#(I do love a forge though… I can’t WAIT to try blacksmithing… even as an assistant/trainee/‘adaptable helper’)

[mycological-mariner]

Cool so I get to start training in a forge and welding and steam engine maintenance and fitting on weekends

[write-ur-wrongs]

Be Your Man

A/N: I know I say it every time, but seriously, thank you SO MUCH for your requests, anon or otherwise. It means the world to me that you trust me with your visions. Here’s a requested fic inspired by the song “Be Your Man” by Rhys Lewis! It’s angsty and has the slightest hint of smut if you look really hard. As always, there are no physical descriptions of the reader! I hope you like it - I cried at the end lmao. 

It’s not proof-read so I apologize in advance!! I really hope you like it. 

_______________________________________________________

Being with the bard was, in a word, comfortable.

His connections ensured you always had a soft bed in a warm inn waiting for you at the end of the day. His reputation and acclaim afforded you a higher status among villagers, scholars, and even knights. Everyone loved his music and adored his visits. With him, you were always welcome.

With him, every day was a gift and every evening a celebration. With him, you never found yourself in harm’s way. Never felt the gnawing pull of hunger or the ache of thirst. He never left your side and you had no reason to leave his. And he loved you, he really did. He showed you everyday, through his songs, his words, his touch.

You were his sun and you were, for lack of a kinder word, comfortable.

That isn’t something you were used to, being comfortable. Your life had been tumultuous from the start and you had hardened yourself accordingly. Everything you had you’d earned as a journeying blacksmith; working whatever you could to make a sale. Now though, having access to any workshop, material, or tradesman the continent could offer, you were at the height of your craft.

But still, nothing could ever compare to the blade you forged for Geralt.

It was stunning, perfectly balanced, crafted from your best steel and iron Geralt had been gifted from the mines of Mahakam. The ornate curve of the hilt took you days to perfect and the faceted garnet you’d set within the pommel shone brilliantly with a clarity that royal houses across the continent would envy.

“It’s exceptional,” he murmured, completely in awe, while examining your work, “how you manage to make your blades look so intricate without sacrificing quality, I’ll never understand.”

You bit your smile to keep yourself from gushing as you watched him wield the sword as if it was an extension of him. And it should be, as you crafted it with him in mind.

“Whoever buys this will be one lucky bastard,” he said as he came out of a mock-parry and pirouette.

“Oh, I’m not selling it!” you said, shaking your head at him as he sheathed the weapon.

“What? Y/N this could get you four maybe five hundred Novigrad crowns! Did someone commission you for it?”

“No, no, it’s a gift.”

“Y/N you are far too generous.” He admonished, attempting to hand the sword back to you.

“Hush, it’s for you.” You say, laying your hands over his, your eyes sparkling.

Gods the way he looked at you then. The way his face softened when you laid your hands over his, how his breath hitched when you took a step towards him. Your bodies so close, eyes flitting from his hooded lids to his lips, and when you finally –

“We’re just about there, darling!” Jaskier sang, pulling you out of your reverie just as the familiar ache began pulling at your lower belly.

“Ah! Y-yes! Wonderful!”

“Well look at you, you’re blushing! Are you remembering the last time we were here?” He teased flirtatiously, giving your thigh a squeeze.

“Mm you know me well,” you lied, quickly taking his hand in yours to get it off your thigh. “How much farther, would you say? I’m starving.”

“Not too long, darling.” He said softly, glad that you were watching the forest with rapt attention, and praying the sting of your deflection wouldn’t be too obvious should you turn to meet his eyes. You didn’t turn to look at him though, and that filled the bard with both relief and immense sadness.

Jaskier wasn’t a fool, he recognized your guilt, sensed the way your heart longed for another. But every now and then, when it was just the two of you, he was sure he saw joy in your eyes. You loved him, maybe not quite as he loved you, but he was certain you loved him.

She just loves him more. He smiled at you sadly, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand in silent resignation.

**

“God, I fucking love these beds!” you sighed blissfully, rolling onto your back. The pair of you had meant to get your room and then head out into the village to find work but you hadn’t been able to ignore the fire the earlier memories had ignited.

“Careful my sweet, or I’ll start to think you’re only with me for the fine accommodations.” Jaskier chanced, hoping you’d finally say the three words he so desperately wanted to hear you say, and see that you meant it.

“Ha! Shut up, Jask.” You laughed lightly, snuggling into his arms where you couldn’t catch the disappointment in his eyes, and where he couldn’t see the sadness in yours. Don’t go there, Y/N, you thought, Jask is Jask, and he loves you just fine.  

“Why don’t you let me,” you whisper, peppering his neck and jaw with kisses between words, desperate to get your mind off your witcher, “show you how much I love you?”

“Aa-euhm…” Jaskier let out a breathless squeal as your hand creeped between his thighs and he let himself be lost in your touch. Maybe, he thought, good enough could be enough.

**

You’d given up on the idea to go out to find work long before the sun had set on the village, but that surely didn’t keep work from finding you. The pair of you had barely settled yourselves at the table when you were recognized and showered in contracts.

“Please, madam, I know it’s not the priceless blades you normally work with, but my pots and pans are in desperate need to be replaced –”

“Of course, miss Eldridge,” you interrupted the inn’s owner gently, placing a light hand over hers to calm her nerves, “it would be a pleasure to help you. I’ve recently been working with new casting molds, and it would be an honour to sell you my first.”

“Oh, my! Thank you, Y/N, thank you!”

“No, thank you – this stew is easily the best we’ve ever had! It would be a crime if you weren’t able to keep serving.”

“Oh, you’re too kind!” she laughed humbly, giving your arm a squeeze in thanks before walking back to the kitchen.

You were beaming as you watched the woman practically skip back behind the heavy wooden door.

“What? Why are you staring?” you asked Jaskier, bringing your beer up for a long sip.

“I love watching you work; you shine like the stars on a winter’s night.” He said, reaching over to hold your hand in his.

“Ugh, Jask,” you groaned, wrinkling your nose at his poetics. “You’re such a cheeseball,” you teased him lightly, as you’d done many times before, but this time something flashed in his eyes.

“Hey! I know you were never showered in compliments when you were with Geralt, but-”

“What?!” you interrupted, practically spitting out your last sip.

Jaskier merely leaned back in his seat and gave you a one-shouldered shrug. You could tell he was trying to be aloof but in the six months you’d been together, the topic of Geralt had been a like a landmine. Someone always got hurt, actually, you both ended up hurt.

“What do you mean, ‘what’? I’m not wrong here, love.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Jask. It was a beautiful sentiment, really! I’m just – y-you know how I am with this kind of stuff.”

“I know, dear” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on his drink.

“I adore your work,” you added, your nerves heightened by his apparent sense of calm, “I’m just not… always comfortable being the subject.”

“My expressions of love make you uncomfortable now?” he scoffed, looking up at you with big, sad eyes.

“No! No, Jask. T-that’s not what I meant!” you put your drink down and scooted closer to him to take both his hands in yours. “Jaskier, please… I love you. This is how I love, it-it’s who I am, it’s how I am. Please, I’m sorry. I’ll be your star.”

Jaskier only shook his head slowly as he looked into your eyes. “I’ve seen you in love, Y/N. I believe you love me,” he said, giving your hands a squeeze, “but you’re not in love with me.”

“That isn’t true, Jask.” You whispered, blinking back heavy tears. You held his hands so tightly now, as if afraid he’d just disappear into thin air before you.

“It is though, and that’s okay.”

“Jaskier…”

“You know, you always use my name,” he said, nodding slightly as he thought, “not always my full name, but alas.”

You opened your mouth to disagree but couldn’t bring yourself to use a pet name, and so your mouth opened and closed silently like a fish. The bard looked at you knowingly with his large, knowing eyes, full of love but still heavy with sadness.

“Jaskier,” you finally conceded, feeling yourself crumble under his heavy gaze, “what’s happening?” you asked, your voice coming out of you like a strangled whisper.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I can’t lose you too.”

“‘Too’.” He repeated flatly.

You wanted to comfort him, to correct him, but nothing was coming to you. He wasn’t wrong, and you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him now.

“Why are we doing this now, Jask? I thought we were doing okay. I thought we were happy,” you finally managed to ask, your voice shaky.

“Look, I’m,” he tried, his own voice breaking despite himself, “I know I can’t compare with him.” He waited a beat to see if you’d interrupt him with a correction and when you didn’t, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer to you and took a deep breath before continuing.

“I know how you feel. How you’ve… been feeling. Y/N, Geralt is here. He walked in not long ago, and he’s sitting at the back the of bar.”

Everything went blurry. You could tell he was still talking to you it was like your ears were stuffed with cotton – everything was muffled but too loud. You were going to pass out. Or throw up. Or both. Every inch of you was screaming to turn around and look for him, but you were frozen in place like a deer who’d spotted the archer and heard the bow snap but just stood stock-still and let the arrow hit.

“Y/N,” Jaskier pulled your hands closer to him, pulling you back to reality along with them, “I made the decision that I’m okay being your second choice,” he swallowed thickly before continuing, “but now I need you to make a choice.”

You felt as though you’d just been struck. He was looking at you with too much kindness, too much understanding, too much compassion. Holding his gaze made you feel as though a knife was being twisted into your chest, but you were so afraid that if you looked away, he’d leave you.

“My dove,” he says softly as if reading your mind, “I love you and no matter what you chose I’ll be there for you, always. I just want you to be truly happy.”  

You squeezed your eyes shut to keep more tears from falling, but upon feeling him get up to leave the table, your eyes shot open and you let the tears fall.

Very softy, Jaskier cradled your face in his hand and gave your forehead a lingering kiss before pulling away.

“I’m going to head upstairs… I’ll see you up there?” he whispered hopefully.

You nodded up at him wordlessly and let the tears fall as you watched him head up the stairs.

Left alone, you wrapped your arms around yourself and bit your cheek until you tasted blood to keep yourself from openly sobbing. The bustle of the inn allowed you some sense of privacy, which you appreciated, but it also exacerbated your loneliness. Letting out a shaky breath, you poured the rest of your drink into your mouth and swished it around to wash away the blood before swallowing.

Jaskier knew. All these months you thought you were the only one hurting, the only one who felt the weight of the witcher’s memory, but you were wrong. Gods were you ever wrong.

You felt terrible, and far too sober. You quickly swiped at your tear-soaked face, picked up your empty stein and turned to make your way to the bar.

But then you saw him.

He was alone, as always, wearing the thick wool cape you loved. The hood wasn’t up so you could see that his snow-white hair was a mess of knots. His eyes were fixed on his drink, so you were saved from meeting his gaze. Gods, you’ve missed him, and fuck he looked good. And tired. Your heart broke at the sight of him.

Then he looked up at you and your breath caught in your throat. His rich, golden eyes were looking straight at you… and they were vacant. He was looking through you, not at you; he didn’t remember you or care to, and your already broken heart shattered once more.

I am nothing to him, you thought somberly, exchanging your empty mug for a full one. You took a deep, shaky breath and downed your beer in one go, slamming the stein back down decisively. But I’m everything to him, maybe that will be enough.

Before heading up the stairs to where you knew the bard was waiting, you allowed yourself one last look at Geralt, only to find he wasn’t at his table anymore. Seems the fates had decided for you, your thought, letting a hollow laugh escape your lips.

The staircase wasn’t especially long, but the trip up felt unending. You took every step slowly, allowing yourself these brief moments of grief over the official loss of your witcher before you committed yourself fully to Jaskier. No more daydreams, no more longing, no more imagining his large, strong arms around you while the bard’s sinewy frame enveloped you.

You had just about convinced yourself that you’d made the right decision when you spotted him, leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs.

“G-Geralt,” you breathed, feeling yourself smile despite yourself.

“Y/N.”

“What, um, how – uh, hi,” you stuttered, needing to look up at the ceiling to keep yourself from completely melting under the burn of his gaze.

“Hm,” he hummed, taking a hesitant step towards you, “still the wordsmith I see.”

“Hilarious,” you retorted, falling effortlessly back into your habits. “I’m happy to see you’ve still got my blade,” you said, nodding to the sword behind his back.

“Of course,” he breathed, now dangerously close to you. “I take you with me everywhere.”

“You mean my blade?” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes.

“No.” he said, his eyes boring into you, sparking the flame you’d spent so long trying to tamp out. “Are you here with him?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

“You know I am.” You replied defensively, irrationally angry to hear him bring up the bard.

“How is he?”

“He’s fine,” you spat, but seeing the way Geralt’s eyes softened knowingly at you, you couldn’t help but to backpedal your aggression. “He’s Jaskier, you know? All silver linings and sunshine.”

“I’m sure,” he murmured, casting his eyes downward as he remembered his friend’s almost insufferable positively. “And you? Are you happy?”

“Geralt…” you practically groaned, crossing your arms to keep the heat radiating off of him from taking over you.

“Are you?” he insisted, reaching over to let his warm, calloused fingers ghost over your forearm. The feeling lit your body on fire and left an obvious layer of goosebumps in their wake.

He was standing so close to you know, you could smell the leather, cedar, and smoke emanating off of him, just like it always had. You could feel his breath on your face. Despite yourself, you looked up at him through your lashes. His proximity was intoxicating, inexplicably comforting.

“This is cruel… you’re being cruel…” you whispered, wiping stubborn tears away but not taking a step in any direction, unable to risk his leaving if you were to move.

“Y/N…”

“He loves me, Geralt, so much.” You insisted, almost like a mantra.

“But are you happy?” Now he was whispering. He sounded sad, his deep gravelly voice melting over you like sunlight after a frozen night.

“Geralt –” you warned, shaking your head.

“Answer me.”

“No. I-I’m not.”

“You’re not going to answer me?”

“I’m not happy.” You conceded, the truth of the statement washing over you as you heard yourself say it.

“Me either.”

You looked up at Geralt then, letting yourself take in the sight of him in full; his eyes, big and sad and fierce as ever, his brows furrowed, creating that deep crease you so desperately wanted to reach up and soothe, his mouth, his lips. You were barely inches from each other now, all you had to do was tip your chin, stand a little straighter…

He closed the gap between you then, his lips crashing into yours hungrily. You fully surrendered yourself to him, reveling in the feeling of his body against yours and you let yourself be happy, insanely, deliriously happy, for the first time in months.

***

Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed, his head in both hands, and sobbed. His broken breath echoed around the empty room, sporadically drowning out the sound of his best friend kissing the love of his life on the other side of the door.

She was never mine, he thought as sobs broke through him.

She was never mine.

[khaotic-kitsunes]

Forged of Love

You were most certainly not too late! In fact, just in time because I’m pretty sure you were the last request before I closed my askbox...so good timing??? And as for this request? *Chefs kiss* I have so much love for this?? How dare you present me with such a fun ask??? I rarely write for Eijiro but he’s actually super fun to write for??? He can either be so soft and fluffy and just...yes?? Or he can be that hot, frustratingly sexy pro you wanna bang.

Either way, I hope you enjoy this scenario! I was gonna write headcanons but the request caught me in a scenario-writing mood. So, yeah.

Let me know what you think!

I would also like to note that I was gonna schedule this for the 27th since I’ve got posts ready to go for the 25th and 26th...but fuck it, I put four sleep-deprived hours into this and I wanna post it now.

🥃 AO3 🥃 || ✉️My Askbox✉️ || 💬Discord💬

Cheeky Kitsune 🦊💋

.

 “Thank you again, Mr. Kirishima”

 .

 Eijiro smiled warmly at you as you curtsied in front of him, holding the package that he had taken great care to wrap for you earlier that morning, containing the latest request you had made of him; small enough for him to allow you to take it back to your home without him accompanying you, but large enough to fill your arms.

 Any bigger and Eijiro would have insisted on carrying the heavy iron item back on your behalf, it wouldn’t be proper to allow someone such as yourself, a well-known aristocrats daughter, to carry such a thing home.

 “No problem! And hey, I thought we agreed that you’d start calling me Eijiro? You’re here often enough for it to be normal, Miss. (Name)” You tilted your head at his cheery words, a shy smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you glanced back towards the carriage that awaited your presence. Not nearly enough time for a casual chat, but maybe for a cheeky remark here and there; at least, until your next visit.

 Which, judging by the condition of your horses’ shoes, would be considerably close. Not that you would complain about such an opportunity, you had been using every chance you had to come see the charming, young blacksmith that had surfaced in the town. Errands or requests that you made simply to see him, it didn’t matter.

 Anything was enough.

 .

 “Well in that case, you should be calling me (Name) and not Miss (Name)…right?”

 .

 The corners of Eijiro’s mouth stretched out into a large grin as he laughed at your statement, giving a nod of his head before rubbing at his neck sheepishly; the action causing the muscles in his arm to flex impressively, drawing your thoughts to an inappropriate place.

 “Yeah, sorry about that. You’re right! I guess I’ll see you another time (Name), make sure you take care. Alright?” You gave a simple nod in response to his words of care, turning to make your way towards the carriage despite how much you wished that you could stay and chat with Eijiro a little while longer; however, there was only so long you could stay outside of the house. Any longer and your father would grow concerned, perhaps even look into what had caught your attention as of late and that, was the last thing you wanted.

 “Goodbye, Eijiro.”

 .

 ~  ~  ~

 .

 “So, I saw you with that cute little lady earlier”

 .

 Eijiro frowned as he shoved his latest work in progress into the burning hot forge, making sure to bury it beneath a healthy layer of coals before lifting his gaze to look over at his best friend and greatest rival; Tetsutetsu.

 More than a little surprised to see him in his Smithy at such an hour when usually, his rival’s own business should be booming.

 “Tetsutetsu? Uh, yeah, (Name) had some stuff to pick up this morning.” Eijiro shrugged off Tetsutetsu’s remark, looking back towards the flames before removing the sword and moving to rest it on his largest Anvil, reaching towards his sledgehammer so that he could make the necessary adjustments. He wasn’t sure why Tetsutetsu was bringing you up, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity; he only hoped it wasn’t because he had feelings for you.

 “Strange, don’t you reckon? For a young aristocrat’s daughter, of a marriageable age, to spend all her time in your shop?” Eijiro frowned at Tetsutetsu’s question before hammering the sword in front of him as he needed, using the noise-filled time to think on why his friend was chatting about such a topic; it made no sense to him. None at all.

 “Not really? If you need something, you go get it. Right?” Eijiro grunted with effort, setting the sledgehammer down before moving to dunk the sword in the bucket of cold water nearby, closing his eyes tightly to stop the steam from making his eyes sting; that had been one of the first things he had learnt early on during his apprenticeship days.

 “Really? So, you don’t think it’s odd that she comes in every second day? With a new request, or to pick something up? That she doesn’t just send a butler or a maid to run the errand instead of herself?” Eijiro sighed loudly, lifting the sword from the bucket before putting it down on a nearby bench, turning to face the curious looking Tetsutetsu; unable to focus on his work when you were the topic of conversation.

 “What are you trying to say Tetsutetsu?” His friend scoffed at his question, laughing at the confused expression that Eijiro wore, apparently finding what he had said to be amusing in some way, shape or form; though how, Eijiro wasn’t sure.

 “Tetsutetsu!” The man standing across from him slowly stopped laughing, letting out a sigh as he crossed his arms, observing Eijiro for a moment longer before giving a shake of his head; almost in disapproval.

 “I can’t believe you don’t see it Eijiro…the girl is head over heels for you!” Tetsutetsu’s words had his mouth dropping open in shock, about to protest the idea of such a claim before a frown began to form on his features, his thoughts running over all of his encounters with you; the pieces slowly clicking into place.

 “Well look at that…penny finally drop, did it?” Tetsutetsu grinned, watching Eijiro before chuckling and moving closer, patting the red-head’s shoulder firmly; almost managing to make the strong man stumble. Almost.

 “You should see the look on your face man, it’s priceless!” Eijiro blinked quickly at Tetsutetsu’s words, shrugging off his hand before reaching for the sword he had been working on moments ago, wanting to get the commission finished and now having a good reason to get it done early; he had an interesting conversation to have and little patience to wait for it.

 “Shouldn’t you be at your own shop? Or you gonna give up on your store, come be my apprentice?” Eijiro laughed when he felt Tetsutetsu’s fist against his shoulder, the hit not enough to hurt but enough to make the point that his rival wanted to make; there would be no apprenticeship.

 “Laugh it up, at least I can tell when a woman is interested in me!”

 .

 ~  ~  ~

 .

“Oh, good morning (Name)! Isn’t it a bit early for you to be here?”

 .

 You jolted in surprise as you stepped into Eijiro’s Blacksmith shop, offering a small smile in greeting to the grinning young man that seemed to be putting the finishing touches on something that you couldn’t quite make out.

 “Good morning, Eijiro…I suppose it might be, but you see, my horses need new shoes and who else could I trust to do such a thing but you?” You tilted your head curiously as he chuckled to himself, looking over at you with a mischievous grin decorating his face; his smile easily reaching his eyes as you so loved to see.

 “New shoes? I can have them done today, my day clears up in a few minutes” Eijiro chuckled at the confused look that formed on your features, finding it to be more than a little adorable; he was still surprised that Tetsutetsu had been right the other week, but now that he was aware of your feelings, it was easy to see.

 “A few minutes? Am I interrupting you then?” He shook his head in response to your question, setting down whatever it was that he had been working on before making his way over to you, his grin still present on his lips.

 “Not at all, I just had something I wanted to ask you” You nodded your head in response to his explanation, a sign for him to go ahead with whatever question the cheerful man had for you; you had no idea what that question might be, but your curiosity was beginning to get the better of you.

 “(Name), would you allow me to court you?” His question immediately threw you off-guard, causing your mouth to drop open in a mild form of surprise before you quickly closed it, covering your mouth with your hand to hide the reaction from him; though it was easy to see that it was too late for that.

 “(Name)? If it’s about your father, I already went and asked him for permission to ask you…apparently being the best Blacksmith in town has its perks” Eijiro chuckled nervously as he rubbed at the back of his neck, anxiously awaiting your response; your silence filling him with unease, fearing your rejection.

 “You…you went to my father? And he didn’t kick you out?” You stared at him incredulously before shaking your head, a soft giggle spilling past your lips. Even though you hadn’t expected Eijiro to go to your father, it was something that shouldn’t have actually surprised you; Eijiro was a hard-working man, an honest and up-front man.

 Visiting your father for permission to request such a thing would be nothing to a man like Eijiro, it was one of the things you loved about him most.

 “No…? I thought he might, but we had a drink together and he asked me some things…in the end, he gave his permission. Ah, but he was very clear that if you rejected me, that would be the end of it” Eijiro shuddered at the memory of his visit to your father, intimidated by the threat that he had been given should he disrespect you in any way, shape or form; however, Eijiro had no plans to do such a thing.

 “How unusual…you’re not the first man to ask him something like that…” You trailed off into a curious whisper before shaking your head to clear your thoughts and stepping closer to the man that held your affections, reaching out to take hold of his warm hands; a soft smile decorating your lips, easing his nerves more than he thought possible.

 “I would love it, if you would court me Eijiro…” Your soft murmur of agreement made his grin return ten-fold before his arms wrapped around your waist gently, a chaste kiss placed to your cheek; thankfully leaving you free of soot as he hadn’t fired up any of his equipment just yet. Unusual for his line of work, but then again, perhaps he had other plans.

 “I promise you (Name), I might not be as wealthy as your family, but I will treat you like a princess!”

 .

 “Silly man, I care for you just as you are…you don’t need to spoil me for my affections, you already have them.”

[tailorvizsla]

[Disclaimer: I was absolutely fucking wasted when I wrote this. I’ve cleaned up all the typos I could find, but “Drunk Tailor’s Thots” and the meme stay. Enjoy.]

Title: cracks in his armor Pairing: Daddy x Reader, your tongue x his hammer (and other places), your back x his work table lmaoooo [Sadet (OC) x f!Reader] Word Count: too many (~3k ish?) Rating: absolute filth like NC-21 or something like I’d probably throw myself off a cliff if anyone saw this shit irl Warnings: no use of a condom because tailor is a hoe like that just pretend it’s okay, the ol’ in an out, you lick his hammer, stuff, plot what plot this is straight up porn, inappropriate use of a hammer, he is big meat mando we are hiding all 7+ inches of tiingilar-fed Mandalorian sausage in various holes, we’re climbing the Matterhorn and sliding all the way down to base camp coochie first, we are fucking Sadet like it’s the Dicklympics and we’re going for gold in every category Author’s Notes: just pure unadulterated thirst because who doesn’t want to get bent over and absolutely destroyed by a dude with nice shoulders and a huge dick also we’re licking his hammer BUT pretend it’s CLEAN I ain’t got time to write in him cleaning it off, it’s clean, I promise. 

