all be a sham, she felt the tension in her muscles begin to ease. “The first morning after you awakened, what’d I bring you for breakfast?” One side of his mouth quirked up. "Donut holes. Now my favorite," he added with an easy, conspiratorial smile. She wanted to believe him. And more than that…she started to. "Most hated item when I bought you modern clothes?" "Skinny jeans," he groaned with disdain, and she couldn’t keep the wall up any longer. She let the tears pierce her eyes, stinging like nettles after what seemed like years of holding them back. They blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. "Crane...it's really you?" Her voice broke on the last word, and she saw him slowly move towards her. "Yes, Lieutenant, you're here. This is all real."

He reached for her then, slowly, and she inched her hand up to meet his, tentative and fearful as their fingers grasped at one another. His touch, warm and comforting and familiar, sent a shiver up her spine and gooseflesh racing down her arms. "'I'm real," he assured her, nearly whispering. He eased towards her as she clutched at his hand, and he enveloped hers in his much larger one. His eyes never left her face, and he saw the moment she let her guard down, the second belief flooded her eyes. Her face broke in agony as a single tear slipped down one cheek. He feared startling her, scaring her into retreating again, but she launched herself at him and he was only too happy to catch her in his arms.

The dam broke, and Abbie didn’t try to stop it this time. Crane had actually found a way to break her out of Purgatory. He’d come back for her like he’d promised, they’d escaped, and she’d reunited with Jenny, returned to the cabin, and fallen asleep. The dreams tortured her, but here with Crane—the real one—here in his arms, she could finally, freely release some of her anguish.

One of his hands cupped her head, and her heart constricted in her chest at his gentle touch, at the tenderness with which he held her. So familiar and comforting and safe. The other wrapped protectively around her back as she clung to the front of his shirt with both hands, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry, Abbie. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his heart shattering at the effects his actions had caused her to suffer. Even safe now, she still suffered.

Her head shook against his chest. “I made my choice.”

Her whispered voice hitched, and he closed his eyes at her words, at the strength and bravery she possessed, even in the face of horrors he couldn’t possibly understand. He didn’t agree with her statement—he could have, should have fought harder against the choice she and Katrina had made to leave her in Purgatory—but a discussion over his failings could come later. Right now she needed him, not his apologies.

She trembled in his arms, and he inched closer, wrapping her tightly against him.

“Alright,” he breathed on a whisper, dropping a kiss into her hair. “You’re alright now. I’ve got you. No matter what, I’ve got you…”

Abbie stayed curled up against him until her tears dried up, her desperate gasps for air slowly transforming into small hiccupped breaths, the raging squall within her finally calming into a gentle storm. She came to herself, feeling washed up and spent and more exhausted than she could ever remember. Not to mention a little embarrassed to have fallen apart in Crane’s arms. She noticed he hadn’t removed himself though, even now that she’d calmed. And she couldn’t make herself retreat either. The safety of his embrace felt entirely too soothing, deliciously warm, and altogether like home after repeatedly fighting a monster wearing his face. His hand ran light circles across her back, a consoling massage like she hadn’t felt in ages, his touch gentle and unassuming, requiring nothing of her but to simply enjoy and be comforted by it. She could hear his heartbeat, feel it beneath where her head lay against his chest, a steady rhythm lulling her into contentment. And making her realize how easy it would be to stay like this forever.

After a while, she forced herself to move, pulling herself up to a seated position, though neither of them broke their connection, Crane’s hands never leaving her as she resettled into his side. His arm stayed around her, his other hand holding onto her arm, absentmindedly caressing her wrist and hand.

With her free hand, she wiped her cheeks clean of tears, closing her eyes against the burn that followed her spent tears.

Ichabod hesitated to break the silence, simply wanting peace for her, even if it came at the end of a breakdown. At least she’d let out some of her torment. Still, he couldn’t resist being attentive, needing to know if he could help her in any way, though he loathed the risk of her leaving his arms. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?” He kept his voice quiet, soft, hardly above a whisper.

He felt her shake her head, then her voice came, shaky and wrung out. “I just wanna stay right here.”

Her words constricted his chest as his heart bloomed, and he nuzzled against her, gently tightening his arm around her. “I want that too.”