[I feel like I need to apologize to @magsgotswags​ for what I’ve done to her boy, but...that would be a huge fucking lie and I am not a liar. That being said...I’ll hose him off, put his hammer through the autoclave, and make sure he eats a well-balanced meal before I send him back. 🤣]

📚 My Master List 📚

You’re not sure how this even started but here you are, bent forward over Sadet’s work table with your pants down around your thighs and his cock buried in you to the hilt. He’s got one hand wrapped around the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the soft, buttery wood underneath you. The other hand holds your wrists behind your back as he fucks into you, his fingers like iron bands as they dig into the delicate bones in your wrists. 

Sadet isn’t big into emotions, but you know for a fact there are at least two things he loves in life – his craft and his big beautiful beskar hammer. Hazily, you wonder if it was the fact that you had cornered him to ask what his line of work entailed that caught his laser-like attention and got you into this situation. A sharp thrust forces a half-sob from your throat as his cock finds the end of you, as if he can sense your distraction from the lesson at hand. He has this thing where he likes to lecture you and test you on what you’ve retained later. It’s not fair – you both know it – but you’re whimpering so much right now you can’t even protest his treatment of you.

Even if you could, you wouldn’t. As emotionally constipated as he is, this is still the best cock you’ve had in your life and you’ve made some headway with getting him to open up a bit. You are not fucking this up. Licking your lips, you let your eyes drift shut as he continues his merciless pace, hips smacking wetly into your ass. You’re virtually helpless to do anything but take his cock. Just the way you like it.

“ – utilizes seven basic techniques [1],” he’s saying, and you feel him look down at you as he squeezes his fingers around your wrists. “Can you name four of them and tell me what each one accomplishes?”

You manage to uncross your eyes as you open them.

“D-drawing,” you gasp out. “Len-lengthens th-the metal.”

“You like length, don’t you,” he murmurs. “Continue.”

A whine pours out of your mouth as he changes his angle just a bit, pressing his cock right into that sweet spot, the one that has you squirming and throbbing.

“B…bending…”

“Mm-hmm,” he responds. “Bent, just like you right now, hmm?”

“…heat,” you manage to get out. “Allows it to b-bend. Ductile. Malleable.”

“Just like the heat of my hands makes your legs spread wide open,” he murmurs. “Bend apart like red hot steel. You feel like it on the inside, too.”

Squirming, you let out a pathetic little mewl as he slows his pace, letting you feel every inch as he draws out until his cock threatens to fall out of you entirely.

“Come on, two more,” he says. “You can do it, little one.”

You wrack your mind, trying to remember what he had been saying earlier. The wretched man stops moving entirely, letting you feel every little twitch of his cock inside you. At least now, the only thing distracting you is the heavy weight of his hands on your body.

“Welding,” you blurt out. “Welding.”

He resumes thrusting slowly, the pressure around your wrists lightening ever so slightly. You don’t need to be prompted to explain it to him.

“Welding…joins two metals,” you stutter. “The same, sometimes dif-different metals.”

“I like joining,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a thrust that forces a noise between a grunt and a scream from between your lips. “Look at us, two different types of metal here. I’d say you were copper. Soft…conductive. All it takes is one little spark and you glow for me. Takes a lot to shatter you…but I think I can make it happen.”

You bite down on your lower lip. He’s broken you before, brought you to the edge until you sobbed for him, begged him for release, promised him the world just to let you finish. He’s a generous lover but when he focuses on the task at hand – whether finishing beskar’gam at the Forge or while fucking you to the brink of tears – there’s very little that will redirect his attention from his work.

“One more,” he coaxes. “You can do it.”

Your brain sputters to a halt. No matter how hard you try, you can’t remember the rest of them.

“Can’t remember?” he asks softly, voice faintly mocking. “I’m disappointed you weren’t paying attention.”

He releases your wrists and pulls out, leaving you feeling empty. Effortlessly, he lifts you up, maneuvering you onto your back in the center of the table. Before you can react he grabs either side of the front of your pants and pulls, neatly ripping the fabric apart. Fuck, yet one more thing you’ll need to worry about later. Sadet lets out a dark noise of delight at the sight of your well-fucked cunt, glistening wet and swollen.

“Hands under you,” he orders, and you slide your hands under your lower back, pinning yourself into place. If you obey, there is a chance he will take mercy on you, let you come and forgive you for not paying attention to his lesson. As his fingers dig into your thighs, you know there isn’t a chance he is going to let you off that easy. It was futile to hope otherwise.

“Blacksmithing utilizes seven basic techniques,” he starts. “You got a few of them. Drawing, bending, welding. There’s punching, which is used to create a decorative pattern or to add a hole.”

His fingers trail up your thighs as he holds your legs wide apart.

“Speaking of adding holes…I haven’t fucked your ass yet, have I?” he murmurs. You’re not able to hide your grimace and Sadet laughs at you. “If you’re ever in the mood, I’ll happily wreck your ass the same way I wreck your cunt, little one…now where was I?”

He pauses deliberately, reaching up. The man yanks your shirt open, sending buttons flying in every direction. Your bra follows but you don’t dare protest – he’ll just offer to buy another one for you. There is something about literally ripping the kute off you that turns him into an animal.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “You weren’t paying attention during my lesson. How to punish you…”

You whine and squirm, knowing what’s coming next. With one hand, he places his hammer on the table, all smooth beskar from the head all the way down to the metal shaft. Sadet lifts it and aims the handle right into your cunt, sliding it in slowly. It’s thick and cold and he only uses it on you when you’ve really pissed him off. You deserve it though – he’s given this lecture at least a dozen times, you should know the seven steps. It’s your own fault at this point.

He keeps a tight grip around the shaft to keep it from sliding too far in and hurting you. He’s fond of making you cry but not that way – he doesn’t want to hurt you, he only wants you to cry from pleasure. When you finally relax down onto the surface of the table, he starts to rock it in and out slowly. When you reach up and squeeze his forearm with your fingers, he knows he can use a little more force, and you return your hand under your back.

“There’s upsetting, which thickens metal on one dimension through shortening on another,” he says. “Then there’s also upsetting, which is what your refusal to pay attention does to me.” He sighs exaggeratedly. “You’re a mess in armor, but...a tolerable mess.”

You whine, pussy clenching around the ice cold intrusion inside you, heart racing at the sight of the smooth dark visor floating out of reach above you.

“Can you remember the last one?” he asks, his voice almost taunting. “You can do it.”

“F…finish…finishing,” you pant out, and he tilts his helmet down at you in a Mandalorian smile.

“Good girl,” he rumbles at you. “I may let you finish, little one, if you keep being good for me.”

He turns his attention to his hammer, watching the beskar disappears inside you, only to reappear moments later, wet and drenched in your slick. He stays there until the metal is warm from your cunt before he pulls it out. Lifting the edge of his helmet up, he brings the metal to his lips and the tip of his tongue darts out, lapping up a bit of your mess. You shudder in response.

 “Warm, sweet. Soft. Tastes good,” he says. “Tastes like you.”

He gently places the hammer down onto your torso, the heavy head on your belly and the smooth metal shaft pointing toward your face. Without waiting you open your mouth and close your eyes, stretching your lips around the smooth metal handle. It’s a bit awkward like this, bobbing your head while you clean the long streaks of slick off the beskar, but he loves it in a way he can’t really explain. 

Once he’s satisfied, he pulls the shaft out of your mouth with a wet pop. Then he deftly turns it around, holding the head just above your lips. Locking eyes with the horizontal bar of his visor, you let your tongue dart out, tracing along the gleaming metal surface. His other hand tightens at your waist.

“I have something else for your mouth, if you’d like,” he murmurs.

You nod once at him, and he offers his hand, pulling you up into a sitting position. Sadet helps you down and you lower yourself onto your knees as you take in the sight of his marvelous cock: thick, long, uncut, and curving slightly up and to the left. Parting your lips, you bob your head, taking him a little further each time. He doesn’t move as you take him in until he brushes up against the back of your throat.

One hand rises to cup his balls – heavy and covered in a fine thatch of curling hair – while the other rests on his thigh to brace yourself. Peeking up at him from under your lashes, you let him sit in your mouth, tasting yourself and the faint bitterness of his cum. Sadet rolls his hips, giving you a few moments to settle in before setting a brisk pace. His fingers dig into your scalp as he tugs on your hair, guiding you on his length, not speaking a word as he simply watches his cock disappear into your mouth.

You sort of give up on controlling the pace then and go slack in his grip, yielding to him entirely. Your jaw starts to ache rapidly, but you keep your eyes on his visor, knowing that your glazed over eyes drive him wild. You can taste hints of bitterness as his precum spreads across your tongue, his pace growing faster and rougher as he chases completion inside your hot, wet mouth. His other hand curls around the back of your head and you know he is getting close to the edge.

“Wanna hear you gag,” he whispers, and you squeeze his thigh it’s okay you tell him with your hand.

Your jaw burns now but you don’t want to tap out, you don’t want to stop, not while he’s so close. Your cunt clenches around nothing, painfully empty after his cock and hammer, aching desperately for him to finish inside you and coat your insides with his seed. As he hits the back of your throat, you gag a bit, and he groans in response. Tears stream down your cheeks as he continues. You can hear the harsh pants from his modulator and thank the gods you think to yourself – you’re not sure how much more your mouth can take right now.

Sadet pulls his cock free and strokes himself to completion on your face. Thick ropey splatters of cum coat your skin and fill your mouth, spilling down onto your breasts as he groans, a growling noise from deep in his chest. He holds you there, his body hunched forward as he pulses the last few drops onto your chest.

With his index finger, he wipes up a bit of cum clinging to the head of his cock. He tilts your head back and wipes It onto your lower lip. You dart your tongue out to lick up the mess, listening as his breath hitches. When he lets go of your hair, you sink onto the ground, body aching and trembling from exhaustion. As goosebumps prickle across your arms, you realize you’re also trembling from how cool it is over here in this corner. He brushes his thumb against your cheek.

“Stay there,” he says quietly and you nod. 

You’re not sure you’d be able to move even if you wanted to right now. As Sadet goes to the hook on the wall, you use the remains of your shirt to wipe the mess of your face. He takes down his luxuriously soft fur cape. Instead of wrapping it around you, he spreads it onto the ground next to the Forge and returns to your side. As you get to your feet, he wraps a calloused hand around your elbow and helps you up, guiding you over to his cape. Along the way, you shed the remains of your top and bra.

Sadet joins you on the cape, taking his helmet off last, and setting it down on the floor next to you. Dry heat pours out of the exchange vents, sending another prickle across your skin as he settles between your thighs. His eyes drift shut and you know he’s stopping to enjoy the heat. During the summer, he always pauses when taking that first step outdoors, taking just a moment to tilt his face toward the sun to bask in the harsh light. He opens his eyes and you smile up at him, squeezing your knees around his hips as he settles across your body. 

He guides himself inside, pushing in with short, gentle thrusts, sliding in until your bodies meet. Meeting your eyes, he starts a slow, deep pace, hitting every single one of the needy spots inside you that scream for friction. As you trail your hands up his arms and shoulders, fingers cataloguing the knots in his muscles, you sigh with pleasure. You luxuriate in the deliciously soft fur underneath you and the sweat-slick glide of his body above yours, his weight heavy and comforting at the same time. He takes it slow, trying to be considerate of you, considering everything he’s done to you in the past half-hour. 

Digging your nails into his back, you feel the thick corded muscle jumping under your fingers, sighing with pleasure. You can’t hold back your inhalation when his lips – soft and slightly chapped – meet your collar bone as he kisses you for the first time. He starts to pull away but you wrap your arms around his neck, pleading with him silently to keep going. And he does, pressing one light kiss to your shoulder after another, trailing his way to your neck. When he bites down, you moan wantonly, cunt and legs tightening around him. Your reaction seems to encourage him and he keeps going, each kiss sending a dizzying arc of pure lightning shooting through your entire body.

By the time he makes it to your jaw, you’re shaking, on the verge of coming, your head swimming dizzyingly from the sheer pleasure of his lips against your skin. His next kiss lands right next to your lips and you desperately want to turn your head to meet his lips but you know it’s not his thing so you let him decide what happens next. He hovers for just a moment as you watch him with half-closed eyes, your pupils surely blown wide open from arousal, and he leans in, his breath fanning across your cheeks. 

That’s enough to send you right over the edge and as your back arches, Sadet kisses you on the lips, swallowing your cry of pleasure. He thrusts a few more times, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you remember to kiss him back. Your hand curls around the back of his head and pulls him in close as you deepen it, mouths open and his tongue hesitant against yours. He thrusts shallowly a few times before drawing to a halt, his lips never leaving yours as he continues the kiss.

He draws back after several more toe-curling kisses and you unlace your legs from around his waist, dropping your feet onto his calves. When he hisses and jerks forward, thrusting his half-hard cock into you, you give him an apologetic grin and remove your feet to the cape underneath your entwined bodies. When the two of you have regained your faculties, he pulls out, and sits back on his heels as you rest your hands on your belly.

He tilts his head slightly as he offers his hand. Once again, he pulls you up. You take in your ruined garments with a wry look on your face.

“I’m going to have to go back to my room in your clothes again,” you quip at him.

“Who said anything about you leaving?” he asks.

Your mouth drops open in a little ‘o’ of surprise, your eyes jumping up to meet his. After all this how can he still want more? He laughs at you as he picks up his helmet and hammer.

“I haven’t gotten to test your knowledge of different fuel sources yet,” he explains. “We have all night, sweet girl. There’s plenty of time for me to breed you.”

With that he marches you toward his sumptuous bedroom.

__________________________________________________________

[1] Traditional blacksmithing has seven basic techniques used, but can be divided into four rough categories: forging, welding, heat-treating, and finishing.

__________________________________________________________

Data:

Tailor: would 100% let Sadet smash

Kalni:

Figure 1: Meme showing the subject’s thoughts on Sadet the Armorer from the Samaki Tribe. The strong language in this image – “In conclusion, I’m a slut for Sadet” –  indicates the subject is willing and able to permit Smashing to occur.

Maggie: Yes

Kata: Yes

Izzy: Yes

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Conclusions:

To come to an accurate conclusion, the experiment would need a bigger sample size. However, based on preliminary results, it can be concluded that Sadet is 100% Smashable.

-

Bibliography:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blacksmith#Smithing_process

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The “You Enabled This” Tag List:

@hdlynn​ @magsgotswags​ @thecautiousengineer​ @maybege​ @nelba​

[greennightspider]

Unspoken (Hvitty Oneshot)

Author’s Note: I have a thing for cabins, can you tell?

Summary: You and Hvitserk are childhood friends and warrior allies. But as you grow older, things change. As a blacksmith’s daughter you don’t have time for romance. But what happens when an unknown admirer takes a very serious step? (R18+) SMUT 

Reader x Hvitserk

There is a custom, in Kattegat.

Not really a formal ritual, per se. But an unspoken tradition in Kattegat among men and women who were coming of age, one that had surfaced in recent years.

That is, if a boy wanted to make an honest woman of a girl, or if someone wanted to profess their love, they would take them to a cabin in the woods. It was a chance for someone to confess, a chance for someone to show that they were serious. And while there was no magic or superstition in the ritual, it was believed that people left that cabin changed.

Not that it mattered much to you, of course.

“Y/N! Did you hear that Brenna got asked to a cabin?”

You were busy placing all the new swords in your father’s workshop when Hanna had burst in with the news. “Just a minute!”

“I can’t believe she got asked before me!” Hanna complained.

You were on your tiptoes trying to hang a scabbard on one of the higher hooks, the morning sun slipping through the cracks in the word making it hard to see. Then all of a sudden you felt a presence behind you grab the scabbard and reach up with ease.

You swivelled and glared at your helper, who had one hand propped up against the wall, one hand on his hip as sported a devilish grin.

��Morning little troll.”

Hvisterk’s smile quickly turned into a grimace as you gave him a quick jab to the stomach.

“A thank you would be nice.” He groaned as you walked past.

“That’s what you get.” You humphed, not looking back. Hvitserk knew you couldn’t handle it when he mentioned your height. As kids when you had first started to grow into adults, you almost pummelled him when you realized he was taller than you. It was a reminder that you were changing, that strength you so craved came more naturally to him than to you.

“Naw Y/N, you’re always so mean to Hvitserk.” Hanna drawled.

“And yet, he always comes running back to me, doesn’t he?” You smirked.

You felt a heavy arm curve around your neck. “Well that is what best friends do, isn’t that right?”

Looking up at Hvitserk’s face you couldn’t help but laugh. You two had been best friends since you had squared up with him the first time your family had come to Kattegat. Squabbling, bickering, the teasing and the fighting were all part and parcel of what you two were.

“Well, as I was sayiiiiiiiiing,” Hanna drawled out dramatically. “Brenna has been asked to a cabin!” She squealed excitedly, gripping your arm with such intensity that it even made Hvitserk retreat a tad.

You furrowed your brow as you all walked through town. “Brenna… baking bread Brenna? By who?”

“I bet its Arvid.” Hvitserk scoffed. “The boy finds any excuse to visit their stall, he has more buns than he knows what to do with.”

You and Hanna burst out laughing. “Well its about time he asked her.” You scoffed. “The poor girl can’t read hints to save her life.”

Hanna nodded in agreement, while Hvitserk only looked to the side.

“Have you ever thought about these things, dear Y/N?” Hanna looked up inquisitively, her the sudden intimacy of the question leaving you flustered.

“I uh, I-I haven’t had the time,” you chuckled nervously, the blush from your face painfully clear to both of your closest friends. “It’s not like I have much appeal.”

But of course you had thought about it. While you were more of a lover than a fighter, that didn’t mean you didn’t want to be desired. It was true, most of your time was devoted to helping your father and his forges, as well as training with the very tools you helped craft. Romantic endeavours were few and far between. Emphasis on the few.

“Oh hush, you shouldn’t think ill of yourself.” Hanna waving her hand back and forth. “I know for a fact that there are many young men who would jump at the chance to court you.” Hanna said loudly, sparing a side-eye at Hvitserk behind your back, smiling at the obvious clench in his jaw. “I’m surprised someone hasn’t tossed you over their shoulder already.”

“Oh.. really?” You tucked your hair behind your ear unconsciously.

Hvitserk then whipped his head towards you at the unmistakeable curiosity in your voice, the noticeable blush in your cheeks.

“I think we better get to training, right Y/N?” Hvitserk interrupted, with a grin that was more toothy than normal. Not waiting for you to answer he grabbed your hand, almost dragging you behind.

“Bye Hanna!” You struggled to wave back, as Hanna just watched with a smug grin.

—————————————————————————————–

The training grounds were where you were most at peace. You and Hvitserk were already known to be ferocious training partners, already proving that your bark was worse than your bite. Which is why many gave you two a wide berth as soon as you arrived.

Looking back at Hvitserk amongst the other men, you sharpened your sword far more than was needed. Hvitserk was always popular, known for his wit and cheek and a few daring pranks.  You on the other hand were respected for your knowledge and training prowess. Often you were approached for advice on weapons and wielding, almost as much as your father was. You and Hvitserk were known as the pride of your generation.

Practicing a few swings, you tried to get what Hanna had said out of your mind, not noticing the way Hvitserk watched you concentrate. Without a second thought he made his way to you, unsheathing his own sword, his demeanor instantly turning serious. “Are you ready?”

As you prepared your stance you tried to quiet your mind. Neither of you wasted any time, with metal clashing against metal, letting your moves be guided by instinct. When Hvitserk managed to corner you against a tree you bared your teeth and grunted at him, the prince returning a low growl of his own.

With a grunt you kicked against the trunk, the prince stumbling yet grinning at your ferocity. You whipped the braids out of your eyes, and reminded yourself that in the heat of battle, there was no time for boys or silly crushes. As Hvitserk spun away from your lunges, and your sweat crowned your brow you let your practice remind you that you were a warrior. You wanted to lose yourself in the adrenaline of the fight. To keep telling yourself not to hope.

Until one fateful day when Hanna crashed through your door. Again.

“Y/N!!! I HAVE NEEEEEWS!”

The force of your friend’s arrival caused you to fall off the bed in a heap of furs, face down on the floor.

“Is Odin in town?” You groaned as you tried to steady yourself, but Hanna was already at your side shaking your shoulders into oblivion.

“Guesswhohasaninvitationtoacabinguessguessguess!”

“Um, you?”

“No. YOU.”

Her two words instantly sobered you and you snapped your head up. “….What?”

“Yes! A cabin, two nights from now when the moon is half full.”

Still on the floor of your bedroom, your brain reached for the most probable answer. “You’re kidding.”

Hanna’s face fell a tad. “No, I am not kidding you’ve been courted by an admirer Y/N! Isn’t this exciting?!” Hanna hugged you to her chest.

“Uh well, it would be if I could breathe.” You answered, muffled by your friend’s bosom.

“I tooooold you that you were a catch! Don’t worry, I’ll help you get ready just leave it to me!” Hanna grinned, already running to your wardrobe and pulling out everything that her fingers touched. “That bastard won’t know what hit him.”

“You know who it is?” Your head whipped around.

You saw Hanna freeze. “Yes, but he has requested that it be a secret until the day and you know the rules.” Hanna said matter-of-factly, holding up a dress to your collarbone, purposely not meeting your eyes.

“Hanna.” You gripped your friend’s hand firmly. “Do you think…are they right for me?” you bit your lip, shy of asking what was really in your mind.

Hanna looked into your worried eyes, softening. “Oh Y/N. I know that he would go to the ends of the earth for you. And I wouldn’t have even agreed to pass it on if I didn’t think they were good for you. Remember you can always refuse them if you want. But if he messes this up, I will personally drown him in the fjord.”

“Maybe Hvitserk will help you out.” You said jokingly.

“Oh I’m sure he’ll have his work cut out.” Hanna drawled as she started to comb your hair. “That boy won’t know what hit him.”

————————————————————————————————–

You rose and poked the fire for the fifth time in a row.

You sat down again, smoothing your skirt for the hundredth time that hour.

Nervous was an understatement. Not even your last summer raid had you as jittery as you were now. You didn’t even have an inkling of who it could be, only that your closest friends wouldn’t tell you a thing. 

And even though you had seen Hanna every day, you had seen neither hair nor hide of Hvitserk. To which you assumed that it had to be one of this brothers or close friends, and as such was sulking because he would lose his training partner. “What a brat.” You muttered.

Your eyes travelled around the cabin. It was modest, with a fireplace in the middle of the room, a half screen shielding the bed from the door when it opened, and on the opposite side a simple table by a latched window that looked out onto the path and the fields below. But the intricate carvings on the walls, the quality of furs, and the ample stock of food by the table hinted to you that this person was at the very least well off. Lost in your own thoughts you paced as the sun died down, the faint pitter patter of rain thrumming in the countryside.

When you heard the door open you almost jumped, the closing creak sounding more final than ever. You heard boots clack on the floor, the unfurling of a long woollen cloak.

You turned slowly to greet your secret admirer. This unknown devotee who wished to pledge themselves to you. The person had their back to you, removing their dampened shirt. Your eyes followed the shadows from the flames, curling around the etchings on his back which climbed over his shoulders. And when Hivtserk turned around to meet you, your heart dropped from your stomach to the floor.

“Hvitserk?”

The prince walked decisively across the room, hanging his shirt by the fireplace. “Did you wait long?”

“No.” Your voice a meagre whisper.

You saw his shoulders tighten as he chuckled ominously. “Why so timid? The great Y/N not afraid of anything.”

His laugh did nothing to put you at ease. “Hvitserk… if.. if this is a cruel joke then it is in poor taste.”

In an instant he closed the distance between you, grabbing your wrist and holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. And in his you saw intensity you had only witnessed on the battlefield. “You think I would joke about this?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you said breathlessly, not being able to ignore the way his eyes drifted to your berry stained lips or the way his eyes raked the dress that clung lusciously against your figure. “We’re friends.”

Hvitserk then backed you up until your rear hit the table, cornering you. “You know we’re more than that.”

Like a skittish prey you tried to brush off the bait he laid bare. “I’m friends with many guys.”

Hvitserk’s knuckles grew white gripping the table. “And do you think I would have let any of them touch you?”

The huskiness in his voice was pulling emotions out of your depths. Emotions you thought you had drowned in insecurities and loyalties and denial.

“I made it very clear to them that you were mine.”

The flames from the fireplace illuminated Hvitserk’s silhouette, while his features were shaded in the dark hue of the night as his shadow eclipsed you. “I want you, Y/N. You are my equal. We were made for each other.”

“But why?” Your voice growing stronger with the need to know. “Why now, why me?”

His voice became softer, almost bringing the lighter Hvitserk back to the surface as he caressed your fearful face. “You’ve always been by my side, never afraid to tell me when I’m wrong, never fearing to challenge me, a prince of Kattegat.” He snuck a quick breath in your hair that was intricately laden with red blooms and moaned. “It turns me on so much.”

With Hvitserk so close all you could smell is him. The scent of his skin, his voice so close to you, so possessive, you couldn’t even think straight. You were thankful he had pushed you against the table, your legs feeling like a newborn fawn’s.

“I saw the look in your eyes when Hanna asked you about the cabin. So now you’re here.” Hvitserk’s fingers brushed against your own. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

You swallowed thickly before you answered. “Hvitserk, you are a prince, a son of Ragnar. I-I-I am just a blacksmith’s daughter! Your mother would never allow this, they would say you should be with someone el-“

“Then push me away.” He all but commands. “We both know you could overpower me. Easily.” The goading in his voice almost sounding like he wanted you to do it.

He gave no heed to your conflicted gaze, whispering into your ear as he slowly drew himself even closer to you, gently pushing you so now you were sitting on the table with him in between your legs.

“I couldn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of us. But I want you to admit… that you want me.” The dark prince drew his toned arm up to draw faint lines up and down your dress sleeve with his fingers, feeling you shiver.

“I, Hvitserk-“

“Yes?” He drawled out slowly, pressing the lightest of kisses on your skin, trailing down your neck and to your shoulder. He spared a gaze, pleased to see your flustered face, the blush in your cheeks, your soft lips drawn apart with small breaths. Your body betraying what he already knew.

“Dammit Hvitserk.” You cursed him. You cursed his name. You cursed the boy who’s smile lit up your world. You cursed the friend you had fallen in love with. And when your eyes met, you were undone. 

“Damn you.”

You almost whimpered as you gave in, bringing Hvitserk’s face to collide with yours. You surrendered to your desire, devouring each other’s lips with heady passion. Your fingertips gripping the sides of his face while his hand clawed through your hair and pulled, the kiss only ending as you gasped for air.

“Fuck you.” You panted, but Hvitserk’s lustful grin only widened.

“If you insist.”

He pulled his forehead to yours, holding your face in his hands before kissing you again, but this time the kiss was tender, as if he was savouring the very moment savouring you. His kisses started to trail down your neck once again, his hands tracing the back of your dress as your fingers caressed his shoulder blades. “Hvitserk.” You moaned, each kiss becoming more and more drawn out.

The Kattegat prince growled at his name on your lips. “So, do I take that as a yes?”

“What do you think.” You bit your lip, pushing yourself into his arms once again, walking him backwards until you both toppled onto the bed.

“I never knew you saw me this way.” Your voice a heady whisper.

“How could I not.” Hvitserk growled, his hand drawing up your thigh. “I had to hide my arousal every time you wanted to wrestle.”

Hvitserk licked his lips at the sight of you underneath him. He knew Hanna had donned you in the one dress that had him dreaming about you since last Yule; a luscious red dress with a skirt split and slits in both sleeves, his eyes not ignoring the way it so teasingly tied at the front, giving him a glimpse of what was underneath. He had almost spat out his mead when he saw you walk into the hall, and so did half his brothers.

“I never knew you were so dirty, my prince.” You chuckled shifted so that his hand grabbed your ass, squeezing and kneading the soft plump flesh there. He moaned and buried his head in your chest, the prince then proceeding to untie the cords with his teeth.

“When you would pin me down I would almost hope you would ravish me right then and there.”

Your eyes then flickered open, a sudden idea popping into your head. “Like this?”

At once you locked his leg with yours and thrust your hips so that you had him flat on his back on the furs. You felt him grind himself against you and grip his hands on the headboard. “Just like that.” He growled as his member cock throbbed in approval.

“Good to know.” You licked your lips you watched Hvitserk writhe underneath you as you found his hard member and grinded against him slowly. You reminisced at how Hvitserk had grown into a man, and you had tried everything to not see it. Now your hands traced the faint lines across his hardened torso and toward his tattoos, his hands now moving under your skirt to your thighs. “What else have you been dreaming about I wonder?” You smirked.

At once you felt him grip the edges of your dress and bring them up around your head, instantly leaving you bare. He threw the dress to the side and kissed you, drawing his hands up the sides of your body.

You shuffled so that you could undo the laces of his trousers, Hvitserk moving swiftly to undress himself and to have you in his arms once again. When you felt him press against your already wet sex you shivered, Hvitserk cooing and caressing you as he tried to steady himself at your entrance.

Hvitserk swore as he entered you, kissing you as he engorged himself in your folds. You gasped as you looked down to where you were joined, Hvitserk’s eyes already dark with lust. You steadied yourself on his torso as you moved here and there, getting comfortable with the sensation. But it soon turned to bouncing, your gasps turning into heavy moans as you rode him.

“That’s it,” He growled. “Take me, fuck take all of me Y/N.” Hvitserk’s hands held your thighs as you thrusted yourself on his cock, your pillowed lips bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Hvitserk I’m close!” You yelped, as you grinded your pussy hard on his folds, taking as much of him as you could. The sensation had you reeling, not able to think of anything other than having more. More. More.

Hvitserk slammed your ass on his hips as he spilled his release into you, thrusting unabatedly until you were full of his cum. Eventually you both collapsed, you not being able to move from Hvitserk’s chest. “You cum a lot.” You sighed, to which Hvitserk burst out laughing.

“Our first time together and that’s all you have to say?”

You traced the ink on his chest. “Well, would it be weird to say that I love you.”

“No, not weird at all.” He said, kissing your forehead. “I love you too my little troll.”

You proceeded to then try and punch him in the ribs, but when Hvitserk felt you shiver, he grabbed what furs he could to cover you both. You smiled at his very best attempts not to move you from his chest and once they were on, he dove his hand under the covers, leaving his hand to rest on your back.

“This may be a strange question.” You murmured. “But…. you wouldn’t know anything about the time Kade came back with a broken nose last Yule, would you?”

Instantly you felt Hvitserk’s hand tense up, and you lifted your head. “You didn’t.”

Hvitserk averted his eyes with nothing short of a pout. “He made out with you before I could.”

“You jerk! He was nice and I was unbound!” You laughed and playfully punched him on his chest before he caught both hands.

“Well, now you’re not and that’s that.” He huffed.

You tried to wiggle free but couldn’t, glaring at him with a grin you couldn’t hold back. “I guess I am.” You smiled, as you dipped to kiss your new lover once more.

—————————————————————————————————–

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[patandpran]

The Nuisance and the Handsome Prince - A Sarawatine Medieval AU - Chapter 18

Tine is an aspiring Squire who has been training his whole life to work alongside the Kingdom’s finest Knights. Sarawat is a Prince who, on the outside, seems fierce and unapproachable. He is disinterested in any of his royal duties, namely his Knight training. What happens when Tine is assigned to be the fierce and handsome prince’s Squire?

Find the Masterpost here Read on Archiveofourown here.

Tine shivered in the confines of the stone cell. It was different than the one his Father had been in. He was in the more public dungeons of the Castle, as if the Head Knight wanted to show him off as a prize that he had won.

His clothing had been stripped away to ensure that no other hidden weapons were concealed with them. He had been given rags to put on instead and they stunk like mildew and decay, likely belonging to the last prisoner that had been kept within these walls.

A shred of moonlight crept in from the small barred window that was at the top of his cell. Tine was thankful he had some fresh air to breathe as he assumed he would have a long wait within the cell before his Trial would take place and he would be condemned to death for Treason.

Tine had long accepted his fate, knowing that whatever path his revenge took, it would result in something dire for him. He had not entirely succeeded but at least his Father was free, even though he was still not sure who to thank for that. He knew there was an underground network brewing in the Castle, which Man had reached out to help free his Father. Tine wondered who exactly was at the Head of it but hoped that they would continue to make changes that would benefit the Kingdom as a whole and fight against injustice like his Father’s capture.

There was change on the horizon. Tine just wouldn’t be alive to see it.

The moonbeams danced along the bridge of his nose and taunted Tine, making him think of the screaming sound that Sarawat had made as he was pulled from the field. He wondered if they had continued with the fight… Had Sarawat won….?

Tine could hear the music coming from the Revelries that were to celebrate the closing of the Knight’s Trials. They would last for three days and, on the final evening, the Knight Ceremony would occur and Prince Sarawat would announce who he intended to marry.

Tine was somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to present for such an announcement as he knew it would break his heart more than it had already been. The thought of Sarawat with someone else made Tine’s blood boil but the reality of them ever being together was even further from a possibility as they were separated not only by their classes but by literal stone walls.

“I just hope that you find happiness.” Tine whispered to the moon. “And that you find it in your heart to someday forgive me, Wat.”

+++++++++++

Sarawat sat between his Mother and Father with a vacant look on his face. Ever since he had seen Mil’s blood on the field and watched the person he cared for most in the world dragged away to the Dungeons, Sarawat had been silent. He clutched Tine’s Wolf Brooch in his hand and turned it over and over like some sort of sick ritual.

The Knight Trial Closing Revelries had begun. Everyone who was anyone in the Kingdom was in attendance and wearing their grandest attire. The Ballroom was decorated even more extravagantly than the Ball and the dance floor was full of twirling couples. It was dizzying for any spectator but the Prince paid it no mind and instead stared into nothingness. His Mother reached over and put one palm gently on her son’s. It was the hand that held the Brooch. “Steady, my son. It is not the time to show weakness. There are Hunters everywhere and you are now the biggest Prey there is.”

Sarawat barely registered his Mother’s words as she whispered them to him. He didn’t care what happened to him. If someone was plotting to kill him, he wouldn’t put up a fight. He no longer had anything to lose. In a few short moments, he had lost his best friend and the man he loved more than the world itself. Everything was shattered and broken, far beyond repair.

“Where is Phukong?” The King hissed at the Queen, a look of agitation on his face. “I will not have both of my sons in a state when a treasonous prisoner has escaped and another traitor has been revealed to be under our noses all along. We cannot appear to be weak at a moment like this.”

Sarawat stirred at the mention of his brother who he suddenly noticed was nowhere to be seen. A feeling of guilt shot through him as he realized he was likely still at Mil’s side in the Infirmary. Sarawat wanted nothing more than to turn back time to that morning where things had been awful but at least manageable. Now, he just felt numb.

“Both Sarawat and Phukong have been through a lot today.” The Queen shared gently with the King, keeping her face composed and elegant, just in case any subjects were eavesdropping. “We should let our sons process things in the way that they need to…”

“They are Princes of this Kingdom, not delicate flowers.” The King spat back. “There is no time for emotions to get in the way when a Traitor has been at our Son’s side this whole time. How did you not see it, Sarawat?”

At this, the Brooch dropped from Sarawat’s hand and he growled, “I was blinded and manipulated? Is that what you want to hear? I am sorry that I try to see the best in people and that cost me so much. You have no idea what I am navigating right now, Father. I need some fresh air…”

“Sarawat!” His Mother cried after him but the Prince had already torn through the crowd but not before snatching up the Brooch again.

Sarawat was on the Hunt and he was not sure for what. He needed to sink his teeth into something or scream into the night. It was all too much for him to handle. He stalked through the crowd and emerged into the Royal Gardens which were shockingly silent for a night such as this.

He wished he had his sword so that he could cut up the rose bushes but he opted for his fists instead. As his fists tore through the plants, the smell of iron filled his nostrils as the thorns ripped apart his skin. Rivulets of blood began to pour down onto the soil as he continued with his attack, the pain never quite catching up with him.

“Wat…”

Sarawat stilled at the sound of his younger brother’s voice and he winced as his fists exploded with pain.

Phukong rushes to his brother’s side and ripped off his cape, tying it quickly around Sarawat’s bleeding hands to staunch the blood flow, if only slightly. Phukong looked up to how broken and torn apart his brother looked. It was completely heartbreaking.

“I am so sorry for what you have had to endure.” Phukong murmured, cradling his brother’s hands in his own. “There are things that have been set into motion today that will determine the future of our Kingdom… I know that is the last thing you want to hear right now but… you have to find a way to put your head on straight.”

Sarawat’s mouth gaped open in surprise. “Kong, what are you talking about? Where have you been all day? Were you not with Lord Mil?”

“I can’t tell you everything quite yet.” Phukong chewed at his lip nervously. “But just know that there are those within the Castle walls that want to hurt you… you have to be careful about who you trust.”

“I know. Tine has been captured…” The words fell painfully from Sarawat’s lips.

A look of confusion flashed across Phukong’s eyes. “No, Wat. You need to trust Tine. He is not a Traitor. He is trying to do what is best for the Kingdom…. or rather, do what is best for the People of this Kingdom which is my goal too.”

Sarawat’s brow furrowed, his mind reeling. “Brother, are you feeling well? I don’t think you remember what happened this morning… Tine was thrown into the dungeon for being a Traitor of the Kingdom…”

“And who exactly made that accusation, Wat?” Phukong challenged, squeezing his brother’s hand slightly as if it to motivate him to use his head.

“The Head Knight…” Sarawat answered, slowly registering what Phukong was implying. “But why would the Head Knight falsely accuse Tine of being treasonous? How would that benefit him in any way?”

“Think about the prisoner that escaped this morning. Think about the way Mil reacted when he saw the make of the sword that you were using in the battle this morning…”  Phukong prompted gently, hoping his brother would be able to figure it out. “Did it not look familiar to you, Wat?”

Sarawat wracked his mind to try to remember any similarities between his and Mil’s swords. But then it dawned on him that he had not used his own sword that morning. He had used Tine’s…

“Mil and Tine’s swords…” Sarawat could not believe he had not noticed it before. “They are practically twins. They were forged by the same Blacksmith… by…. by… Tine’s father…. Tine’s Father is the prisoner that was accused of Treason by the Head Knight and escaped?”

Sarawat suddenly felt out of breath. Phukong noticed this and guided his older brother to a bench within the Garden. Sarawat held the bloodied material in his hands and hung his head, unsure of how to process the information that he had just discovered.

“But this does nothing but prove that Tine was here for treasonous reasons from the beginning… He used me… to try to get to the Head Knight?” Sarawat felt as if he no longer could believe anything that he had experienced throughout the last months.

Had Tine ever actually wanted to be with him? Or was it all a ruse to remain by his side so that he could gather information about the Head Knight? How had Sarawat been so thick as to be so manipulated by a stranger?

“You don’t know of Tine’s true intentions until you speak with him.” Phukong explained, putting a hand across his brother’s back in solidarity. “Just like I think Mil had his reasons from keeping this all from you too…”

Sarawat’s back straightened at the mention of Mil. “Don’t you dare defend him. Just because you have your own feelings for…”

“My feelings are irrelevant.” Phukong interjected firmly, his eyes narrowing at Sarawat’s accusation. “I am not excusing Mil’s actions or saying that they are all right in any way. I am simply stating a fact that you might want to open your mind up to other’s perspectives… I don’t think Mil or Tine intended to hurt you with their actions, in fact, I suspect both of them wanted to protect you, in their own way.”

Sarawat stared up at the Moon and wished it could give him the answers he needed. This conversation with his brother had only complicated things further. He was been torn in even more directions than before and he did not have any instinct on which path was the right to take.

“Kong… how did you know all of this?” Sarawat questioned his brother. “Where have you really been all day?”

“I am sorry, brother.” Phukong rose slowly to his feet. “I cannot share that information quite yet but just know that you have allies on your side but there are also many enemies lurking within the shadows of the Castle. I will explain when it is safe to do so.”

Before Sarawat could protest any further, his Brother disappeared into the Castle, leaving him along under the moonlight with bloodied hands and a confused heart.

+++++++++++++++++

“You did well, my son.”

Mil could hear his Father’s voice floating somewhere in the distance. 
 “Tine is now in custody and the next phase of the plan is being set into motion.”

Mil wished he could navigate himself to consciousness but there was something keeping him from surfacing, so instead he simply floated in the fog and listened to his Father.

“The act will take place on the Final Night of the Revelries. It truly is a disappointment that you will not be present to be Knighted but that will come later… And anyway, you won’t need to be a simple Knight anymore… not when you become the Prince of the Kingdom after I’m through…”

Mil had never heard this step of the plan before and it confused him deeply. He had been ordered by the King to protect Prince Sarawat and his Father had shared with him Tine’s true identity but this….

What was the Head Knight going to do next and why did it terrify Mil so much?

+++++++++++++++

The knock sounded on Sarawat’s sleeping quarters and he shot up in his bed. It was likely the middle of the night. He immediately reached for the sword that was by his bedside and quickly retracted his reach when he realized it was Tine’s.

Sarawat slowly got up from his bed and walked toward the door, his brother’s words from earlier about being wary about who he trusted ringing in his ears. He slowly opened the door and saw a message on the ground. The messenger was nowhere to be seen.

The Prince knelt down and snatched it up before rushing back into the safety of his own room and latching the door. He breathed heavily before opening up the parchment. The writing was scrawled in crimson ink:

The Hooded Traitor will be further harmed if you do not find him tonight. Follow the blood and you will find him…

Sarawat touched the parchment with his fingertip and found that the ink was still wet which meant that it had not been written very long ago. He hastily grabbed Tine’s sword and burst into the hallway, snatching a torch from the wall to light his way.

Although it was hard to make out at first, the Prince spotted a few drips of red on the stones of the hallway. He held his sword out to make sure that if anyone was going to launch an attack, he was ready to defend himself. He slowly made his way through the halls of the castle. It was bizarre how quickly the atmosphere of the castle could change mere hours after the Ball had ended.

The Trail of blood ended at the top of the stairs of the Dungeon. Sarawat had only been down those stairs once before when his Father had wanted to prove a point to him about respecting authority. He’d spent the evening in any empty cell shivering until his mother retrieved him the next morning. Needless to say the Queen was not happy with the King for quite some time after that.

Sarawat descended the stairs cautiously, wondering if he was walking into a trap but he was too motivated to protect Tine to question his actions. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he walked down the hallway of empty cells until he spotted one with a crumpled shadow in the back corner. Sarawat lifted the torch toward the cell bars and his breath hitched when he saw Tine’s form so broken and battered.

“Tine…”

His former Squire stirred and opened his eyes. When he registered Sarawat’s presence, Tine immediately rushed forward and curled his hands around the bars. “Wat, you have to go…”

Sarawat saw the fear in Tine’s eyes and the morning’s events flashed through his memory again as well as his conversation with Phukong. He was so torn about what to feel and what to believe but, ultimately, with Tine mere inches from him, Sarawat knew he still loved his Squire more than he had loved anyone or anything else before.

Tine wasn’t Sarawat’s Prey, he was part of his Pack.

“I’m so sorry.” Tine blurted out when he saw that the Prince wasn’t moving. “I’m sorry I lied about who I am… I never meant to hurt you…”

“I know that now.” Sarawat breathed out slowly, realizing that his words were true and realizing that for some ridiculous reason he still trusted Tine. “Your Father… he was the prisoner who escaped…”

“Falsely accused prisoner.” Tine countered, somehow still managing to have some fight in him after all he’d been through. “My Father has never done anything treasonous. All he wants is for this Kingdom to be a safe and equal place for ALL people. Unfortunately, your Father and the Head Knight don’t seem to agree…”

“My Father can be convinced…” Sarawat muttered, his head reeling at Tine’s sudden candour and then the hurt hit again. “… Why did you lie to me, Tine? I could have helped you if you’d just trusted me.”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” Tine admitted. “I mean, look where I am now… you’re the future King, Wat. You can’t get mixed up with someone like me…”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” Sarawat practically growled, suddenly loathing that there were cell bars to separate them.

Tine’s eyes widened and he stepped back suddenly, startled by the Prince’s change in demeanour. An unnameable intensity hung in the air between them as Tine studied the reflection of the torch flickering in the Prince’s eyes.

“Maybe I am an idiot for still trusting you, Tine… maybe I am weak for loving you… but that’s just it…” The air was swept from Tine’s lungs as he listened to Sarawat’s confession. “You give me strength. From the moment I met you, I felt more like ‘me’ than I ever have before. It felt like any part of me that was ever a mystery, you helped me to shed light on it. You helped me find myself.”

Tine felt the tears spring to his eyes as he neared the cell bars once again. Sarawat reached through with one hand and cradled Tine’s head with it gently, wishing he could provide Tine all the comfort in the world.

“I love you, Tine. To be the best Knight I can be, to be the best King I can be… I need you by my side.”

They both slowly shrunk down so they were sitting across from one another, just sitting in the simplicity of each other’s presence. They couldn’t take on the weight of reality at that moment but at least they could be near one another.

Tine gathered his thoughts and opened his mouth to finally respond to Sarawat’s confession with his own.

But, before he could, Sir Boss’s boot connected with Sarawat’s head. Tine watched in horror as the Prince’s head slammed down onto the stone floor.

Boss winced at the Prince, “I’m sorry, Wat. Father’s orders…”

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight ch 2

Perrin and Galad deal with leadership and its consequences, and I continue to not deal with the narrative conspiring to make me like Galadedrid Damodred.

Chapter 2: Questions of Leadership

With a title like that, this can only be a Perrin chapter.

Because average leader questions himself 10 times per book factoid actually just statistical error. Wolfbrother Perrin, who lives in a tent and questions himself 1000 times per book is an outlier and should not have been counted.

And that might be a new low for this liveblog, which is saying something.

A few days ago, the pervasive cloud cover had turned black, darkening like the advent of a horrible storm.

Luckily for you and the rest of existence, that particular meteorological phenomenon masquerading as a man decided against total annihilation of everything. *shakes head* Weather forecasts. Can’t trust ‘em.

(The science nerd in me now wants to write, like, a short story or something in the form of a journal article called Impact of localised heroic systems on global atmospheric chemistry and I think perhaps this is a tangent).

Anyway, we are indeed with Perrin, who’s been having a great time lately dealing with mud and plague. Yes, well, aren’t we all.

Both Asha’man had nearly died

Yeah well they’re used to that by now, surely. All in the job description.

Perrin you’ve had a month to work on that blacksmith’s puzzle in your pocket and you haven’t solved it? Just – give it to me. There. Solved.

(I used to love these puzzles. Haven’t come across one in ages though.)

Perrin’s taking in refugees because either he’s lying through his teeth or he’s ta’veren enough to slightly counteract Rand’s spoil-everything-edible influence, maybe.

He had bigger worries to bother him, not the least of which were his strange dreams. Haunting visions of working the forges and being unable to create anything of worth.

Is this the blacksmith equivalent of dreaming you’re suddenly sitting an exam you’ve not studied for, and also you’re naked?

Moving so many refugees was slow, even discounting the bubble of evil and the mud.

Hey at least you’re not also dealing with border walls and immigration control.

Everything took longer than he expected, including getting out of Malden.

Oh, TELL ME ABOUT IT. Me? Still bitter about the Malden plotline? Whatever made you think that?

All in all it seems like a pretty standard Tuesday for Perrin: slogging through mud, questioning his ability to be a great leader (not to be confused with the Great Leader), and trying to keep four nations’ worth of soldiers and refugees away from each other’s throats. Only one we’ve not ticked off the list yet is denying his wolfpowers, but there’s still time.

“Find out where they’re from, learn whether they did serve a lord, see if they can add anything to the maps.”

In which Perrin Aybara invents the census.

Oh hey! The road’s getting less muddy! Which is definitely not symbolic or anything.

“Where are the others?”

“They went on ahead, my Lord,” Fennel said, bowing from horseback. “I volunteered to stay behind, for when you caught up. We needed to explain, you see.”

I’m sorry, hold the phone, forward-thinking and communication – a plan specifically about communicating, even – all in one statement? Well. You know the apocalypse is coming when.

So everyone Perrin sent ahead has taken a detour because there’s mud up ahead, which may be the Pattern’s way of saying ‘we’re running out of time can you please just go where I need you for once’ or may just be bog-standard (see what I did there) geology and meteorology, but will, if the glimpses of Perrin through Rand’s special colour vision last book is anything to go by, result in a collision course for Perrin and Galad, which I’m… weirdly looking forward to.

“But from the look of things here, you decided to bring the entire town with you!”

Think bigger, Fennel. ‘Nation’ bigger, at the least. More likely plural.