His voice came so softly Abbie wondered if she’d really heard him or only imagined it because it’s what she’d want him to say. Regardless, his warmth surrounded her, his presence a comfort she sorely needed, craved if she were honest with herself. He, her other Witness, was the only one who understood the forces they fought, the trauma and aftermath of their battles, the courage, strength, and determination it took to face the next relentless horror standing on tired feet and bearing an emotional exhaustion that never went away. Tonight, all of it seemed too much to handle alone.

Minutes passed, and Abbie counted them by his heartbeats, by his fingers tracing fire trails along her skin, by his breaths feathering into her hair. And by the questions he chose not to ask, no matter how badly she sensed he wanted to. She needed to purge them though, the nightmares she faced once, twice, and likely would again in the future. How would she know she was really awake, that he was really him? They’d have to figure out a code.

“I was back there again,” she began without preamble a few minutes later. “They were chasing me, and no matter how fast I ran, I could hear them closing in on me.” She paused, feeling the fear again, the pounding of her feet and her pulse, the desire to give in to his voice, only to escape and have to fight her way out all over again.  

“You don’t have to,” he assured her quietly, his tone imbued with sympathy and compassion, his words telling her he would listen to her nightmare or her silence—the choice was hers.

She continued, wanting to purge the terror. “I tried to stay in the dark, but the light there…it was strange…like it was searching for me; it wouldn’t let me stay hidden from the demons. And…” She hesitated, knowing he’d feel wracked with guilt at what came next. “You were calling me, chasing after me, too.” Her voice went softer, both at the memory and at how difficult she found it to recap the visions. “I knew it wasn’t real so I kept running, but you caught up to me, grabbed my shoulder, and I tripped. When I landed, I woke up here. At least I thought it was here. You were shaking me awake from that nightmare. The fire was going, you’d turned the lamp on, brought me tea.” She pointed listlessly as she detailed the ways the nightmare mimicked reality. “I thought I’d really woken up, but…the name thing again. You called me ‘Abigail,’ and I knew it wasn’t you. You got angry when I wouldn’t drink the tea and…like before, you…changed, became evil. I had to…” She swallowed hard against the thought, wanting to push the words back into her stomach instead of retching them up, but her body refused. “…I stabbed you. Over and over again. I had to. And then here you were again, shaking me awake in front of the fire, brewing a cup of tea, asking me to trust you again.”

His chest ached as she detailed the dreams, how the demons still plagued her, even in sleep, how frightened she sounded—and had been when she’d awakened.

“Oh, Abbie,” he breathed in a devastated tone, sorrow stealing over his face.  “I’m so sorry. I can’t express my regret at leaving you behind or the pain it’s caused you. I’d trade places with you a thousand times over if I could relive that moment and let you return here instead.”

“Crane,” she stopped him softly. “I decided to stay. I chose to stay and face him. I…couldn’t have known how difficult it’d turn out to be, but I chose.”

“But you didn’t choose this: the nightmares, the…demonic versions of me plaguing you.” He realized he sounded angry, and justifiably so at the methods of the enemy, but she didn’t need his rage right now.

He took a calming breath, focusing on the woman curled into his side and how she trusted him even now after her ordeal. By rights she should be casting him away, needing distance from him, breaking down in front of someone else or, worse yet, while alone. That she’d become vulnerable in his arms only emphasized the strength of mind and character she possessed.

The thought nearly stole his breath, and he dared to press another kiss onto the crown of her head.

“No, but it’s what I’ve been dealt.” She sighed heavily. “And so I’ll deal.”

“I’m here. We can deal with it together, if you’ll grant it.”

She turned her head to peer up at him, her big brown eyes soft and damp as tears flooded them but didn’t fall, the tip of her nose pink, her lips full and slightly swollen from crying, her expression vulnerable and somehow hopeful. He stared at her a few beats too long, and his heart started pounding harder in his chest as the room suddenly became warmer.

He couldn’t feel this way. Not now. Not ever, he reminded himself.

“Together?” he breathed, trying to stay focused on their conversation and not how soft she felt, how easily she fit into his side, how tenderly she stared at him, how kissable her lips seemed. How he never wanted to let her go.

She nodded her head once resolutely. “Together,” she promised. Then she nuzzled back into his side, her head upon his heart.