Perrin does briefly consider splitting the party army nation(s) at his back, but the Shaido are conveniently in the way so instead I suppose they’ll all just make their way, amoeba-like, to wherever they can engulf Galad’s own group. Or be engulfed by. Alliance, phagocytosis; to-may-to, to-mah-to…

No I’m not sure where I was going with that either. Moving on…

He himself could Travel back to Rand, pretend to make up – most people would still think that he and Rand had parted ways angrily

This strikes me as being strangely sad, and I’m trying to figure out why. Maybe it’s because there’s a secondary reading of this which is that their ‘making up’ would be as much a pretence as their ‘fight’ because both of those have friendship as a prerequisite, and are they even friends anymore after all this time and all that has happened and all that lies between them?

Especially because, in terms of timelines, right now-for-Perrin, Rand is… not really in a place to be anyone’s friend.

I wonder, though, because I’m a terrible person who finds opportunities for Suffering even in things that should be entirely free of it, whether Rand-after-Dragonmount is in a better place to be anyone’s friend. I think yes, because that was very much the point, but I feel like there’s a bittersweet potential to it where ascendance is just as bad as damnation for maintaining a normal social life.

Or, less flippantly, there’s a strange loneliness to the messiah’s role, to being a force of nature and a champion of fate as much as or more than a man. He is known to all and all look to him and he stands, surrounded, at the centre, and he has learned to see the hope and promise in that rather than just the despair but there is still the sense of being alone on a mountain, alone on a pedestal, existing alone on a level that is not quite human but not quite divinity, touching all but no longer, quite, as a peer. Forces of nature don’t have best friends, even if they turn towards benevolence.

I mean, I’m spitballing here, because I’ve seen exactly one chapter of Rand-after-Dragonmount, and in fairness he seemed at peace with himself and his role now, but I still can’t help but wonder. And by wonder I mean wish. Because see above re: Suffering.

I guess mostly what I’m looking for is something along the series-standard line of you can’t go back, you can only go forward. And even when forward is better, even when forward is healing, even when forward is hope, it’s not the same as what you had or who you were before, and sometimes there is a sadness to that.

Sorry, this is a Perrin chapter and here I am going on about Rand, but I just… like thinking about all the friendships and relationships between all these characters, and how they change over time, and how those ties can be so altered and sometimes strained and yet even then they can also be what saves them all.

(“My best friend turned into the world.” “That’s rough buddy.”)

Faile was back now, and it appeared that his truce with Berelain was over.

NO.

*throws book at wall*

WHY. Damn it I was so glad when that finally died and Perrin and Berelain got to just work together and appreciate each other’s competence! Why must we return to this? Don’t you know that you can’t go back; you can only go forwards? WHY THIS. WHY ME.

The Prophet was dead, killed by bandits. Well, perhaps that was a fitting end for him, but Perrin still felt he’d failed.

Probably just because he doesn’t know that Masema was Faile-d.

I’m sorry. I’ll see myself out.

(That’s a lie; you’re just going to have to put up with me and my bad puns for at least another book).

His duty was done, the Prophet seen to, Alliandre’s allegiance secure. Only, Perrin felt as if something were still very wrong. He fingered the blacksmith’s puzzle in his pocket. To understand something… you have to figure out its parts…

Because you’ve only done the middlegame part of your duty, Perrin! You still have to get ready for the ending! And that means… *dramatic hammerstroke* forging. But, you know, metaphorically.

Perrin feels awkward around Faile now because when you’ve focused your entire life and self and nation, waking and sleeping, on achieving a single goal, and rewritten your entire world around that goal, and then you do achieve it, it’s sometimes hard to know what to do with the reality of having achieved it, of having that person back at your side but an emptiness ahead of you where the idea of them once occupied everything. Or at least that’s my suspicion but Perrin when this is all over you may want to, I don’t know, talk to someone about it.

Seriously, a qualified therapist could make a killing setting up shop in this world.

“I should start turning them away.”

“I suspect they’d find their way back to our force anyway.”

“Why should they? I could leave orders.”

“You can’t give orders to the Pattern itself, my husband.”

Perrin: “WATCH ME.”

Maybe you could ask Rand to, as a favour? He seems to be on good terms with the Pattern these days. Er. These days in his timeline, I mean.

Yes, Perrin, this is you being ta’veren. Or have you been living under a rock for the last several books? Denial’s not going to last you much longer.

“And so coopers learn the sword,” Faile said, “and find they have a talent for it. Masons who never thought of fighting back against the Shaido now train with the quarterstaff.”

It’s such a ploughshares-to-swords image, and I still just love the way this is how Perrin’s ta’veren-ness manifests specifically: the one who was so careful lest he hurt someone, the one who tries so hard to deny his capacity for anger and ferocity, the one drawn to the Way of the Leaf and a dream of peace, is the one to cause that rippling of peace into war, farmers into soldiers, a quiet nation into a waiting army.

Because on one level there’s the sadness of it, of the only one who returns home bringing that home back out into the world with him and leaving it forever changed, of the one who wants gentleness rousing a people to follow and fight… but even that then ties into the deeper issue of acceptance. Of realising that the potential has always been there – for a ploughshare to be a sword or a blacksmith to be a warrior, or a man to be a wolf or a town to be an army – and that drawing that potential out and allowing it to exist and be used doesn’t negate what was there before. That man and wolf can coexist, that anger does not preclude gentleness, that fighting a war for survival does not negate the hope, one day, of peace.

And so Perrin’s ta’veren power becomes almost another level in playing out what he will eventually need to accept about himself. Just as Rand’s darkness and then light spread out to touch the world around him, it’s as if Perrin’s lack of acceptance of aspects of himself keep these people from truly coming together (the dreams of forging things that don’t come out right), whereas if he can accept what he is, and accept all parts of himself, forge them into unity, then the part of the world he affects – the people who follow him – will be forged together as well.

At least he acknowledges to himself that Faile’s right about this one. That’s a good step.

“Once we have gateways again, I’ll send these people to their proper places. I’m not gathering an army.”

Sigh. Or not. Two steps forward, one step back.

Understand the metal and the tools and the puzzle in your hands, Perrin. Look at what you have. Not at what you wish you had, or think you should have. Look at what the pieces can and need to be made into, rather than forcing them into what you want them to be made into.

“A man’s got to see a thing for what it is. No sense in calling a buckle a hinge or calling a nail a horseshoe.”

The hilarious thing here is that he’s making my point, whilst thinking he’s disproving it. Because Perrin, seeing a thing for what it is means looking at all these people around you and realising you’re their leader and they’re following you and you’re headed for Tarmon Gai’don. No sense calling a buckle a hinge, or an army a random group of refugees. (Well, they are that, too. But if you try to return them home now, soon they will have no home at all).

I do appreciate that he sees and acknowledges some of his flaws from when Faile was gone. He’s a little too hard on himself in places, and misses out others, but it’s a kind of humility and self-awareness and ability to recognise where he could be better that I like.

“It’s not [Berelain’s] fault,” Perrin said. If I’d been able to think of it, I’d have stopped the rumours dead. But I didn’t. Now I’ve got to sleep in the bed I made for myself.”

Perhaps not quite the idiom I’d have chosen in this particular instance, Perrin, but…

When she’d been a captive, nothing had mattered to him but recovering her. Nothing. It didn’t matter who had needed his help, or what orders he’d been given. […]

He realised now how dangerous his actions had been. Trouble was, he’d take those same actions again. He didn’t regret what he’d done, not for a moment.

Well… partial credit for self-awareness, I suppose?

Frustrating as this is, though, it also feels quite realistic. And there’s a certain kind of maturity in the devastating honesty it takes to look at something you’ve done and say ‘I shouldn’t have done that, but in the same situation I’d make those same choices again’. Even if it’s a mistake, being able to acknowledge that about yourself is… impressive.

You couldn’t make a drawknife into a horseshoe by painting it, or by calling it something different.

Yeah, and you can’t make a ta’veren lord, leader, wolfbrother, and warrior back into a simple blacksmith’s apprentice boy by sheer force of denial, but don’t let that stop you.

“I’ve been thinking on this for the last few weeks, and – odd though it seems – I believe my captivity may have been precisely what we needed. Both of us.”

*throws book against wall and lets out an Elayne-like scream of pure rage*

ARGH.

WHY.

‘It’s fine, Perrin, you see I actually think it’s good that I was just used as a plot device to further your character development because I was tossed a bit of character development as a last-minute consolation prize, so really it’s all good!’

Sigh. Okay. I mean, in-story and in-character… I get it. It’s over now, it’s past, and they’re both trying to move on, and Faile has always been one to try to find a pragmatic angle – even an optimistic one – on a situation. And she’s strong enough to say this and make it sound (almost) believable. To look back on harsh lessons learned in harsher circumstances and appreciate the fires that forged her.

Which of course puts me in mind of Rand and his if a sword had memory, it might be grateful to the forge fire, but never fond of it ‘gratitude’ towards his imprisonment in Far Madding, but with Rand and that thought, we are given fairly obvious narrative cues that point to ‘yikes, Rand, that’s maybe not the healthiest of responses to trauma’, and we know full well that we’re not supposed to think ‘ah, yes, being locked in a cell with his worst nightmares was good for his character development so everything’s fine’. (Which is not to say we can’t enjoy it, because sometimes you just want to see your favourite character broken and bleeding and chained to a wall, but that’s uh. Neither here nor there).

But here, it’s as if we’re supposed to take Faile at face value. As if we’re supposed to nod and think ‘yeah, actually, that probably wasn’t fun but it was What She Needed’ (which… wow that is an entire pile of yikes, because yes, what a female character in this genre needs is to be held captive and sexually coerced and deprived of all agency… is maybe not a point you want to be making?). It feels like trying to hang a lampshade on that travesty of a plotline and say ‘but look! It brought them both character development! So it’s fine!’

Anyway I’m still just bitter about the way Faile has been used as a plot device for Perrin’s character development across the last few books, and this… while entirely understandable from a character and story perspective, from an external perspective feels like salt in the damn wound.

Moving on.

*

To Galad, apparently.

Galad who is bound and in pain after being tortured. I’m listening.

(Why am I like this)

All was dark around him, but pinprick lights shone in the sky. Stars? It had been overcast for so long.

Huh. There’s something almost sweet about how closely this echoes that chapter in TGS when Gawyn is wishing he could see the stars. I mean I’m certain it’s not actually intentional because it’s a spurious connection at best, but it’s just a kind of sweet-sad note of similarity between two brothers who haven’t seen each other since they both got lost trying to find their way, and are still trying and wishing, just for a moment, for the stars for guidance.

They’re not actually stars, just pinpricks in the tent, but that’s beside the point.

What’s not beside the point is the inventory of Galad’s wounds because honestly, it’s as if everything from then he did dance, all his grace turned in an instant to fluid death onwards has been a targeted attack on me as a person by going down a list of all the things I like to see in a character and going ‘do you like him now? What about now? What about now?’ and I’m mad about it.

Galad did not fear death or pain. He had made the right choices. It was unfortunate that he’d needed to leave the Questioners in charge; they were controlled by the Seanchan. However, there had been no other option, not after he’d walked into Asunawa’s hands.

I’m not sure why I find it so fitting that Galad’s experience at Asunawa’s hands is not unlike Morgase’s in the end, but something about it just works for me. There’s a whole set of connections here that this bookends, between the two of them and their fall from and rise to power, and choices, and Valda and Asunawa and the Seanchan, and for whatever reason it feels satisfying to have this coming to an end much like it began. Though Galad is spared Morgase’s…………… choice. But I suppose there’s almost an irony here in him avenging Morgase in one way but then sharing her fate in another.

Or maybe it’s just back to the classic ‘I like fictional characters in pain’.

Soon the Questioners would come for him, and then the true price for saving his men would be exacted with their hooks and knives. He had been aware of that price when he’d made his decision. In a way, he had won, for he had manipulated the situation best.

STOP. TRYING. TO. MAKE. ME. LIKE. GALAD. DAMODRED.

I just. Damn it. This is such a good look! And yet it’s Galad!

Standing, beaten but unflinching, determined and himself, ready to face whatever they do to him. Well. That’s how Morgase began, too.

Oh hey it’s his friends! Which means probably no more torturing of Galad, which is kind of a shame (I’m sorry), but is also not entirely unexpected.

Oh wow Asunawa’s dead. Okay. Can’t say he’ll be missed, though it’s just a shame Morgase didn’t get to kill either him or Valda herself. Ah well, can’t have everything.

And it wasn’t Galad’s men who killed him, so now he has won the Questioners to him as well. Questions of Leadership indeed. I see what you did there.

It is an interesting contrast in this chapter, to watch Perrin constantly second-guessing or trying to deny his leadership, set against Galad just… accepting his.

I will give Galad this: he has won his leadership by being entirely and unrelentingly himself, and true to his convictions, and standing, despite everything thrown at him, despite the corruption around him, as a determined and unassailable symbol of what the Children of the Light should be. What they can be. He doesn’t try to steal power, doesn’t outright challenge their ways; he just leads quite literally by sheer force of example.

Galad nodded. “You accept me as Lord Captain Commander?”

But also, I just have to remind everyone that he’s buck-ass naked throughout this entire scene, and some juvenile part of me finds that absolutely hilarious.

“We were forced to kill a third of those who wore the red shepherd’s crook of the Hand of the Light.”

What a pity. No, really. I’m weeping. How sad. Terrible.

None of them asked whether he needed rest, though Trom did look worried.

Again! Characters beaten and exhausted and hiding their pain in order to just move forward is a whole Thing, and putting that on Galad and throwing it at me is just unfair.

Galad didn’t feel wise or strong enough to bear the title he did. But the Children had made their decision.

The Light would protect them for it.

(The fact that ‘Galad’ means ‘light’ in Sindarin is just an added bonus here, really).

But I like the way his thinking about this runs: he doesn’t feel wise or strong enough, but that’s not the part that matters. The part that matters is that they chose him. As Galad sees it, what makes a leader isn’t what the leader thinks of himself, but merely the fact that others choose to follow.

He is their leader now, and whether he wants to be or not, whether he feels up to it or not, is irrelevant. There’s an interesting question here around choices, and the lack thereof – that he has no choice, in a way, but to lead. Because whether or not he wants to, people have decided to follow him, and so by definition he is their leader now. And so the only thing to do, because it’s the right thing to do, is to lead them as well as he can.

Next (ToM ch 3) Previous (ToM ch 1)

[queenbirbs]

the way home | Ch. 3 | Edward x MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x MC

Word count: 3,417

Warnings: language, violence, mention of blood

Read from the beginning or continue on Read on AO3 

Tag list: @writinghereandthere ------

Whatever Robert says or does against Rhodes seems to work.

For the next week, as they hop from island to island, he gives Elena a wide berth. It doesn’t stop the death glares he gives her on the regular, but she’ll take those over him dropping a sack over her head and kidnapping her, as her nightmares depict. 

He can’t ruin today, though. The next outpost is St. Sylvain -- finally, a place where Elena has contacts of her own. Well, Charlie’s, she considers, which brings that familiar rush of heartache. She misses her best friend; misses her snarky, carefree attitude; misses her crude jokes and compassionate heart. Though Robert tries with his sarcastic tongue, he can never measure up to Charlie’s quick wit. 

As soon as the ship docks, Elena is off, flapping a hand at Robert’s reminder to only ask for information from those she trusts. Down the gangplank and across the port, she makes her way into the open-air market and searches along the rows of brightly-colored stalls. As if no time has passed, Bronte leans out from her own stall and waves at her as she approaches. 

“Ah, the fiercest pirate in all the seven seas!” she crows, her wrinkles creasing as she grins. “You’re Charlotte’s friend, aren’t ya? She’s been looking all over for ya.” 

“She has?” Elena asks, tightly clenching the leather strap across her chest.  

“O’course. She was here…” she trails off, tapping a finger against her stall as if counting up the days in her head. “...oh, sometime before the big storm. Was makin’ her rounds of the place, askin’ if ye’d been around.” 

“Did she say where she was headed?”

“Afraid not.” Settling her weight across the table, she opens her mouth, then pauses to squint at something along the market. Elena glances over her shoulder, but spots nothing of interest among the crowded stalls. “But here -- let me give ye something.” 

Bronte bends down and heaves up a basket of what looks like knitting supplies, clicking her tongue as she digs through it. Sweeping her hair to one shoulder, Elena keeps watch of the market until the older woman hums a noise of victory. She pulls out a makeshift cross, bound with red thread. “‘Tis made from the twigs of a Rowan tree. Keep it on yer person. It’ll offer ye protection from evil spirits on yer journey.” 

Given her recent history, Elena’s made a point to avoid picking up any old object. But she doesn’t want to seem rude, and who is she to argue against something that will bring protection? Taking the charm, she tucks it into the pocket of her coat.

“Thank you -- for the protection, and for speaking with me.” 

Bronte smiles at her once more. “If I see young Charlotte, I’ll be sure to send her yer way.”

------

The rest of the day is a wash. 

Her stop by the St. Sylvain Inn to speak with Mary takes the better part of an hour. Most of that time, however, is taken up by helping Mary toss out an unruly guest. What little chance at conversation they manage to have, Elena finds that her knowledge about Charlie’s whereabouts is limited. 

“She asked if I’d seen you, actually.” Mary’s face brightens at the memory, before she bites at her lip and frowns. “But this was months back. Certainly well before the hurricane.”

At the blacksmith’s, Elena wanders around the shop as the man there speaks with a customer. They hem and haw over the fine details of a new gate, going back and forth about prices. She bides her time by looking at a row of gleaming blades. One of the daggers catches her eye for the level of details carved along the hilt; it reminds her of the pistol Charlie gave her, all those years ago. The customer eventually leaves, having refused such a high cost for ‘such subpar craftsmanship.’

“What can I do for ye, ma’am?” the blacksmith calls out to her, wiping away the sweat on his face. “Interested in anything?”

Elena leaves the wares and crosses the room to be heard above the roar of the forge. “No, sorry. I was wondering if Tripp was working today?”

The blacksmith turns back to his project, tapping at a piece of glowing metal with his hammer. “He don’t work here no more.”

“Oh. Do you know where he works now, then?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I can--”

He slams the hammer down and a burst of hot sparks flares up into her face. The sword is in her hand and at his throat before she realizes it -- and before the man has the attempt to lift the hammer in defense. 

“Listen, alright.” He licks his lips and eyes the sword’s gleaming edge. “He left about three months ago. Said that he was going to try and head back home.” 

“Where’s that?” she snaps, though she eases the sword back a few inches to give him the illusion of space. 

“I don’t-- maybe, maybe St. Fisher, or England. I dunno, I never asked. All I know is that he went off, and I haven’t seen ‘im since.” 

Elena flicks her sword away and slides it back into its scabbard, suppressing her smirk at the man’s audible breath of relief. Brushing past another woman on her way out, she starts her trek back to the market to try any other of Charlie’s contacts. She’s nearly reached the main drag when there’s a voice from behind her. 

“Is yer name Elena Montgomery?” 

Elena spins around to face the stranger. It’s the woman from the shop, her auburn hair matted to her neck from the heat -- and, presumably, from chasing Elena down. Her accent is similar to Kendrick’s, her voice low and rich. 

“It is. And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry -- I’m Fran.” She shifts the satchel she carries from one shoulder to the other, trying to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, too, for chasing after you like that. I saw you at the inn, talking with Mary. Are you looking for Edward Mortemer?” 

“I am.”  

“I just met a lad who talked about doing business with him.” 

“When?”

“Two hours ago or so, I think. I was out near the market and we struck up a--”

“No, when did he see Edward?” Elena clarifies.

“Oh.” Fran’s nose scrunches up as she tries to recall. “I think he mentioned it was o’er the summer? I’m not for certain. I can take you to him -- if he’s still at his stall.”

It’s too good to be true. After weeks of searching, a lead like this doesn’t just fall into her lap. She would be a fool to go with some random woman, despite how cute she is. But she can’t turn her back on an opportunity like this. 

“Yes, please,” she all but begs. 

Fran guides her through the streets, clearly a local in her knowledge on how to avoid the congested areas. She isn’t much for talking, which Elena appreciates, as she’s too caught up in her own thoughts. Even if this man saw Edward over the summer, does that mean it was here, or somewhere across the globe? If it was over in Portugal or the Philippines, then what the hell is she supposed to do? What if she returned too late? What if Edward, Charlie, and the crew were one of the twelve ships lost in the storm? Elena fiddles with the necklace, worrying the chain in between her fingers. She knows the risk of using the whistle again -- but she will, if it means saving their lives from such a fate. 

“That’s a pretty charm you have there,” Fran says, breaking the silence between them. “A bit odd-looking, but pretty.”

“Thanks.” Feigning a smile, Elena tries to subtly tuck it back into her shirt.

They reach the market soon enough. Along with Bronte’s, most of the stalls are boarded up or packed away. Out in the harbor, strong winds batter at the ships’ flags and rigging. Thick clouds roll along above the island, warning them of the approaching storm. Across the horizon, lightning dances atop the white-capped waves. Fran continues down to a covered section of the wharf, shadowed by a large building for ship repairs.

“Tommy! You still here?” she calls out as they round the next corner. 

Tucked back along the building are a few more stalls. Their choice in location isn’t lost on Elena. This is where other sorts of deals take place. If it weren’t obvious from the grizzled men that leer at them, the crates of pistols, bolts of fine lace, and casks of wine are enough of a statement on their own. 

“Aye, I’m here.” 

Dread rings its alarm bell loud and clear inside her skull when Rhodes steps out from the group of men. From the corner of her vision, Elena sees several more men approach her from behind. “Very good,” Rhodes croons at Fran, dropping a few coins into her waiting palm.

“I also snagged us this. Figured we could rough it up a bit and pass it off as the Bonnie Prince’s.” From her satchel, she pulls out the dagger Elena eyed at the shop. “And that charm she’s wearin’, that could go for a fair bit o’ coin.” 

The roof groans under the sudden onslaught of rain. Shoddy patch jobs let some of the water through, soaking the dry earth under their feet. Taking the blade from Fran, Rhodes tosses it between his hands, eyeing Elena all the while. That crooked smirk of his widens.

“Fran speaks the truth, ya know. I spoke with your captain not long before the storm. He told me a lovely tale about how he’s sailed the world looking for his love. It brought tears to my eyes, it really did.” 

“Touching,” Elena all but spits back at him. She lifts her chin to keep her eyes on his. Her hand hovers above her sword’s hilt.

“Too many heartless bastards out there, he said, trying to pull one over on ‘im.”

Her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. “And you’re going to be different?” 

“O’course. He’s been chasing after lies for far too long. The lad wants proof.” Rhodes strikes; he throws an arm across her chest and slams her back into the wall. Her face smacks against the rough stone; she tastes blood on her tongue. “So, I’m going to slice off one of those pretty fingers of yers, and if he don’t respond to that, I’ll keep sending him more until he--”

Elena spits in his face. He reaches to wipe it away and she ducks under his hold, using the muddy ground to slide from his next punch. Knocking his arm away, she slams her fist against his kidneys. Rhodes collapses to one knee and growls out a long string of curses.

“Send him one of yours instead,” she snarls.

Swiping the dagger from his hand, she twirls it and grips it tight before seizing his other hand. The blade slices clean through three of his fingers. His howl of pain disappears under a loud clap of thunder.

“You fucking--”

His insult never lands. With a quick snap of her knee, she knocks his head into the wall. He collapses in a heap, mottled with blood and muck. Elena bends down and wipes the blade on a clean patch of his shirt. 

When she stands up, she finds Fran gone and the other men watching her from a few yards back. Sliding her new dagger into the sheath at her breast, she throws the men a mock salute and heads out into the storm. 

------

She’s woken by the smell of blood. 

Her hand goes up to attend to her nosebleed before she realizes the scent is a memory from her nightmare, the last dredges of it lingering in the confines of her quarters. Not wanting her bunkmates to wake to the sound of her crying, Elena climbs out and heads for the deck. With the skeleton crew this late at night, she has no trouble sneaking past them to reach her corner of solitude at the stern.   

If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s aboard the Revenge. The salty ocean breeze and the rhythmic swaying of the ship could fool her so easily. When she opens her eyes, though, there is no Henry badgering her about trying his latest creation; no Charlie sauntering up with a bottle of rum; and no Edward drawing invisible lines between the stars to teach her the constellations. 

The same stars she’s looking up at now, knowing that somewhere out there across the sea, he might be gazing at them, too. 

The small pinpricks of light start to grow fuzzy. Elena folds her arms against the railing and buries her head in them, trying to muffle her crying. The idea of spending another month chasing after Edward is frustrating to no end. If this was her own time, she could just hunt him down on social media or track him down with a PI. Maybe it would be better if she planted her ass down on an island and waited for him, at this rate.    

“Are you bawling because you killed him?”

Elena jolts up in surprise. Her ribs smack against the railing. Rubbing a hand over them to soothe the ache, she turns and glowers at Robert. 

“I don’t remember inviting you to my pity party.”

“You didn’t. I crashed it.” Moving to stand beside her, he spends a long minute overlooking the dark ocean in front of them. Once she’s finished with trying to hide her tears, he asks again. “So, did you?”

“No.”

“A shame.” 

Captain Delaney was the only one to ask about Rhodes when he didn’t return. When no one else responded, Robert mentioned that he decided to take a position on another ship. The lie -- and the fact that no one cared all that much for the man anyway -- seemed to work. Delaney promoted another sailor to Rhodes’s position, and that was that.  

“I should’ve listened to you,” Elena laments, not-so-subtly wiping her tear-stained sleeve against her face. “This woman approached me and said she had information about Edward. I was baited -- hook, line, and sinker.” 

His hands clench tight around the railing. “Love can make you do stupid things.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Aye, actually, I am.” 

“Bullshit,” she says. “You’ve never once mentioned someone important. You only wanted to come back for the freedom, the adventure -- you said so yourself. And I understand that, I really do. The adventure is why I stayed in the first place. I could’ve snuck into Edward’s cabin or seduced him for the compass like that,” she snaps her fingers for emphasis, ignoring Robert’s snort of disbelief. “But once I had the chance… I stayed. It became about more than the thrill of it.”

“Why is it that you younguns think love is only for the thirty-and-under crowd?” 

“‘Younguns’?” Elena repeats with a grimace. 

“I was trying out some of yer Texas slang.”

“Nobody says that.” When he opens his mouth to protest, she holds up a hand. “Okay, nobody who didn’t fight in the fucking Alamo. But -- seriously, I want to know. Is there someone…?” she trails off, encouraging him to open up. 

Robert lets out a long, ragged sigh before digging into his coat. The compass in his hand is set into a simple wooden box, much less ornate than the previous one. Cradling the compass close to shield it from the wind, he digs a fingernail into a hidden switch and a small compartment slides open from the bottom. A twist of raven-colored hair falls into his palm, tied with a tiny length of twine. He traces his thumb across the coarse texture, his breathing unsteady. 

“His name is Julien. We met in Panama City while searching for Sir Francis Drake’s treasure that he stole from the Nuestra Señora de la Concepción. Though we never did find the gold, we ended up running a ship together and stealing some of our own.” Without glancing down, Robert slips the lock of hair back into the compartment and snaps it closed. It’s telling how reflexive it is, as if he repeats the move a hundred times a day. “We didn’t want to deal with the Spanish anymore than we had to, so we sailed to St. Lucia. ‘Twas run by France at the time, and our contact out there bragged about running a smuggling route right under their noses. But when we arrived, we found him in a gibbet. He’d been there a good while. Julien only knew ‘twas him from the ugly, purple trousers he wore.”

Having seen the skeletons hanging along some of the ports, Elena is thankful she missed seeing the late stages of decomposition. “Not long after, we were captured by the French. We managed to escape, but were forced to separate in order to get our crew out. Being French himself, Julien had a better chance at disguising himself as a local. The last I saw of him was when he went back in to retrieve Charlie. And then,” he pauses to clear his throat, “she came out and he didn’t, and we had to escape the island or risk getting caught all over again. And his attempts would’ve been for nothing.”

Elena wants nothing more than to wrap her friend in a hug. Knowing that he’s not big on physical touch, though, she gives what comfort she can by placing her hand alongside his on the railing. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“O’course you didn’t, because I never told you. Even in the future, there are places where our relationship would be met with the business end of a pistol.” Robert shrugs at the idea, but she can see in the set of his jaw how angry it makes him. “But even after I gained your trust and you told me about your past relationships, I felt like I still needed to keep him a secret. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

“Tell me about him,” she requests.

With a quiet chuckle, Robert shakes his head. 

“There isn’t enough time in the day to describe him, and I’m not one to wax poetic. But he is… kinder than me, certainly. A better shot than me, too. He’s the one who taught Charlie everything she knows. The chain I gave you, that’s for him.” He puts a hand up when Elena immediately reaches up to return it. “No, no -- that whistle is much too important. The chain isn’t the… I’ve already gotten a new one. I was hoping -- I have my grandfather’s ring that I would like him to wear. If he agrees, o’course.”

She suppresses the smile that wants to form at seeing Robert flustered. 

“You’re referring to him in the… do you know if he’s alive? Where he is?”

“The last confirmed sighting of him was three years ago in Curaçao, a small island off the coast of Venezuela.”

Her brows knit together as she studies him. “Then why are you here, in the north?”

His shoulders sag with the weight of his sigh, though she can see the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. 

“Because I made you a promise, remember? Last year, when we tried our hand at stealing the sceptre from the Crown Room. The only reason I’m not locked up in some Scottish ‘House of Special Purpose’ is because you came back for me. And I told you that I would stay by yer side until we found Edward.”

“I mean, if I had left you there, you would’ve just ratted me out as an accomplice.”

That gets a proper laugh from him. “True enough, but I’ll wager the thought never crossed yer mind, did it, kid?” Her small shrug is enough of a confirmation for him. “Julien’s somewhere out there, waiting for me,” he assures. “The man has the patience of a saint. So, I’ll be sticking with you ‘til then. Make sure you get home safe and all that.”

Annoyed at the night’s second round of tears trying to make their appearance, Elena keeps her eyes on the whitecaps in the distance. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” In a rare show of friendship, Robert knocks his elbow against hers and jostles her from the railing. “Seriously, don’t. I do have a reputation to uphold.”

------

References:

The “House of Special Purpose” is another name for the Ipatiev House, where Emperor Nicholas II, his family, and members of their household were executed in 1918. To my knowledge, there is no Scottish version -- mostly because MI5 operates out of the Thames House in London.

[imaginepirates]

Confusing Relations

For @ilikebritsandbands, who gave me my first smut request, and I was more than happy to oblige. Basically, the reader is in a relationship with Jack, but you both see other people. What you don't know is that two of your partners have gotten together. Things get...embarrassing. :)

WARNINGS: smut ahead, my friends.

@bonjour-frens @tesserphantom

~3500 words

~~~~~~~

           You had been in a relationship with Jack for a long time. Nobody knew that, of course, because it was a bit scandalous to have a pirate as a partner. The relationship was an open one. You both saw other people, but you agreed that such things were okay with both of you. 

           You were with one of these other partners now. She was beautiful; freckles covered her body, and there was a playful look in her eye. You could spend hours with her, and not only in the bedroom. She was an interesting girl to talk to. Often, you laid in bed for hours, talking about whatever struck your fancy. Any time with her was time well spent. 

           Perhaps it was a part of who you were, doing scandalous things. Dating a pirate, for example. Fucking the Governor's daughter, for another. 

           Elizabeth wasn't innocent in the act, either. A feisty, adventurous thing such as her needed experimentation. She also needed satisfaction, which you were more than willing to give. 

           Currently, you were working on removing the clothing that hid her form. You'd already taken advantage of the low neckline of her dress, sucking small bruises into the soft skin between her neck and shoulder. She was skilled at covering the marks with powder, leaving you to attend to her however you saw fit. 

          You saw fit to divest her completely of her dress. The lacing on the back was infuriating. It was taking you much too long to untie, though perhaps that was due to the fact that you were rather distracted by her mouth on yours. 

           You hummed when she broke away. "You taste good. What did you eat before this?"

           "Admittedly, a chocolate tart. I hoped you would notice."

           "Ah. Well, you taste delicious. In more places than one, if my past experiences are any indication. But I can't seem to get this damn dress off you."

           "Well." She pushed you out of her lap and rolled onto her stomach. "We must remedy that."

           Quickly as your fingers would let you, you undid the laces of her dress. You helped her wriggle out of it, to your mutual amusement. Unfortunately, her wriggling was making you more needy between the legs. 

           Once the dress was off, you had to deal with the corset. That done, you kissed her back through her shift. She was hardly a sheepish person, and though you loved to have her bare before you, you wanted to take your time. Besides, it was rather fun to tease her. 

           She flipped over underneath you, trying to pull her dress over her head. You grabbed her hands, shoving them over her head. 

           "Don't even think about it. Not yet." You straddled her hips. With one hand, you held hers above her head. You let the other roam her body. You massaged her breasts, and she let out a little contented sigh. 

           "This really isn't fair," she mused. "You're still mostly clothed."

           You wore trousers with a shirt tucked into them for convenience. Not only were they easier to move around in and more comfortable than dresses, but they were easier to take off. 

           "I'm sure you can restrain yourself from touching me for a few more minutes." You winked. In truth, you wanted her hands on you. You had to wait just as much as she did. 

           Slowly, you pushed a hand up her skirt. You traced her skin with your thumb, inching higher. She squirmed underneath you, hips bucking up into yours. This action wasn't helping your self control.  

           Your thumb rubbed circles in her upper thigh, and she whined in frustration. So pretty. You let your fingers dance over wet underclothes. After a moment more of teasing, you rubbed her through the lacy fabric. She moaned in response, only making your own need greater. 

           You decided against wasting any time. You released her hands, and they undid the front of your shirt as you tore the slip over her head and the underclothes from her hips. There was a moment of frantic movement as you struggled to divest yourselves of clothes completely. 

           You disappeared between her legs, biting at the sensitive flesh on her thighs. Her hands flew to your hair, gripping and pulling. You moved to her core, licking over her folds. With one hand, you held down her hips. She tended to squirm under your ministrations. Your other hand was on her thigh. 

           It didn't take long for her to come. Her voice made you want to satisfy her all the more. Her moans were the only choir music you were bound to get. 

           After calming down, she flipped you over, intending to do the same for you. It was your favorite part of sex with her; you loved watching her on top of you. She loved to tease you, too. 

           As if reading your mind, she leaned down to whisper in your ear. "You're so wet." 

           "That's what happens when I get to watch you under me." You weren't ashamed to give her a reason for your need. 

           "I like to think I have such an affect on you." She smirked. 

           "Don't get cocky."

           "Not to worry. I don't have one."

           You both laughed, though it was a bit husky, voice filled with lust. Then, much to your pleasure, she began. 

~~~

           It was quite a while later that you slipped out of her room. Her servants hadn't discovered the two of you yet, and you weren't about to give them the chance. You'd stayed a while to cool off and cuddle, that way, you didn't look like an absolute mess. You just looked a bit more disheveled than when you entered. You left through the servant's entrance as not to be seen. Her father didn't know you even existed. What he doesn't know doesn't hurt him.

           You wandered back to Jack's. You stayed with him in a little house you shared. It was by no means a luxury, but it was comfortable. 

           He wasn't home. You guessed he was either seducing women or doing something piratical. He had, for some time, talked of procuring a new ship. His old one had been taken by a mutinous first mate. Sometimes, especially when drunk, he got mopey about it. 

           You sprawled out on the bed. You could use a nap after all the excitement that was Elizabeth Swann. You couldn't sleep with her; you had to keep an ear out for servants. 

           You debated what to do later in the day. You vaguely pondered meeting up with someone else, but you decided against it. Instead, you decided to go shopping. There wasn't much food at home, and you weren't about to go hungry.  

           You pulled yourself out of bed an hour later, throwing on some clothes. You weren't sure if they were yours or Jack's. Then, you headed out, meandering sleepily through the city. 

           People bustled about, taking care of their daily chores. Others were taking strolls, arm in arm with a partner. It gave you mixed feelings. You and Jack would never be able to walk together down the street. Unless he somehow received a pardon, he would remain a known criminal most places you went. 

           The public market was one of your favorite parts of the city. It was always full of people, and it sold wares from around the world. There were exotic spices, strange foods, and tools whose purposes were wholly unknown to you. 

           You made your way to a vegetable stand, intent on buying something fresh. Jack didn't have much money, but you worked odd jobs. There was nothing he could do but lie low. You didn't mind; the two of you didn't need that much money to begin with. 

           You stocked up on fruits, vegetables, breads, and meats. You believed that one of the best things in life was a good meal, and you were always intent on making them. Jack was a better cook than you had imagined; he'd picked up some skill while in different countries. 

           You were just finishing up when you noticed a familiar face a few stalls away. It was the blacksmith's apprentice, an attractive boy around your age. He was the sweetest young man, and in all aspects of life, a gentle person. You would know. 

           You approached him as he eyed a jewelry vendor. You thought it strange, but didn't dwell on it. "Will!" you called. You intercepted him near a food vendor. "How are you?"

           "I'm well, thank you. And you?" 

           "I'm alright. How has work been?"

           "Busy as usual."

           You continued on with some small talk. You hadn't seen each other in weeks. Usually, your meetings were few and far between. He wasn't particularly interested in having sex regularly, but you knew how much he liked having you in his bed every so often. You had to admit, you enjoyed the meetings too. 

           He shifted nervously, running a hand through his hair. "I was wondering if you might like to meet up later tonight? I know my room at the forge is small, but…" he trailed off. 

           "I'd love to," you said. 

           He blushed. "Ah, um, good then. See you later?"

           You winked. It still surprised you how bashful he was outside of the bedroom. Jack and Elizabeth were so unashamed of everything; you weren't used to people being shy about it. Judging by his behavior, nobody would guess that Will had even had sex before. 

           You wondered if twice in one day was too much, but decided it hardly meant a thing. You could allow yourself a little indulgence, right?

~~~~~

           You lay on the grass with Elizabeth, staring up at the clouds. This meeting was purely innocent. Sometimes, it was nice to just talk girl to girl. 

           From the time you first met, the two of you shared things with each other. Now, you were practically her confidante, and she was yours. You loved her secrets, and she loved yours. Life was so much easier when you knew you weren't alone. 

           "Can you believe she had the audacity? Right then? I thought it was amusing, and I admit to giggling, but I have been informed that my timing was 'inappropriate'." Elizabeth continued your earlier conversation about a ball she had just attended. Finishing her story, she rolled over onto her stomach, her head right next to yours. "I have a confession," she whispered. 

           There was a joke between the two of you. When one person needed to tell the other a secret, they'd pretend to be at confessionals in church. It made everything more amusing and less serious. 

           "I'm in a secret relationship."

           You faked a gasp. "You? The pure and innocent Governor's daughter, in a secret relationship? It will be the scandal of our age!"

           She snorted. "As it turns out, I'm not that pure and innocent. You've made sure of that."

           "I suppose I have. Now, tell me, who is this relationship with?" You asked. 

           "Oh, I can't say. Not yet. If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, and I simply must keep it secret for a little while longer."

           "Oh, absolutely." Elizabeth had a very entertaining flair for the dramatics. You secretly loved it. 

           The afternoon continued, and you gossiped well into the early evening. It was one of your favorite times of day, and you could watch Elizabeth outlined in golden light. 

           When you drowsily headed home, you found the bedroom door ajar. Jack was sprawled out across the bed, though he wasn't asleep. He'd been gone for a few days. You were glad to have him back. 

           "You've returned! Miss me?" You teased. 

           He climbed out of bed, steering you backwards towards a wall. "I'm not ashamed to admit that I did, love." His voice had taken on a low tone, and he was close to your ear. 

           You let one hand explore his body, lightly tracing the crotch of his pants. He was deliciously hard. "Have you been touching yourself while I've been gone?" You purred. 

           He hummed into your ear, bucking slightly against your hips. You let him untie the front of your shirt, trailing kisses along your neck. He flicked his tongue over the little marks he left. 

           Soon, his hands were at your thighs, lifting you to pin you against the wall. You wrapped your legs around his back. Your hands were busy trying to take off his shirt, though he made it difficult by refusing to remove his lips from your neck. 

           "Jack, would you please let me undress you." You'd done this too many times, but he still left you breathless. 

           "I bet you'd like that," he growled, hips grinding into yours. The action made you impatient. 

           "I would."

           Suddenly, he turned, supporting you with his hands. He carried you to the bed, tossing you down before straddling your hips. You wasted no time in ridding each other of your clothes. His hot mouth attacked your chest, sucking dark bruises into your breasts. 

           You grasped his hair, tugging at the long locks. He growled into your skin, pushing himself up to capture your lips in a possessive kiss. His cock pressed against your stomach. He had his body flush against yours, and the warmth of it spread through your chest. 

           You reached down, intent on taking things further. Your fingers wrapped around his member, lazily stroking. Jack groaned, burying his face in your neck. He let you go on, moving his hips a little in response to your touch. 

           You positioned him so his cock was between your legs, still fingering him. He pushed himself onto his forearms and stared into your face. 

           "Can't wait any longer, love?" He purred. It sent a small shiver down your spine. 

           He moved one hand down, massaging your upper thigh. He stuck one finger inside of you, then another, scissoring them back and forth. 

           You moaned. You wanted him inside you, and not just his fingers. You bucked up, intent on making him know what you wanted.  

           "You really are impatient." Jack withdrew his fingers, shifting to a better position. 

           You wished you could tell him that he was the one who had needed you so badly in the first place, but words failed you. He thrust into you, not roughly, but quickly enough to make you gasp. 

           He began moving, slowly, as to begin comfortably for the both of you. You could feel your walls stretching to accommodate him. You felt full. 

           He sped up, breath quickening as he went. You felt your own breath speeding up, and it was getting harder to focus on any one thing. You were bound to come undone. 

           With one particularly sharp thrust, your body shuddered with release. Jack's hips still rolled into yours, helping you through your orgasm. Your grip on him slackened. Your body felt boneless, and you knew you weren't going to be moving much any time soon.

           He came quickly after. He rolled onto his back to steady his breathing. As you both cooled down, your hands found each other. You only released him to get a towel and clean you both up. 

           Climbing back into bed, he pulled you onto his chest. You didn't know what to expect; your experiences after having had sex with Jack were wildly different. Mostly, you both fell asleep, but you occasionally held conversations. 

           "Did you know," he began, "that dear William has a girl?" 

           Ah, and here I wanted to sleep, you thought. "Another one? He has me already."

           "Not like that. Like…" Jack struggled for an analogy. "Like us."

           That made you blush. "Like us?" 

           "Someone that you spend most of your time with."

           "Right." You thought back to when he had been looking at jewelry in the market. "Any idea who the girl is?"

           "None."

           Something at the back of your mind clicked. I'm in a secret relationship. You sat bolt upright in bed. Jack stared at you with wide eyes, but you ignored him in favor of your newest revelation. 

           "Elizabeth!" 

           "The Governor's daughter? The one you've been…" he wiggled his fingers. "Seeing?"

           "That very one," you said. "She told me she was in a secret relationship, but wouldn't say with whom."

           "Interesting," Jack mused.  

           "Very."

           "I'm proud of dear William. Good for him."

           You had to agree. Elizabeth was the dream catch of a thousand men. 

           William and Elizabeth had ties to both you and Jack. Jack and Will were old friends, though Jack had only ever seen Elizabeth in passing. Both of them had been over to your house before. Sometimes, Will came over to speak with Jack. You'd never seen each other at the house; you didn't even think he knew you lived there. Elizabeth just enjoyed the privacy of being in your home without anyone around to see you. 

           There might have been more you and Jack wished to say, but you were both exhausted. You settled back onto his chest. You fell asleep to the feeling of his fingers running gently through your hair. 

           When you woke again, you noticed Jack's prominently hard cock against your thigh. He was already awake, humming some tune. He must've been waiting for you to wake so he could suggest another round. 

           Suggesting another round was exactly what he did. You quickly agreed, letting him position himself atop you. 

           Dutifully distracted, neither of you heard the knock on your front door. 

           It was a true blessing that blankets existed, and that you were under them. Someone entered your room, gently pushing the door open. Light streamed in over the both of you. 

           You were relieved that you and Jack hadn't started fucking quite yet. Two silhouettes were outlined in the door. When their faces came into focus, you realized they were, in fact, Will and Elizabeth. 

           You and Jack stared at them from your positions in bed. The situation was awkward, to say the least.

           "Y/N?" This was Will, whose eyebrows were sitting at the top of his forehead. "Jack?"

           "Well," Elizabeth began, regaining her composure. "This is certainly a surprise."

           You nodded, though you doubted either of them could see it from your position under Jack. As if reading your mind, Jack rolled so that he was beside you, laying down on his side. 

           "I didn't know that the two of you saw each other." Will fidgeted with his sleeve. 

           "William, my dear boy." Jack's voice had a strain of impatience to it. You expected that other parts of him were feeling similarly. "Y/N and I have been in an open relationship for years. What, may I ask, are you doing here?"

           "I knew Y/N lived here," said Elizabeth. "I didn't know you did- actually, I'm not sure I know you."

           "Not exactly the best time for introductions." You tried covering more of yourself with the sheets. 

           "I suppose not." Both Elizabeth and Will stared at the floor. 

           "Can you give us a moment to get changed?"

           "Of course." The pair left the room, shutting the door behind them. 

           You rolled over. "Looks like this is going to have to wait." You gestured between the two of you. Jack did not look pleased. 

           You stepped out of the room, now fully clothed, though looking disheveled. Will and Elizabeth waited for you at your small table. Both of them still looked embarrassed, and so did you. What were you supposed to say?

           "What did you come here for?" You asked. 

           "Well," Elizabeth began, "I wanted to tell you about that relationship of mine. Will wanted to tell one of his friends, too. We didn't know you lived together. Really, there were a lot of things neither of us knew." 

           You didn't know what to say first. "Congratulations to both of you. I think you'll make a lovely couple." You fidgeted with the untucked end of your shirt. "You…you didn't know that I was with both of you, did you?"

           "No," said Will, "we did not."

           Both of them had known you had multiple partners, but there was still an unreasonable fear inside you that they'd be mad with you. 

           "It isn't a bad thing," said Elizabeth quickly. "It's just a surprise. And a rather major coincidence." Her eyes flicked between you and Jack. 

           "I'm happy for both of you." Jack stepped over to both of them. "Will, I'm glad you've found a girl. Elizabeth…I suppose congratulations are in order, even though I don't know you. I'll trust Y/N's opinions of you. All that being said, Y/N and I were in the middle of some business, and I'm eager for it to be attended to, if you catch my meaning. Savvy?"

           Will had the good graces to look mortified. Elizabeth, however, looked amused. They left, shutting the door behind them. 

           Jack stalked over to it, locking it. "I'm never forgetting to do that again."

           "Back to business?" You suggested.  

           "Back to business," he agreed. 

[aire101]

Ferrum Chapter 5

LINK TO FIC MASTER POST

A/N:  Well, I'm definitely not winning Nanowrimo again this year, but I did get a chapter out earlier than previously, and hopefully I'll be updating again soon. Also, this chapter I attempted to briefly show different perspectives on the game being cleared, and both were based on what my own feelings would have been at two different points in my life, so don't come at me about it please. Take care of yourselves, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

---

The Town of Beginnings had changed remarkably from three weeks ago.  Sure, the buildings and streets were all the same, but the mood and tension in the air hung like a thick blanket over nearly every person within the walls.  In sharp contrast, the NPC’s on the street continued to merrily hawk their wares and interact with those in the street, most of whom seemed to be ‘out of towners’ like themselves.  From windows above, you could occasionally see a face peering down before a drape would be pulled closed again.

All in all, it was distinctly unsettling, but exactly what Tony had expected.

“I knew some would hole up in the starter town, but this is a bit more intense than I imagined,” said Peter, as they made their way towards an inn.

“Kid, almost two thousands people have died since this game began—two out of every ten people who started.  In all honestly, I’m surprised how many of us have hit the ground running,” said Tony.

“I know, but turning into a complete shut-in seems a bit extreme.  Its not like anything is going to attack you within the city’s Safe Zone…”

“You say that, but that assumption is born from an inherent trust of the system.  A system that has already been previously hijacked and altered to trap us all here on the whim of a asshole with a god complex.  Considering that, who do you really think is crazy?  The ones who can’t bring themselves to trust the system to protect them, or the ones who do?” asked Tony.

“I guess when you put it that way, I see your point.  But still, we’re probably going to be here for a while.  Are they just planning on staying in one room for the next however many years?”

“I imagine some of them will eventually venture out and find their own niche in the world, even if it isn’t battling the local mobs.  Some will start fishing, or hunting, mining, cooking… the skill list for the game is extensive.  Some entrepreneurs will probably start opening player run businesses and establishments.  But I doubt we’ll see much of that until the Level One Floor Boss is found and cleared.  These people are stuck in the dark without a light, believing the system is rigged against them.  They need to see proof of what’s possible, a light to guide them forward, before we’ll see any real progress here.  And even then, there will still be some who never go further than the walls of this city,” said Tony.  “The amount of specialized therapy everyone in this game will need afterward is going to make some psychologists rich.”

Ahead of them, Tony saw a sign for an inn and turned to Peter.

“You can go ahead and get us set up for the night.  I’m going to go and find a tool shop and a smithy, see if I can add a durability upgrade.  Do you need anything while I’m out?” asked Tony.

“Um… Maybe some more potions.  I used the last one back in the West forest.  Though god those things taste like dirty socks,” said Peter, checking his inventory.

“You know, if you stopped doing dumb crap like jumping between me and attacks you wouldn’t have this problem,” said Tony, with a dry tone and a distinctly unsympathetic expression.

“What’s the point of having each other’s back if I don’t guard it?” said Peter, completely unrepentant.

Tony threw up his hands as he turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “Potions it is!”

He didn’t have to look back, he could feel the boy’s eyes roll into his head.

As Tony worked his way towards the central market, he took in the graystone streets and buildings with ornate windows and battlements.  Every so often he would come across small barren plazas with lovely fountains and flora, nearly empty cafes and brightly colored vendor stalls. Even an occasional vista located just perfectly to allow someone a majestic view of the city and the surrounding area. Tony sighed, thinking of what could have been for this city that many had spent years of their lives developing.

The Town of Beginnings would have been a beautiful city without the miasma of despair that clung to its inhabitants.

It got him to wondering exactly what had come of his AIs, the ones Argus had requested.  He had almost had one completely coded at the time of their last meeting.  She had been a sweet one.  But since he had woken in the game, he had seen no sign of her.  Did they end up including her in the Cardinal System at all?

Maybe he should start poking around the GM user panel in earnest, see what he could find out.  So far, he had mostly kept away from delving into it, afraid of catching Kayaba’s attention.  But if there was something he could do to help, he would damn well try.  

Up ahead he saw a sign advertising a blacksmith and item vendor.  Eventually he wanted to try and open a smithy himself.  Peter seemed set on throwing himself into harms way (per usual), and if he was going to do that, Tony wanted to make sure he had the best equipment available to do so.  So Tony started learning how to do what he did best— make weapons and armor.

But to do that required a blacksmith’s forge and anvil.  And to get that required a hefty amount of Cor.  So for now, he rented an NPC blacksmith’s resources every now and then in order to improve and repair their equipment.

A bell jingled as he opened the door, undoubtedly triggering the customary NPC interaction.

“Welcome to Varden’s Smith and Sundry!  How may I help you today?” called the man behind the counter.

“I would like to buy potions,” said Tony.

“What quantities would you like?”

“Ten.”

“That will be 1,500 Cor.”

“Ugh…” Tony broke the script to groan.  He didn’t begrudge the purchase, far from it.  But seriously, the kid needed to stop getting hit in the first place.  His heart really couldn’t take this, and neither could their pocket book.

Who would have guessed he’d finally learn the concept of budgeting in his fifties?  And boy did it suck.

Tony opened up his inventory, removing the required amount to place on the counter.  As soon as it hit the counter, the bag of Cor flashed and disappeared.

“Thank you for your purchase!  Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes, I’d like to rent your forge,” said Tony.

“Ah, yes!  Come!  Follow me this way…”

—

As Peter entered the inn, he glanced around the first floor tavern where various parties sat around rough hewn tables over pub fare and pints.  At the bar, several others sat, conversing casually, though a little less intimately than those at the lower tables.  Making a decision, he approached the bar.

“What can I getcha?” asked the barman as Peter sat.

“Whatever today’s special is and a pint,” said Peter, setting the typical meal cost in Cor down on the counter.

The barman nodded, accepting the payment and placing a full pint down in front of Peter before turning to finish the task.

As he waited, Peter took sips of his drink and listened in on the conversations around him.

“Word is they’ve finally found the entrance to the dungeon, as well as a new town relatively close to it called Tolbana.  Hopefully within the next week or two they’ll find the boss and the first floor will be cleared,” said a woman to his left.

The girl sitting on the other side of her shook her head.  “But how many more will die clearing it out?  There’s already almost 2,000 names crossed out in the Monument of Life in the Black Palace.”

“What else are we supposed to do?  We either die trying to get out or die of old age stuck in a virtual world.”

“Would that really be the worst thing, though?  In the real world I’m in constant pain from my condition, some days I can’t even make it out of bed for more than the absolute necessities.  Here I can live without that.”

The woman next to him sighed, “I’m sorry for that, and I understand why you would consider the option of living within the system.  But some of us can’t.  When I dove, I told my husband it would only be for a couple of hours, then we could take our five year old son to the park.  They’re waiting on me to return.  I want to be able to see my child grow up.  So its a risk I have to take.”

The other girl nodded, “I get it.”

It was at that point the barman set a plate of what looked and smelled like chicken and roasted squash in front of him.  Peter thanked the man and began to eat.

“God that looks good…” said the girl a couple seats down.  “I haven’t eaten a proper meal in a couple days.  The black bread is cheaper, though its dry and doesn’t last very long.”

“You really should try and go hunting.  You’ll never make enough Cor or skill points to survive comfortably unless you do.  Even if its just around this area,” said the other woman.  “Going hungry for the next few years would be pretty miserable.”

“Sorry if I’m intruding,” said Peter, “but I’ve been curious about something— how often and how quickly do you get hungry in here?”

“Well, I haven’t really left the city, so I don’t make much Cor to buy food with,” said the girl.  “So I kind of just stay hungry throughout most of the day.”

“When I’m leveling I tend to press through instead of stopping to eat,” said the woman, “But when I am eating regularly, I’d say I start feeling hunger similar to how I would in the real world, about every four to six hours.  But I’m not sure if its tied to our real world feelings of hunger or a virtual schedule.”

“Might be a little of both… I tend to get hungry a lot in RL, but in here its spaced out a bit more,” said Peter, taking a bite of chicken.  

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the girl still looking wistfully at his food.  

“Sir, I’d like to order a second plate, but give it to her,” said Peter, nodding in her direction.

As the barman nodded and walked off, the girl started waving her hands.

“No, you shouldn’t do that.  Save your Cor—”

“It’s alright, I promise.  I’m in here with—”

Shit.  What should he call Tony?

“…Imagine being stuck in here with your dad.”

“Er— my sort of Dad, and we’ve been doing pretty good with the mobs.  So I can afford it.”

She looked for a moment like she was thinking of arguing still, until the plate was set in front of her.  She eyed the food before her eyes teared up a bit, and she nodded.

“Thank you.  I really appreciate your kindness.”

“It’s not a problem.  I’d do the same in the real world.  And what I would do there is what I should do in here,” said Peter.

“Those are wise words,” said the woman.  “And you are uncommonly kind.  I hope you are able to keep that, but don’t expect everyone in here to share your mindset.”

“I won’t, but just because others choose to not do the right thing doesn’t mean I have to.  We all have the power and responsibility to choose to do good,” said Peter, and he felt the intangible feeling within him that he had been wrestling with since the beginning calm.

It wasn’t that the responsibility was no longer his without his powers, it was that the power and responsibility was everyone’s.  

Perhaps it always had been.

And just like in the real world, there were those who used their power for good, those who used power for evil, and those that never used their power at all.  Most thinking they had none, just like the girl a couple seats down.

But if they worked together…

Peter felt his resolve form.

He was going to the front line.

—

As Tony stepped back out onto the street, he considered his options.

Obviously he needed to head back to the inn.  Afterward they could probably head out and take a look around town, seeing as they hadn’t really done so on day one.

But the memory of a café he had passed was singing its song…

He really missed coffee.

Surely they had some digital variation in this game.  If not he was lodging a complaint.

The café was just as vacant as when he passed earlier.  There were a couple people sitting at a table outside, but was otherwise empty of players.

The customary tinkle of the door as he entered prompted the NPC barista to smile and wave.  On the wall behind the counter was a blackboard with various items written— sandwiches and what Tony suspected were types of teas, and in a bottom corner there was a selection of drinks called ‘Kaf.’

“Bingo!  I’ll have a black kaf,” Tony looked at the pastries on display off to the side, spying a familiar donut shape with pink frosting, “And one of whatever you call this.”

A minute later he was sitting at a table out front, facing away from the two other patrons with his visor moved, taking a drink of the weirdest tasting ‘coffee’ he had ever tasted.  If he had to describe it he would say it was more like a tea, with floral and berry notes and a touch of honey, but with a darker color and consistency of a french press coffee.  It wasn’t bad, it just was not what he had been expecting.

Oh well, the donut was a perfect reproduction of a strawberry frosted Dunkin Donut.

“Man, if I make it out of this alive my wife is going to kill me.  She’s been super anxious since the Blip— not that I blame her, you know— and this whole thing was definitely not something she was very confident in to begin with,” said one of the men sitting at the nearby table.

“Damn… you were one of the ones caught up in that?  I lucked out I guess… I’m not really close to anyone and the ones I am were spared,” replied the other.

“Yeah, I know the Avengers ended up saving everyone in the end and I’m thankful for that obviously, but everything is still such a damn dumpster fire.”

That caught Tony’s attention.

The Blip?  Bit of an odd name for an Avenger’s battle.  How were the Avengers even a thing?  Last time he checked Rogers and his merry men and women were still considered war criminals at large.  The ‘Avengers’ consisted of himself, Vision and Rhodey.

“No joke.  Almost every economy is still tanked at the moment.  And I’m pretty sure half of upper New York State is a crater.  Glad that fight was over there and not in my part of the world.”

The bottom of Tony’s stomach dropped out at those words.  

“There was a battle… you won, but you took a lot of damage.  You’ve been in a coma ever since.”

Peter had never said anything else about the battle, and Tony hadn’t pressed.  But if a giant chunk of the state had been completely destroyed because of the battle surely he would have mentioned that?

Wouldn’t he?

Obviously a lot more happened in that battle than Peter had led him to believe.  Tony eventually being taken out of commission in a fight was one thing, but from the sound of things this was on par with the Battle of Sokovia.

So why hadn’t Peter mentioned it?

“It was good to catch up, we’ll have to do this again when I’m back this direction.  Or maybe on another floor if the rumors of the first floor dungeon door being found are true,” said the first man, standing up.

“Sounds good to me, though I’ll probably be pretty busy soon.  Some of us around here have started organizing to try and provide resources for the people here in town.  Some of them are players who don’t want to chance dying in the game, but there’s also some kids who are way younger than what the minimum play age was supposed to be.  A few volunteers have taken up residence with them in a church in town and we’ve been supplying them with food…” said the other man, as they both walked away.

Damn… that wasn’t something he had thought about, but of course there would be kids who either snuck in on a parent’s account or who were allowed to lie about their age to play the game.  Jokes about eight year olds talking crap on Call of Duty were a dime a dozen and everyone laughed about it, but here…

Maybe he should look into that, see what help he could offer.  Though unlike in the real world, simply throwing his money at the problem couldn’t fix it.  Mostly because he didn’t have any money.  Ugh…

Speaking of kids though, he’d need to decide what to say once he got back to his kid at the inn.  

Tony took a few deep breaths, trying to loosen up the hold his anxiety had started to take.  

Obviously whatever had happened had been huge— Avengers assembled (with or without Rogers and co?), massive property damage, Iron Man out of commission, every country feeling the economic backlash.  But unlike what had happened with Sokovia, despite the damages it seemed like the general public opinion after the fact was positive…?  

That was unusual.

Most importantly at this point, whatever had happened had affected people across the globe, but especially one young man from Queens.

Had he been at the battle?  Tony had initially offered the kid a spot after the whole vulture debacle, but after he had actually slept on it a few hours (the first time he’d slept properly in a few days) he had come to the realization that Peter turning the position down had saved them from what had been an awful idea in the first place.  And that was BEFORE May Parker had shown up at the complex in an unholy righteous fury.

So Tony could not imagine having called Peter into a fight, and if it had taken place at the compound like he suspected, Peter shouldn’t have been anywhere near there.

He wanted to go back to the inn and wrangle the details out of Peter.  Who was the fight against?  What was it about?  Was Rogers there?  If so, how was Rogers involved?  Why was public opinion seemingly in their favor for once?  Had anyone other than him been hurt?

Oh god… What if something had happened to Pepper…

No.  Peter would have told him that.  He wouldn’t lie to him about Pepper, and he had told him weeks ago that she was fine.  She was safe.

Tony dropped his head into his hand.

He wanted to ask all those questions, needed those answers…

But even if he got his answers, what could he do about any of it?

And was it worth potentially driving Peter away from him?  His kid.  The only person he knew and could dare to trust with the truth of his identity in this world?

No.  No it wasn’t.

He would just have to see what he could find out from others.  And hopefully Peter would eventually come around and open up about what had happened.  He trusted the kid with his life, he would trust him in this, too.

The walk back to the inn seemed much quicker than the one to smithy due to Tony’s preoccupied mind and nerves.  He was still unsure what to say when he got to the room.  He needn’t have worried though, because Peter fixed that problem.

“I want to start fighting on the front line.  I’m heading to the dungeon tomorrow.”

“Wait— excuse me, what?”

[7deadlycinderellas]

I have no use for rings of gold, I care not for your poetry

Ao3 link

 Arya hated King’s Landing. It was hot, crowded, smelly and full of idiots. Outside the Red Keep was nearly as bad as within.

 It wouldn’t have been so bad if she weren’t so lonely. King Robert had wanted to make a match with Sansa and his odious oldest son Joffrey. He had been so disappointed to discover that Sansa had been promised to Willas Tyrell and had left for Highgarden a scarce few moons before. Arya had never gotten along with her sister, but she still missed her. At least her ravens indicated that she was enjoying herself.

 Mother and Bran were supposed to come with them, but then Bran had fallen. Arya couldn’t get the image of her younger brother, pale and small and broken from her mind. He hadn’t even woken up before they’d left Winterfell, though Mother had sent a raven that he had woken and was healing, though Maester Luwin indicated he would never walk again.

 Now she was alone with her father in the capital. She’s two and ten and the Red Keep holds very little appeal for her. Joffrey’s awful, and she spends much of her time avoiding him. Tommen and Myrcella are nice enough, but not of much interest to her. So, Arya begins seeking her entertainment in other places.

 Namely, outside of the Red Keep’s walls.

That’s how she meets the smith. **

“Can you fix it?”

Gendry looked up at the girl holding the tiny sword. Small, thin, dark haired, gray eyed, not quite five and ten years old. Not terribly remarkable except for the sword. Castle forged steel it was. She’d let him look it over many times in the nearly three years she’d been incessantly hanging around his shop.

Right now it’s in two pieces.

Gendry raises an eyebrow.

“How’d you manage that?”

Arya shrugs.

“Don’t know really. I was practicing after a lesson with Syrio and it just came apart.”

Gendry takes the pieces and examines it. The pommels just come apart from the rest of the hilt, it should be an easy fix.

“I can do it,” he pauses, “Six coppers.”

Arya sputters, but reaches into her purse. She’d had to sneak the coins, but figures no one should miss enough for a patch job.

“Really think you ought to do it on the house, for services rendered.”

Gendry snorts.

“I’m afraid the work of this smith requires coin payment, milady,”

He loves watching her ears go red with anger when he calls her that. It is a reflex, no matter how many times she tells him to call her Arya, but he knows it’s safer if he doesn’t fight the reflex.

Services rendered. She’d been saying that ever since she chased down that one snot nosed brat who’d stolen his helm that time. Kid was no more than eight, but she’d carried him right back down and made him give it back.

Arya studies him as he begins to work. He didn’t bother telling her to leave and come back, she would wait however long it took. She was still looking at him oddly when he finishes.

“What?”

Her head is cocked.

“Are you ill? Go off with another fancy girl in an alehouse last night? You’re acting weird.”

Gendry exhales. He shouldn’t have told her about that woman anyway, but she was the one who slapped him back to reality after coming to in the alley behind the shop with his bag of coins stolen and a nasty bump on his head. That was what he got for assuming a fancy girl like that would ever want him.

He wishes Arya wasn’t such a good listener, it was really inappropriate for him to be talking to a highborn girl like her so much anyway. It was probably just as inappropriate for her to be hanging around in a blacksmith’s shop and carrying a sword.

“No, just wondering when I’m going to get more work. Mott just finished up that big commission he’s been doing, so I won’t be having to help every single other person who comes in now.”

The answer apparently satisfies Arya who sits only fidgeting a bit until he’s finished. Then she passes Needle back to her, she reluctantly counts out his coins and they part ways for the day.

She’ll be back. She always is.

And once he finishes up the rest of his morning work, he eats the dry bread and hard cheese he’d brought for lunch and goes to seek out Mott to deliver that commission for him.

“I really have to go all the way up to the Red Keep?” he asked, shaking his head. Leave it to a highborn to not be willing to come down even for a few minutes to pick up something he’d purchased.

Mott nodded.

“Use the craftsman’s entrance, and wait for the Hand of the King, he will pay you and you can be on your way.”

The hand of the king? Why on earth would he be the one receiving a delivery? Gendry muses on this as he leaves Flea Bottom.

He’d met Ned Stark just once, all those years ago. Meeting Arya he’d been able to see the resemblance easy enough. He’d thought he seemed a good enough man, and Arya always spoke highly of her father, so he’s not too worried about it.

The Red Keep looks as strange close up as it does from the other parts of the city, and as strange as it sounded in Arya’s stories. Gendry’s surprised to discover that the stench of the city stretches all the way up here.

He doesn’t wait long, but when Lord Stark arrives, the whole encounter becomes a blur. He doesn’t even look at the sword, not really. He does look at Gendry however, appraisingly, but not quite like you would appraise a side of beef.

He barely has time to wonder what’s up when the goddamn King of the seven kingdoms pops up, and who is definitely appraising him like a side of beef.

“You were right Ned, he’s a spitting image!”

Spitting image? From Gendry’s perspective, the King was the one that was spitting.

Ned puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him to sit down, then says something to one of the guards. Gendry sits for fear of passing out.

When Ned speaks, his voice is quiet. It seems his Grace isn’t even paying much in the way of attention.

“-should have known the moment I set eyes on you. The king has bastards across the seven kingdoms…”

It should shock him, but it really doesn’t. Gendry always knew he was the son of some drunk who didn’t care a sod for him or his mother. But still- seven hell, he was the son of the king?

He is shocked, when the guard returns with Arya in tow.

To her credit, she is dressed just as he was in the shop, and is gaping as much as he is. Ned introduces her, but she doesn’t say anything, and Gendry can’t say anything either.

Ned grabs Arya by the arm and talks to her quietly. Gendry can’t make out everything, but he can see Arya’s face.

“I’ll send someone back to Flea Bottom to get your things-”

Arya shakes her head.

“Let me go, he doesn’t have much,”

She turns to Gendry,

“Do you want any of your things aside from that stupid helm?”

Suddenly lost, Gendry shakes his head. Once she leaves the room, he looks pleadingly to Lord Stark for an explanation. His face is pinched, as though he is in pain at the thought of what’s coming next.

“It seems you’ve met my daughter already?”

Gendry nods, silent, in hopes that that’s the right answer.

“For how long?”

Gendry’s even more confused,

“She wandered into the blacksmith’s shop two and half years ago. She hangs around all the time, can’t seem to get rid of her, but she’s good enough to talk to.”

Lord Stark’s mouth is still thin, but Gendry swears he sees a tiny smile begin to form.

“My men used to often call her Arya Underfoot, she could make friends anywhere she went, don’t know why I thought it would be any different here, as much as I’ve feared for her safety...but that might at least smooth some bits of this out a bit.”

Smooth out? What on earth-

Lord Stark puts a hand back on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to dump everything on you at once.”

Arya eventually returns, and hands him a bundle with the bull’s head helm on top. She gives him a look before Lord Stark pulls her aside and Gendry is left alone with his thoughts.

When the pair of them return, Arya’s face is pinched and an interesting mix of purple and brown that makes Gendry feel like she’d been yelling. She’s dressed differently, in a shirt and green wool dress. Perfectly ordinary among women of nearly every station. And she’s carrying two bags.

Gendry wants to ask her what happened, but can’t find any words.

“It-it’s getting late, I should be getting back to the forge-”

Lord Stark shakes his head.

“I’m sending you north.”

Gendry’s mind explodes.

“I-”

He shakes his head again, and gets up and begins leading them, down through the craftsman's exit. Dimly, Gendry realizes that several guards, all northerners from the looks of them, are following them. He’s trying to figure out where Lord Stark could possibly be taking them, when they turn towards the docks. His stomach flips itself over and over, inside and out. Fucking hells, he was serious.

Gendry’s steps are unsteady when they reach the boat. He doesn’t know what kind it is- can’t tell one boat from another, truthfully. He tries not to fall. The Stark’s other men come aboard, paying him no mind, and talk to another man, who must be the captain.

Peering precariously over the edge, he sees Lord Stark talking with his daugther again. He makes out bits, “I can’t…he’s my friend...you remember Jon...be mean to him.”

He can’t even pretend to make heads or tails of it, so he leans back and tries not to fall off the side before the ship even leaves.

Eventually, Arya makes her way onboard, asks one of the men where the cabin is, grabs Gendry by the wrist and drags him off.

The boat smells of salt, damp wood, and sweat. It’s crowded by men who look much like the ones he used to see all along the street of steel. Thankfully, they seem preoccupied with actually doing their work instead of picking a fight with the largest person here.

Arya pulls them into the cabin, which is tiny, with only two straw mattresses and space for their bags in the middle. She drops everything on the floor, shuts the door, and begins pacing.

“Arya,” Gendry roughly interrupts. Using her name gets her attention at least, and his voice softens, “I think I’m owed an explanation.”

Arya bites her lip and takes a deep breath before sitting, cross legged on the straw mattress.

“King Robert is not known for being a faithful husband. He has bastard children all over the seven kingdoms. You’re the oldest boy my father has tracked down. You have a sister in the Vale, and a brother in Storm’s End as well.”

OK, Gendry had managed to surmise the first part of that.

“If this is well known-”

Arya cuts him off.

“Because my father has begun to suspect that the Queen’s children are not the King’s.”

That takes Gendry aback for a moment, but he thinks of the burly, dark haired king and the queen’s three extremely blonde children, and it makes  a bit of sense.

“He hasn’t managed to gather any proof, but if word leaks out, you could be in danger, so he wanted to get you out of the city, and to get you north where we could keep you safe, and teach you all those stupid highborn things you’re supposed to know.”

Seven hells, were they really going to try and make a highborn out of him? Gendry had spent most of his life in the dirt laughing at those above him. Thinking of how stupid they looked in their bright, ostentatious outfits and their overpowering perfume. It was easier than resenting them and that they could crush them all under their feet. Did they really want him to become like that? He’s spent his whole life living the role of the bastard blacksmith, he’s not sure he could do anything else.

Arya’s face is still cranky, she’s got her arms crossed and her chin tucked into her chest.

“There’s something else isn’t there?”

Arya takes a deep breath and rubs her temple before continuing.

“Father and King Robert agreed the best way to make your no one doubts your legitimacy- before he does it officially of course- would be to find your a highborn girl to marry.”

Well, this keeps getting better and better. Gendry had never really thought any girl would ever want to marry him, and he’d learned his lesson about going off with randoms.

“So did they drop a name?”

Arya stares at him like he’d grown a second head.

“What?”

She stares harder.

“Gods you’re stupid.”

She then rolls her eyes completely upward and points at herself.

Gendry’s brain momentarily stops working.

“I can’t marry you, what are you, ten?”

“I’m nearly fifteen!”

He knows that, but that’s still his knee jerk reaction. Arya’s a shrimp for her age.

“Don’t we get any say in this?”

Arya looks like she wants to call him stupid again.

“Oh you really don’t know how this highborn thing works.”

She bites her lip and breathes in deeply.

“Besides, I wouldn’t want to leave you to the vultures down south. Plenty of women would see a new, green prince and see the perfect opportunity to latch on and get their claws in you.”

Prince, fucking hell.

“And at least we’re actually friends.”

Yes. Friends. Those were things he could really use at about this moment. Looking at how riled up Arya is disturbs him. She was always so carefree.

He sits on the other mattress, and rests his head in his hands. After a moment, he tilts his head in her direction.

“Are you really okay with this?”

Arya snorts softly, with less derision than he would expect.

“I’ve never wanted to marry anyone, I always thought I’d find some way out of it, maybe run away over the wall. But I trust my father, and it’s not like we’re doing it next week, it will be at least a year or two until they can teach you history and manners and how to walk like you’ve got a spear shoved up your arse, and then Robert can declare you the proper crown prince.”

There it is again.

“I don’t know how to do any of this,” Gendry admits, “I can’t read or write much, and I don’t know much of anything about being outside of Flea Bottom, and they’re going to want me to be the fucking crown prince?”

Arya laughs.

“You’re getting too stuck on the big, lofty things too fast, we have time. I’m still stuck on the fact that I’m going to have to see you naked.”

Well, he has been trying very hard not to let his brain wander in that direction, but since she’s gotten there herself…

“Don’t pretend you don’t want a piece of all of this,” Gendry teases, with his hands gesturing back towards his chest and a shit eating grin, “I know that’s the real reason you always hung around when I would work with my shirt off-”

His sentence is cut off with an “oof” when Arya tackles him to the mattress, knee aiming far too close to his balls. He manages to wiggle free, but she’s far too slippery for him to pin. She kicks him in the side, and he drops one of her wrists, when she shakes her head and snarks,

“I don’t think I’ll be able to look you in the eye after that.”

Heaving, she finally agrees to say uncle when she realizes the other Stark men might find them like this, unceremoniously shoves Gendry on his back, and goes to retrieve them lunch.

Gendry doesn’t like boats much. The rocking makes him feel constantly sick, and there’s hardly anything to look at. And it’s not like he has work to be done.

Arya spends her time giving him a rundown of everything he’ll have to know before getting to Winterfell. She knows the names of all the men who came on the boat with them, who all greet her by name when they see her, and spare him suspicious looks.

Arya rolls her eyes at that.

She points him out the lines over the water where the whales come up for air. Gendry’s never thought much of the ocean, but the idea of animals living beneath it that are so huge has a way of making you feel small.

The last day aboard, Arya tells him about Jon. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first that he’s gotten the details.

“Father won’t tell us who his mother is,” Arya says so softly it’s almost a whisper, “Won’t even speak a word of her. And ever since Jon left for hte wall…” she trails off.

Gendry frowns. Even in just a few short interactions, Gendry could see the respect and admiration Arya had for her father.

“I know lots of men have bastard children,” she continues, “Men like your father who care nothing at all for their wives. But him and Mother always seemed so perfectly in love...and he acts so secretive about it, even when Mother treated Jon…”

She sucks in a breath, and her voice abruptly changes. Gendry is seized by the desire to tell her he would never do that to her, to tell her how exactly zero parts of him wants to be anything like his father, but the idea gets caught in his throat. Inappropriate he thinks, far from the time.

“You should be on your best behavior around my mother, she has very set views on what bastards are like, and they are not positive.”

Arya’s voice darkens.

“She has very set views on what ladies are like too. It’s been nearly three years...I wonder if she’ll soften at all to my trousers and sword wielding if I’ve already found myself a husband…”

Gendry looks her up and down. She’s wearing the same plain dress she’s worn the whole voyage, and her hair is tied back with several bits flying loose in the salty air.

“How come you don’t like wearing dresses?”

Arya looks at him, confused, as though no one has ever thought to ask her that question before.

“They get caught on things, dragged in puddles, trap my feet when I run...before I started taking Bran and Jon’s cast offs, I don’t think I owned a single piece of clothing that hadn’t been dripping in mud at one point. But a girl traveling in trousers is something people would remember, and we don’t want this crew to remember us.”

The crew that has been thankfully ignoring them, save to provide them their sad rations of salted meat and hard tack.

They disembark in White Harbour, and Gendry couldn’t be more grateful. The voyage disagreed with him greatly, and despite the frigid winter air, he’s just happy to be on solid ground again.

The first night they off board, when they camp along the road, is when Arya changes back into the same deerskin breeches she wore pretty much every time he’d seen her in Flea Bottom.

“I like you like this,” he tells her when he’s eyeing the horse one of the Stark men had obtained in White Harbour warily, as though it could smell his unease from here, “You look like yourself.”

Arya’s face is inscrutable as she mounts her own horse, much more easily than him.

They’re riding a bit further from the others when she quietly replies,

“I’m sorry I’m not pretty. The future crown prince would have his choice of the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms for his bride usually, and you’re stuck with Arya Horseface.”

Horseface? Gendry exchanges a glance with the dark gray mare he’s riding. Her eyes are dim and resigned. No resemblance there at all.

“Maybe your face won’t sink ships,” he tells her gently, “but you aren’t ugly.  There’s more than one kind of pretty, and pretty isn’t everything.”

And Gendry’s not sure if he would trust a pretty woman who claimed to want him anymore, crown prince or not.

Maybe it’s because the boat ride was so unpleasant, but the few days ride from White Harbour to Winterfell feel like nothing at all, and before Gendry knows it, he’s face to face was an actual castle.

Arya’s mood has brightened considerably when approaching the keep. She bounces in the saddle, a grin on her face, looking more and more like the energetic, inquisitive child who first appeared in the shop three years ago.

And then the gate opens, and Gendry is completely overwhelmed again.

Winterfell is nothing like the tiny glimpses he’d gotten of the Red Keep. The people within the walls bustle and move about their day with ease, and no one seems to be cowering in fear.

And then there’s the Starks themselves. He knows their names, but now they have faces attached to those names. Robb, about his age and terribly gracious. Rickon, who in a great surprise to his sister, is now up to her shoulders, and with that same wild energy Gendry had seen in Arya.  Bran, Gendry remembers hearing the story of his fall from a tower here, pale and thin, having to be pushed in a strange, wheelbarrow like contraption, by a servant. Gendry frowns at it. There must be something that could be made so he could push himself instead of having someone else do it.

And Lady Catelyn Stark herself. Physically, there’s very little resemblance to Arya in Winterfell’s Lady, and under her gaze, Gendry immediately feels like the naughty child Arya had been in the stories she’d told him, and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

“Gendry Baratheon,” she greets him, and Gendry finds himself staring at his shoes,

“Not yet, milady,” he mumbles, fire in his veins.

Lady Catelyn smiles, and he can’t read her smile.

“Robb,” she asks her eldest, “Please get our guest dressed for dinner.”

Robb apologizes that the clothes he presents Gendry with are going to be a bit small, as Gendry is both an inch or two taller and a bit broader than him. When he examines them, Robb eyes him warily.

“How was the journey?”

Awful, boats can go to all seven hells, he wants to say, but instead.

“Just fine,”

Robb cocks his head,

“And Arya didn’t once try to push you overboard?”

“No,” Gendry says with a chuckle, “We’re friends.”

The breeches and leather doublet are finer than anything Gendry’s ever worn before, but he feels like he’s bursting out of it when Robb leads him back to the Great Hall. Arya too, it turns out, has been wrestled into a silvery gray gown edged in white fur, and for the first time, Gendry thinks she actually looks like a proper lady.

Except for the fidgeting.

“It’s too tight and too long,” she complains to him in whispers as they move to sit down. They’re too far apart to keep it up once seated. “It was Sansa’s, and I’m taller than I used to be, but she’d a damn beanpole.”

At least it’s not just him.

During the meal (roast duck in some sort of fruit sauce he doesn’t recognize but sucks down regardless. It tastes better than anything he’s ever eaten in his life) Robb stands and introduces him, making him duck his head in an attempt to avoid the stares.

Once everyone’s nearly finished, Rickon asks him if he wants to join them on a hunt the next day.

“I’ve never been hunting,” Gendry admits, “I don’t think I’d be any good at it.”

“We’ll teach you,” Rickon assures him.

Lady Catelyn smiles another of her pinched smiles.

“Robert loved to hunt. I imagine as his son, you will follow after him in many of those regards.”

Maybe she doesn’t mean anything by it, but Gendry’s insides rage. She’s just met him, she barely knows anything about him, and she’s already thinking he’s going to be just like the fat, drunken, lecherous king…

The fire within him is interrupted by something plunking in the middle of his forehead. He plucks it up, a sticky, candied nut, one that had been served with dessert. Soft snickering gives away where it came from, and Lady Catelyn is interrupted to scold her daughter.

So, with a shrug and a look in Robb’s direction, Gendry does the only natural thing to do. He picks up his spoon and uses it to fling the nut cluster right back in Arya’s direction.

[mythologyfolklore]

Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 11

Chapter Eleven: The Trojan War, pt. 03

(A/N: The end of the Iliad with some comic relief and lots of heartbreak at the end, because that's how the Iliad works. This isn't the last chapter about the Trojan War, but the next one will be. This is just the last part of the Iliad.)

.

Book Nineteen:

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The next morning saw Thetis giving her son a freshly forged armour of such splendour, that Akhilleus was the only one who could even look at it directly.

As he marched the camp up and down, the other leaders came to the assembly, even though Agamemnon, Diomedes and Odysseus were severely injured and could hardly walk.

Akhilleus announced the end of his strike, much to the delight of the Achaean army.

He and Agamemnon finally talked things out and buried their old grudges.

“Right!”, Akhilleus exclaimed, “Enough talking! Let's go into battle already!”

“Not so fast!”, Odysseus (the resident braincell-owner) objected. “Our troops are exhausted  and many of us are wounded. We need all the energy we can get. So there is one more thing we have to do first!”

“And what would that be?”, Akhilleus snarled impatiently.

“Have breakfast”, Odysseus deadpanned.

“OH COME ON!!!”

“No.”

.

Book Twenty:

.

On Olympos Zeus had made his ex-wife Thémis gather all the gods (literally all of them – even the Naiades and Dryades¹). Tiredly they dragged themselves out of bed and into the assembly hall.

Poseidon was the first to speak.

“Sooooo”, he drawled, “What are you plotting now, Astrapaios²?”

Zeus was lounging on his throne like a boss.

“Oh, you know what I want, Ennosigaios³! I won't wish for Akhilleus to conquer the city just yet, but he will, if we're not careful. And this is why I hereby decree, that the prohibition is lifted! You may interfere with the battle as much as you please!”

Suddenly everyone was wide awake and those who had taken a side in the war went to ready themselves for a battle royal – uh, I mean battle divine.

Of the Olympians, Dionysos (one of the few gods who had refused to get involved at all) was the last to leave the room. He used the opportunity to question his father.

“Dad, if you don't mind …”

“Ask away!”

“Why exactly did you change your mind again?”

Zeus chuckled at his son's perceptiveness.

“For the reason I stated earlier of course. Well, that and because I want to amuse myself by sitting here in my neutrality and watching this divine spectacle.”

“… Can I sit with you?”

“Sure, my son! Bring wine, this is going to be good!”

.

The gods joined the war and wasted no time in making things more interesting … for them!

Eris was having a blast with this spectacle.

Zeus was setting the mood above with thunder and rain.

Poseidon struck the ground with his trident and the queen of earthquakes happened.

“WHAT THE FUCK???”, he heard Hades' voice shriek from below, “POSEIDON, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??? IF THE GROUND BREAKS OPEN AND FALLS DOWN IT WILL REVEAL THE UNDERWORLD AND BURY EVERYTHING BENEATH!!!”

Poseidon laughed sheepishly and yelled back down: “SORRY, BRO!”

Maybe I overdid it with that earthquake …

Some distance away, Apollon had convinced Aineías, that fighting Akhilleus would be a brilliant idea.

Poseidon didn't notice until Hera pat his shoulder and said to him and Athena: “Uh, we have a little problem back there” - and pointed to where Aineías and Akhilleus were about to duke it out.

“Don't worry, sister”, he replied, “We're stronger than them. If any of Troy's gods comes close to Akhilleus, that's nothing we can't take care of.”

Still, the gods of the Achaeans didn't want to engage in a bloodbath, before agreeing on a strategy.

On the battlefield, Aineías and Akhilleus ran into each other and started with a verbal duel, before lunging at each other. Poseidon quickly assessed, that the son of Thetis was outclassing the son of Aphrodite.

“Alright, here I come!”, he sighed, “Apollon won't save him, but the youngster is fated to live.”

Then he threw himself into the maddening throng and momentarily blinded Akhilleus, before he could decapitate the disarmed Trojan. Grabbing the mortal by the arms, Poseidon took to flight and carried him away to safety.

“Okay!”, he snapped at him, once they were back on the ground, “First off: Are you fucking insane?! Trying to take on Akhilleus, who is favoured by the gods and far stronger than you? He will send you to Hades, before your time is up! Secondly: as long as he is alive, you stay away from battle, you dumbass son of an even more dumbass goddess!”

With that, the Lord of the Sea left Aineías behind to wonder what the heck had just happened.

.

Akhilleus on the other hand just shrugged it off and went back to slaughtering Trojans en masse.

Apollon had warned Hektor not to go against the deranged demigod, but when the Trojan prince saw one of his brothers get killed by that very man, he forgot the warning and attacked him.

Akhilleus immediately recognised the slayer of his dear soulmate and charged with a battle cry.

But Apollon, always having the best timing, stepped in and saved the Trojan.

Again.

This is getting old.

.

Book Twenty-One:

.

The Trojans were fleeing in panic from the deranged and bloodthirsty demigod.

But Hera conjured a thick fog, making it impossible for them to see.

Those who didn't get lost in the fog where cornered and driven into the holy waters of the river Xanthos (or Skamandros, as the mortals called him). They jumped or fell into the quick waters, struggling and screaming for help. Akhilleus in his blood rush jumped after them and slaughtered the Trojans, who were already drowning, dyeing the waters red with blood.

That pissed off the river god, because no one liked having their waters defiled with gore and corpses. Politely requesting Akhilleus to stop dumping corpses into his river didn't help, so Xanthos lost his temper and promptly left his riverbed to make the demigod stop.

Only when this colossal mass of water rose before him, was Akhilleus seized by fear and he made a run for it across the field. But the river always caught up to him, because he was still just a demigod and Xanthos a full god and gods just were stronger than mortals (unless you were Herakles).

Athena and Poseidon came to his rescue, before he could die a most unheroic death by drowning. They warned him to go back to the battlefield, kill Hektor and return to the Achaean camp, then they left to mind their own business.

But the river wasn't done yet; it joined forces with another river, both hell-bent on drowning Akhilleus.

This was seen by Hera, who turned to Hephaistos. “My son, I thought you would take care of the river god? What are you waiting for? Show him your destructive flames. I will release the winds to fuel them. Do not stop, until I ask you to.”

Hephaistos, powerful fire god that he was, raised his arms and unleashed his divine fire above the river (never mind, that it was still raining). Hera released the north and south wind.

The unearthly fire storm, hotter than the surface of the sun⁴, spread across the heath, consumed the bodies of the dead and made the rivers writhe in agony from being boiled alive.

Xanthos soon begged for mercy, but Hephaistos was only following his mother's orders, so the river turned to Hera and begged her to control her son.

Now the Queen of the Skies finally showed the mercy asked of her and told her son to stop.

Hephaistos rolled his eyes, but called his fire back.

Xanthos returned to his river bed, recovered from the torment and he stuck his head out of the water to glare at the fire god. “And here I thought you were not an arsehole!”

The divine blacksmith laughed: “Oh, you're wrong! I'm less of an arsehole than the other Olympians, but I still can be a prick!”

Hera chuckled in amusement.

.

On his throne on Olympos, Zeus was having the time of his life, because now the gods were charging at each other at last.

“Ohhh, now they're getting started! This is going to be priceless! Where are the wine, cookies and my camera?”

Hebe and Dionysos brought him both and then sat with him to enjoy the show.

.

In the meantime, Athena had finally turned to Ares.

“'Sup, arsehole”, she greeted him.

“'Sup, fellow arsehole”, he retorted. Then he had his sword out. “Don't think I have forgot how you let that fucker Diomedes pierce with a spear! Now it's time for payback!”

I thought he already had- oh, never mind.

He attacked first and they duked it out for a while, before he threw his spear at the impenetrable Aigis she was wearing on her chest. Athena leapt back, grabbed a stone and hit her opponent at the back of his neck with it.

Knocked out, he collapsed.

“Hah!”, she yelled in triumph. “I'm the one who gets the payback! That's for abandoning your mother and me in favour of supporting the Trojans! Well, that and the fucking prohibition you put into our father's head. What's that with you always forgetting what everyone has realised a long time ago: that I am stronger than you and always will be!”

“Ares!”

Athena whirled around to see the goddess of love running to her lover's aid.

Aphrodite grabbed Ares' arm and began to drag him to safety.

“Are you just letting her do that?”, Hera spat at Athena.

The goddess of wisdom rolled her eyes. “Alright, I'm on it!”

Strode up to Aphrodite, who was struggling under Ares' weight and hit her on the chest, knocking her out as well. There they lay, with the bright-eyed goddess standing above them.

“This is what happens to the allies of Troy and everyone who gets in my way!”, she snarled.

Aphrodite came to herself and glared up. “You're full of shit, Athena.”

The war goddess shrugged. “Look around, Aphrodite. Everyone here is full of shit. Especially you.”

.

At the same time, Poseidon was facing Apollon.

The sea god taunted his nephew: “What is stopping you, Sunny Boy, now that the others are at each other's throats?”

Apollon sighed: “Can you please not call me 'Sunny Boy'? That's Ares' shtick. Also-”

“Whatever, Sunny Boy. Where is the fun in going home without a single scratch? Let's duke it out! But first tell me: why are you supporting the Trojans? Don't you remember how they treated us? When Zeus stripped us of our immortality for a year, we had to serve Laomedon for a pittance! I built this mighty wall around Troy, while you herded his cattle. And when the year was finally over, he denied us pay and threatened to bind us, cut our ears off and sell us off as slaves! And you're helping the Trojans, after all of this? Explain!”

But Apollon remained calm.

“Does it really matter? Let's leave the mortals to their devices. I don't want to fight you over them, uncle. You're way out of my league, it would be madness.”

But Artemis grabbed him by the shoulder, outraged. “So you're chickening out?! You just give up and let him win?! If so, then don't ever let us hear you brag, that you could take on Poseidon!”

But Apollon just arched an eyebrow. “I'm not 'chickening out'. I just know, when to quit – unlike someone I know.”

As if on cue, Hera confronted Artemis: “You little brat! If you have the spine to make me or Poseidon your enemy, you're dumber than I thought! I will show you, just how outclassed you really are!”

Then she seized the goddess of the hunt by both wrists with one hand, tore her quiver and arrows off her shoulder with the other and smacked the shit out of her with it. When Hera was done with her, Artemis was running back to Olympos crying, leaving her bow and arrows on the battlefield.

Hermes saw this and let his opponent Leto take the win. The Titanis of motherhood gratefully gathered up the weapons of her daughter from the floor and returned to Olympos to console her.

Apollon blinked after them. “What the Tartaros did just happen?”

Poseidon laughed heartily: “Just because my sister is the goddess of marriage doesn't mean she can't kick arse! Or where do you think Ares got his temper from?”

The Earthshaker looked to the sky and knew that Zeus was shaking with laughter.

.

On the battlefield Akhilleus was still massacring Trojans left and right.

The king Priamos saw this from the top of the wall and ordered for the gates to be opened, so his people could save themselves.

Apollon came onto the field through the gates and held his hand over them, while they scrambled to the sweet safety of their city. He took the shape of a Trojan Akhilleus had been about to kill and allowed to chase him across the field, away from the gates of Troy. That bought the Trojans the time they needed to escape the wrath of Thetis' son.

All of them, except for Hektor; he didn't make it in time, before the gates closed.

The greatest warrior of the Trojans was shut outside.

.

Book Twenty-Two:

.

Apollon led Akhilleus away from Troy, before finally turning around.

“Hey, arsehole! Guess who!” And dropped his disguise.

Then he proceeded to mock the raging demigod, who was out of breath after chasing him for kilometres: “While you ran after me like a moron, thinking that you stand a chance against me, the Trojans have barricaded themselves inside their city! They are out of your reach and you will never defeat me, Apollon!”

“You … you deceived me!”, Akhilleus gasped, “So is … the most lethal of the gods … the protector of Troy … otherwise I would have killed them all! But damn you! If it was in my power, I would give you payback!”

Apollon gritted his teeth: “But you can't, mortal.”

Akhilleus screamed in fury and dashed back to Troy with swift feet.

Hektor was waiting in front of the walls of Troy to challenge vengeful Akhilleus and face his imminent demise.

On top of the walls, his aged father was weeping over the cruelty of fate: that he would have to see his sons and many of his people die, his city sacked, his daughters ravaged, his grandchildren and himself murdered, his daughters-in-law sold into slavery.

But no matter how much Priamos beseeched him, Hektor didn't yield and stayed where he was, even though he was terrified. Yet as soon as he saw Akhilleus clearly, bloodthirsty and deranged like Ares himself, his flight instinct kicked in and he ran for his life. Only Apollon's assistance prevented the son of Thetis from catching up to Hektor.

.

While Akhilleus chased the slayer of Patroklos around the city walls three times in a row, the gods were watching from above.

Zeus shook his head. “I don't like seeing him being chased around his own city like that. And it's really a shame, that he should die already. He always honoured us gods beyond measure. Should I save this noble man or-”

“No!”, Athena protested at once, “His time is up, he must die! We can't randomly spare mortals, just because we favour them. Do whatever you want, but none of us will approve.”

“… Do what you must, but do it quickly.”

On Olympos, in the Room of Fate, the Scales of Fate weighed the lot of Hektor against Akhilleus.

That of Hektor sank, that of Akhilleus rose up.

.

Apollon, as the god of prophecy, sensed the shift and reluctantly left Hektor to face his doom.

Athena on the other hand joined the angry Akhilleus.

“Today the Achaeans will gain a most glorious victory! We shall slay Hektor! He is destined to die by our hands and not even Apollon's pleas to Zeus will save him now. Now hold up and catch your breath, while I persuade him to face you in battle.”

She caught up to Hektor in the shape of one of his brothers and did exactly that.

So the Trojan prince whirled around to face the son of Peleus.

They had a short dispute. Hektor entreated his opponent to agree, that the loser be returned to his people to receive a proper burial.

But Akhilleus refused: “FUCK YOUR PROPOSAL! YOU WILL PAY FOR THE DEATH OF PATROKLOS AND ALL OF MY FRIENDS WHOM YOU KILLED!!!”

“OH SHUT UP, ARSEHOLE! YOU AND YOUR COMRADES KILLED MOST OF MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS TOO! AND ONCE YOU TAKE OVER OUR CITY, YOU WILL RAVAGE IT, MASSACRE THE CIVILIANS, VIOLATE AND ENSLAVE OUR WOMEN AND KILL OUR CHILDREN!!! I AM DOING WHATEVER I CAN TO PROTECT THEM!!! YOU DON'T GET TO JUDGE ME!!!”, Hektor roared in outrage.⁵

Then they threw their spears at each other.

Hektor dodged that of Akhilleus, but his own weapon flew far off, guided by Athena's hand. When he turned to whom he had thought to be his dear brother to ask for a new spear, but found him gone.

The Trojan prince realised, that he had been tricked by Athena and that the gods had decided his doom a long time ago.

“Well, fuck this shit”, he muttered, pulled his sword to face his last battle.

Their fight was short and brutal.

At long last, Akhilleus managed to stab him in the throat.

But he had narrowly missed the windpipe and so Hektor was able to rattle a few last words.

“If you have … an ounce of honour … return my corpse … to my parents … so I can be buried.”

“No.”

“Thought as much … but know this … you're – ugh! – angering the gods … you will die … by Apollon's and Paris' arrows …”

Then the greatest defender of Troy died.

For a while Akhilleus stood silently above him.

Then he finally replied to the dead man: “I know. And I don't care.”

And proceeded to outrage his vanquished enemy's corpse by tying it to his chariot and dragging it around his city several times.

While on the walls above, his grieving parents, his sorrow-stricken wife Andromákhe and the people of Troy were weeping to the Heavens.

.

Book Twenty-Three:

.

Akhilleus held funeral games for Patroklos and, after much more mourning, finally delivered him to the pyre.

Hektor's dishonoured corpse on the other hand he left to the dogs.

The dogs that would not go near it; the presence of the goddess Aphrodite, who guarded it night and day, kept them away. She and Apollon preserved his corpse, so that neither the scorching sun, nor being hauled around by Akhilleus could damage it.

The burned remains of Patroklos were put to rest in a golden urn – one that his ghost had asked Akhilleus to put them in and mix them with his own, once the son of Thetis would die.

.

Book Twenty-Four:

.

All the while Apollon had protected Hektor's corpse from being mutilated, while Akhilleus didn't stop treating it like that of a common criminal.

Day after day he and the other gods who were supporting Troy begged Zeus to send Hermes to steal away the body. And every time Poseidon, Hera and Athena had been against it, unyielding in their old grudges.

After a week, the god of light finally had enough.

“How much longer”, he confronted the other gods, “do you want to allow Akhilleus to abuse the body of Hektor in such a foul manner?! Does none of you have a heart?! Has he ever failed to give you the best possible sacrifices?! Instead of returned his body to his people to receive the funeral he deserves, you choose being butt-hurt about the stupidity of that wuss Paris and that's why you help that sociopath Akhilleus, who doesn't have an ounce of propriety, shame or even respect in his chest! Many others are mourning their loved ones and he acts like he's the only one! As honourable as his parents are, they failed to raise a decent human being!“

Hera jumped up and pointed a finger at him: “Stop going on about Hektor, like he has ever been Akhilleus' equal! One was only a full mortal, while the other is the son of Thetis, whom I raised and married to Peleus, who we all were fond of!”

“That doesn't change the fact, that Akhilleus is a fucking arsehole!”, Apollon snapped.

“Or that he wouldn't know honour, if it spat in his face!”, Artemis agreed.

“Or that he's a whiny mother's boy”, Ares added.

Hera flushed with rage. “How dare you!”, she exclaimed, “All of you have been at the wedding of his parents! You ate, drank, danced and made music-”

“So?”, Ares said coldly, “Akhilleus is not his parents. We are not obliged to him, nor to Thetis and Peleus and definitely not to you. Hektor respected us gods and other humans more than he does.”

Hera's eyes narrowed. “That's it! I will-”

“ENOUGH!!!”, Zeus thundered and everyone fell silent.

Angrily he turned to Hera: “I've had enough of your attitude! No one here is putting Hektor and Akhilleus on the same level! And all things considered, Hektor was beloved by us. He always knew what kind of sacrifices I and all of you wished for, never failed to honour us and only gave us the best of the best. Still, stealing the body is not an option either. Bring me Thetis. She shall persuade her son to give Hektor's body up to his father.”

After Thetis had been welcomed by the gods, Zeus cut to the chase: “Let your son know, that we're angered by his behaviour. He is to return the body of Hektor to the Trojans for ransom – this is my will. He knows what happens to mortals, who do not follow it.”

Thetis nodded and returned to her son to inform him of Zeus' decree.

.

Later that evening Iris descended to the earth again, this time to tell Priamos, that Zeus was doing him one last favour: the returning of his son's body.

So Priamos packed rich gifts as ransom and went, but not before making a sacrifice of Zeus and venting his bitterness about how the cruelty of Ares had robbed and would keep robbing him of his loved ones.

As Zeus saw the elderly man and his aged herald cross the bloodstained plain in the darkness, he was overcome by pity. He waved Hermes over and fondly ruffled the messenger's hair.

The second youngest Olympian endured it, as always.

“My beloved son, who holds mankind dearest, guides them and listens to them. Go and escort Priamos to the Achaean ships, but make sure that no one sees him, before he stands in front of the son of Peleus.”

Hermes put on his winged sandals and staff and landed on the coast near the ships in the guise of a young soldier from Akhilleus' troops. With his staff, he lulled the Achaeans to sleep, before going to find Priamos.

As he came into the king's field of view, he could tell that the old man was frightened.

But Hermes gently took the old man's hands and asked kindly: “Who are you, sir? What are you and your companion there doing out here in the middle of the night and with so much treasure? Don't you know how dangerous that is?”

“You're right, young man”, Priamos replied, “But one god must have at least some mercy with me. It must be a good omen, that we meet you here; I can see your wisdom as well as your beauty – you must have blessed parents.”

That I do, Hermes thought fondly, but kept his focus.

“That's true. But do answer my question. Are you trying to hide them, or are you all fleeing your city in panic, because you lost your best fighter – your son Hektor, the greatest of your warriors?”

Priamos tilted his head. “How do you know about my son? Who are you?”

“One of the soldiers of Akhilleus”, Hermes fibbed, “I often saw your son on the field of glory, even when we weren't allowed to fight, because our lord wouldn't let us.”

“Really!”, the king cried hopefully, “Tell me, what happened to my son's body? Is it still intact at the ships? Akhilleus didn't … he didn't … did he …?”

“It's still intact”, the Messenger soothed him. “Nothing of the outrage it suffered by Akhilleus could damage it – if it wasn't for the wounds, one could think he's sleeping! The gods care for him even in death.”

He couldn't help but feel horrible for the sorrow-stricken old man, who nearly burst into tears at these news and who really deserved better than all this woe.

Deciding to make it quick, before the mortal's suffering could get to him, Hermes guided Priamos to Akhilleus' tent.

Once there, he revealed himself: “Now I can tell you, that I am the god Hermes. My father sent me to guide and protect you. I must stay outside, because I don't want the trouble of being seen. But listen to me: when you go in there, clasp the knees of Peleus' son and beseech him in the name of his own dear parents, if you want him to hear you.”

.

Akhilleus gaped in amazement, as none other than Priamos came before him.

The long-suffering king of Troy fell onto his knees in front of his greatest enemy, clasping the knees and kissing the hands of the man, who had slain his children.

After reminding him of his father Peleus, who was waiting for his son to come home, Priamos ended his plea: “Fifty sons I had, before you Achaeans came and I got to keep none of them! Most were felled by cruel Ares. And the one son I could count on, the defender of my city and its inhabitants – oh Hektor, my child! – fell by your hand. I'm here to ransom him with rich gifts. Respect the gods and think of your father. Even more than him I have a right to your mercy, because I did what no other father in the world could ever bring himself to do: I kissed the hand of the man who murdered my son.”

The sight of this old man's infinite grief and the memory of his own father, who too would never see him again, did something to Akhilleus.

There was no more wrath in him, only sadness and grief.

That and something new.

Something he had never felt before: Compassion.

.

Hektor's body was ransomed and returned to his people.

Even on Olympos the gods could hear the crying of the Trojans for their prince.

The people, who mourned their greatest hero.

His parents, who lost their dearest son.

His remaining siblings, who lost the brother they had looked up to.

His widow, who hadn't been able to be at her husband's side, while he was dying.

Helena, who had been taken here against her will and was now mourning the only man besides Priamos, who had treated her with kindness, the only friend she'd had here.

The Trojans keened and bewailed Hektor for ten days.

On the eleventh day he was brought to the pyre.

The smoke rose high and with it carried prayers and weeping.

.

---

.

1) Naiades: river nymphs; Dryades: tree nymphs.

2) Astrapaios: "Lord of Lightning", one of Zeus' epithets.

3) Ennosigaios: "Shaker of the Earth", one of Poseidon's epithets.

4) The surface of the sun is appr. 5000°C hot.

5) In the Iliad Hektor doesn't actually respond to Akhilleus' refusal like that, but I thought that this was important to point out.

[katlyn1948]

I Love You

Katlyn1948

Summary:

Arya and Gendry talk...and other things

Notes:

So...when I say that this story wrote its self, I mean it wrote its self. It took me four hours in the span of two days with good old fashioned pen and paper. I think it took me longer to transfer it to my tablet then to actually write it. This is also based off an Alex and Sierra song that I will link (or try to) and it a part of a bigger series that I have been wanting to do for sometime. I have a Spotify playlist for these two characters and there are a lot of songs that I want to write one shots off of and I just so happened to start with this song. I have NO IDEA when or what the next will be, but I’m sure it will be fun.

I am still working on Firestorm (I have a few more paragraphs to write) and I am working on the next part to “Lover” (it will be smut, you have been warned). I plan to upload all of them come next weekend, since it is Thanksgiving in the states. I am also working on my Arya/Gendry secret Santa, that I can’t wait to share!

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!!

Work Text:

https://open.spotify.com/track/2ELVVIbpucfOqGFC21Q4yR?si=dHYuguzAT0Grj5jjv-s4Ug

The air in the sky emitted a cool breeze that made the sea waves shift amongst the red castle. If one were to look beyond the horizon, there would never be an inclination that the city behind the giant stone walls now was nothing more than a pile of ash and rubble.

In the two months since the Battle of King’s Landing and Daenerys’ rise to power, little effort had been made to rebuild. It wasn’t for lack of trying, for the new queen, along with her king regent, made it their top priority to mend the fractured ruins. However, the sheer amount of what had to be done made it seem as if little had been touched.

Arya herself helped in any way that she could, if it meant that she could distance herself from Gendry. She hadn’t mustered the courage to go to him and explain her wrong doings. It was cowardly and so unlike the young assassin that it warranted feelings she had yet to experience within herself.

Self-loathing had not been an emotion that Arya had had the pleasure of experiencing, but after the long night, she seemed to be doing a lot of self-loathing. The only way to quench that heat was to speak to Gendry. She knew that eventually, she would have to. Of course, being the way she was he would have to be the one the conversation. She just had to get him alone.

It was nearing sunset as Arya stood on the dock of King’s Landing; one of the few places left untouched by wildfire, waiting for Gendry to make his appearance.

She had written him a letter earlier in the day asking him to make his way to the docks after supper. She hoped he would comply, his curiosity getting the better of him. However, in the off chance that he didn’t show, Arya would mentally have to prepare for that.

She was unsure how angry Gendry was with her, if he would be able to even stand being in her presence. If she were in his boots, she would be irrevocably furious at her. In fact, she was. She was angry with herself and her stupidity.

There were only a few times in her life were she could blatantly acknowledge her undeniable stubbornness that caused her say or do stupid things.

The night after the battle was one of those stupid times.

It was pathetic really, how the stubborn bull had awakened a part of her she never knew existed. There were feeling that sparked the moment she saw him ride into Winterfell on some white horse. Much like the princes and knights in one of Sansa’s stupid fairytales. It was ridiculous that such a sight made her stomach knot in certain, unfamiliar ways. On the other hand, how the steam that bellowed from behind him as he worked on the dragon glass caused an ache in between her thighs that the whores in Bravvos used to banter on about throughout the night.

That night, after her intense encounter with Gendry in the forge, she slipped her hand in between her legs, picturing his large, soft, calloused hands flicking the delicate bud of nerves. She could see his deep blue eyes behind her closed ones as she continued to work herself. When the slight pressure in her abdomen began to rise, she had to bite her pillow to keep from screaming is name in ecstasy.

Even when her fantasies had come to fruition and they spent, what was supposed to be their final night of life, had been everything Arya could only imagine. She promised herself that if they did survive the night then she would tell him how she truly felt. She would let him know how he made her body quiver at just the tiniest touch and how she wanted to taste the bittersweet flavor off his soft lips.

Everything she had been feeling would come into light.

But when he found her in the store room, shooting arrows, and professed his undying love to her, she calmed shut, saying the words she knew that would hurt him. His broken eyes had nearly crushed her soul, but the need for revenge was just too great. The choice between life and death, at the time, was easy to choose. Death would always be her outcome, even if other’s told her otherwise.

Now, as she stood on the dock waiting for a person she wasn’t sure would show, Arya truly began to feel alone.

“Arya?” The voice was soft, but had the power to send shivers down her spine.

She knew it was him, the voice alone giving her validation, but she needed to be sure that he was the one standing behind her. She need to see his deep blue eyes and feel his large arms wrapped around her.

Slowly she turned and sighed in relief when the blacksmith was standing just a few short feet away.

“You got my letter.” She said as her eyes darted to the parchment in his twiddling hands.

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips, “I did. Although I;m not so sure as to why I showed up.”

“I needed to get you alone. You’ve been quite popular these days. Everyone wants your help somewhere or another. I’ve hardly seen much of you.” She softly smiled.

“What do you want, Arya?” His voice was stern and hard, not like the lighthearted conversations of the past.

Arya shifted here feet as she inched towards where Gendry was standing. She was so close to him that she could smell the smokes of the forge on his jerkin. She lifted her hand to his cheek and slowly lifted herself on her toes so she could reach his lips.

The kiss was light, so much so, that Arya hardly felt the chapped skin his lips were sure to have. It was such a soft peck that one could hardly tell it was a intimate gesture.

Gendry didn’t protest, but was caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere.

As Arya lowered herself down, she clasped Gendry’s hand into her own, bringing it close to her chest. “I want to talk.” She said with his hand still clasped in hers.

“And where do you suppose we do that?” He asked, Arya could see the conflict in his yes as he struggled to down at her.

“You see that ship?” She pointed to the a ship anchored just beyond the docks.

Gendry nodded, “Yeah, what ‘bout it?”

“It’s mine, stupid. We can talk there. The crew are on the mainlands tonight, so we have complete privacy.” She hoped he would take her up on the offer and not leave her heartbroken and alone like she had done to him. Although, she couldn’t blame him if he did.

“How are we supposed to get to it?”

Arya smiled, taking his question as confirmation. She let go of his hand and crossed the dock to where a row boat was tied to a post, “I believe, Lord Baratheon, that you are quite familiar with this.”

A noticeable blush creeped onto Gendry’s face, “I’m going to kill Davos.”

“Don’t be mad at him. If anything be mad at me, I was the one that pried it out of him.” She confessed as she climbed into the dingy. Gendry was close behind and visibly revolted at the thing.

“Fine, I’ll go, but you’re the one rowing.”

Arya smiled, “As you wish, mi’lord.”

“Don’t call me that.” He grumbled as he took his position in the boat. He immediately took the ores from Arya, never intending her to row the both of them to her ship, and began treading them through the water.

They rowed in silence; Arya capturing quick glances at Gendry as he worked the ores though the water. With the waves calm and the slight breeze drifting through the air, Gendry had little to no difficulty navigating through the water.

The ship was just a few hundred yards away when Gendry suddenly stopped rowing, bringing the dingy to a halt.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Arya questioned.

Gendry sighed as he placed the ores in their respective sockets to keep them from falling into the sea. “What’s your plan, Arya?”

“What do you mean?” Pure confusion dripped from her voice.

“Why are you taking me to your empty ship?” He paused, searching her eyes for any answers.

“I told you, to talk.” She said curtly.

Gendry scoffed, “Talk? Arya we could have talked on the damn dock! We were alone, no one would have bothered us there, so why the ship?”

Arya sighed, giving herself a few moment to compose her emotions before speaking.

“We could have been interrupted. Some errand boy would have fetched you to do something for some lord! The only way for me to get truly alone was if no one knew where we were.” She confessed. Her breath was uneven as she tried to keep everything from spilling out.

“Fine, you got me alone. Now talk.” He urged with annoyance.

Arya let out an exasperated chuckle, “I am not having this conversation in a fucking dingy! If you don’t want to row anymore, then hand me the ores and I’ll take us to the ship!”

She grumbled in frustration as she shifted her position on the boat in order for her to grab the ores out of the sockets. Her hands grabbed for the handle when Gendry quickly stopped her. His hand had engulfed her as he placed them over hers.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He huffed. “I’ll take us to the damn ship.”

Arya quickly snatched her hands out from under his, placing them in her lap and twiddling her fingers to keep her mind off at how much the small interaction burned her skin with desire.

The rest of short boat ride consisted of soft grunts as Gendry treaded the water. Arya didn’t dare glance his way, waiting until they were firmly on the ship before making any more advanced.

Once docked at the ship, Arya and Gendry climbed the rope ladder left for them by her crew just the day prior. They hauled themselves over the side and Gendry was immediately at a loss for words at the shear size of the vessel. It could house at least fifty or so crew members, not to mention enough storage to hold at least a few moons turns of supplies.

The decorative finishes showed exactly whose ship it belonged to.

“Let me guess...Davos.”

Arya smiled, “You are correct. I went to him after the battle at Winterfell. He told me he could find something, but I never imagined it would be something like this.”

“Well he is one for making sure people have the best, whether is be advice or a bloody ship.” He looked around the deck, marveling at the Stark sigil printed on the sails. “Why do you have a ship, anyway?”

Arya sighed as she felt her hear sink into her stomach, “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” He asked as he began to follow in her footsteps.

Arya weaved below deck and continued I until they were at least two stories below deck, “I keep the good ale in my cabins to keep any wandering hands away. Trust me when I say that we will need it.”

They walked for several minutes before Arya haunted at the a large mahogany door. The Stark emblem had been engraved into the wood with a large wolf’s head designed as the knocker. Arya unlatched the door, pushing it open to allow Gendry to step inside.

For such an extravagant ship, Arya’s cabins were quite minimal. There was a table situated by a port window with two chairs. There were two goblets already set out for the two of them. A wardrobe was placed against the wall opposite to where the bed was placed.

Gendry tried not to blush as his eyes lingered on the feather bed.

It was substantially larger than the bed in her chambers back in Winterfell, and even that bed had been quite comfortable, but this one looked as if it were going to be heaven to lay upon.

Arya noticed his gaze and tired to suppress a smile at the thoughts that were no doubt going through his mind, for they were the same that went through hers. She’d be lying if she said that she didn’t want to throw him down onto the bed and ravish his body until the morning sun rose.

She wanted him, more so than the night of the battle. Her body craved for his and it made her scoff at how ridiculous it all was. She had one taste of such intense visceral pleasure that now she couldn’t wait for more.

But now was not the time for inappropriate thoughts; now was the time for talk and there was so much that Arya had to say, she wasn’t sure if she could get through it all without breaking down into a pile of puddles.

“Please, sit.” She gestured to the chair across from where she was standing.

Gendry shuffled out of his cloak and draped it behind the chair before taking a seat. Arya had pulled a jug of ale from the cabinet beside the wardrobe, pouring a hefty amount of ale into each of the goblets. Gendry didn’t hesitate as he chugged his goblet, reaching for the jug in Arya’s hand before she had a chance to place on the table in front of them.

“So, you got me here. What do you want to talk about?”

Arya took her seat across from Gendry and took a swing of ale before answering, “Us. You...me.”

Gendry scoffed, “I thought ‘us’ ended the night after the battle.”

Arya ignored his jab as she gathered courage to speak from her heart.

“You want to know why I have this ship? I was planning on sailing west after Jon’s coronation. I was going to hire a navigator and few more crew members and sail beyond the horizon, never letting anyone know I was leaving.” She paused as she tired to ease her shaking breaths, “But as I spent time here, around the people that I love and care about, I came to realize that that would be a stupid mistake. I was trying to run away from a past that I didn’t want to remember, or a life I believed I didn’t deserve.”

She hadn’t realized the tears streaming down her face until Gendry’s thumb gently wiped them away.

“I’m so sorry, Gendry. I didn’t mean to break your heart the way that I did. I was just so focused on revenge and killing Cersei. I thought that if I severed ties and broke your heart that it wouldn’t have hurt you so much if I didn’t make it out alive.”

She couldn’t help the sob that escaped her throat, shaking her body with the sheer force of it.

Gendry was quickly by her side, pulling her into his chest as she let the tears take over her body. “Gods, Arya. How could you ever thing that? I would have never stopped loving you, even if you did rip my heart out of my chest. It’s impossible for me to stop loving you.”

Arya shook her head, pushing herself from his grasp, “No, but you have to. I’m not good, Gendry. I’ve done bad things; things that would make you see me differently. Gendry, you deserve someone good.”

Gendry sighed and pulled Arya’s hands into his own, “Arya, i fell in love with a strong, smart and beautiful girl. Every time I look at you, my breath escapes me and I can’t help but smile when your name is brought up in conversation. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.”

“But you can’t.” She whispered as she looked from his eyes.

Arya knew Gendry’s felling for her and it made her heart burst at his confirmation, but even with her own undeniable felling for him, she couldn’t give him what he needed.

“Gendry, I wanted to tell you about this ship because, despite my revelations, I still need to leave. Maybe with everyone knowing, but I have to go.”

Gendry’s eyes snapped to hers, “Arya-”

“No! Let me finish. I have to leave to find myself. I lost who I was when I was in Bravvos, and although my family and you have given me pieces of myself, there are still some that are missing. I can’t be with you, as I am, without finding myself completely.”

“Gods, Arya, I just professed my love to you, again, and now you’re telling me not to, again. I can’t do that. Not this time.” Arya now saw tears welling in his eyes and it nearly killed her to see him so broken and vulnerable.

She sighed, “But you have to try. I can’t have you becoming your father. Not having my aunt broke him and I would never be able to forgive myself if I did that to you.”

A chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head, “If you think I’ll end up anything like Robert, then you must have hit head harder than you thought.” He brushed a piece of loose hair from her face as she resorted his hand upon her cheek, “You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met, Arya Stark. You are stubborn, mean, and scarier than any wight I have ever faced, but even that won’t make make me stop loving you. I don’t think you realize just how much I do love you. If you have have to leave to find yourself, then I will wait, no matter how long. And if you never return, then at least I can pray to the gods that I see you in the after life. I love you.”

“You’re stupid, you know that?” She scoffed as she wiped the tears from her face.

Gendry smiled, “So I’ve been told.”

There was a beat of silence between the two as they looked into each other’s eyes.

There was so much emotion swirling in Gendry’s blue irises that spoke so much more than words. Arya was confident that even her gray eyes betrayed her, giving Gendry all the consent he needed to place his lips upon hers.

She was surprised by the action, but accepted it with much anticipation.

It had been too long since she had been this close to him and now that she placed firmly in his arms, she never wanted to let go.

Quickly, the kiss deepened as Arya felt Gendry’s tongue slip past her teeth, swirling with hers in a mirage of emotions. She sighed against his lips as he brought his hands to her waist, squeezing them tight with need.

They stumbled from the table, crashing onto the bed as Gendry dragged Arya down with him. She straddled him easily as their lips continued to explore each other’s mouth. Eventually, she released her lips from his, gasping for air. The action burned her lungs as she took fast breaths to try to ease her racing heart.

Gendry was heaving, as he too, tried to catch his breath.

For a few moments, all they could do was stare at one another, waiting to see what the other would do.

With Arya still straddled around Gendry’s waist, she leaned down and whispered into his ear, “Love me, Gendry.”

And that he did.

For hours, they explored each other’s bodies, taking the time to admire the nooks and crannies that they were deprived of all those nights ago. With no one to disturb their love making, Arya could be as loud and as rough as she pleased. Gendry had no qualms, although he was sure to regret the claw marks on his back come morning. They even enjoyed the gentler parts of their union as Gendry took his time sheathing himself within Arya, nearly pushing her over the edge of no return.

There was no need for them to rush and for once, they could truly learn their lover’s body.

It was as if they were discovering not only themselves, but each other, for the first time.

Arya may have know Gendry for years, but this was a part of him that she had to earn to learn, just as he had with her. They trusted each other with, not only their lives, but their bodies and that was the most vulnerable anyone could become.

It was hard for Arya to let down those walls for Gendry to truly know her as man and woman, but once she did, it was if the whole world had opened up endless possibilities. For the first time in her life, she was no longer alone, but rather one with him, now and forever.

Their extensive indiscretions had left them numb and exhausted.

The soft rocking of the ship against the calms waves had lulled them into slumber more than once that night, but with the moonlight shining through the small port window in Arya’s chambers, she couldn’t help but watch him as he ran his fingers down her spine, trying hard to spell out his name. It was amusing to feel his hard work at learning his letters. It left her with soft tickles and more than a few giggles as he did so.

“Are you still leaving after Jon is crowned with Daenerys?” Gendry asked as the sun began to rise over the horizon.

Arya swallowed and nodded softly, “I do, but that is a week away. We can spend all we can with each other until then.”

“I’ll keep you to that, mi’lady.” He chuckled.

Arya smiled, but was too exhausted to correct him.

“I’ll write as often as I can, but I cannot promise that the ravens will get to you in a timely manner, if at all.” She confessed.

“I’ll keep an eye out for them.”

“And I truly don’t know when I may return, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Arya-”

“And you have to promise me that if your heart does change and find a lady to spend your days with, that you’ll be happy.”

“Arya-”

“And try to watch after Jon, will you? He will be devastated when I tell him-”

“Arya! Please do not worry. All will be as it should, even if it takes years. Now, can we please enjoy each other’s company before we have to return to the docks and explain where we’ve been these past hours?” He pleaded.

Arya blushed and smiled, “I love you.”

Gendry pulled her close as he wrapped the furs around their naked forms, “And I love you.”

[samaraclegane]

two similar prompts again, both senders anonymous:

‘Could you write this prompt? After the battle is won Gendry avoids Arya for days because he thinks that the forgesex was just a live in the moment/don’t die virgin thing and also he’s not enough for her so why would she want him like he does? Arya gets angry and goes confront him and they have a very passionate fight where they finally confess their feelings. Thank you!!!’

‘I'm so happy that you're out here writing these beautiful Gendrya fanfics <3 Could you write something about Gendry being self conscious of his relationship with Arya because he still see himself as a bastard and think he's not good enough for her as a an apprentice blacksmith ?’

author’s note: what lovely little prompts! hope you two anons don’t mind having a combined post, but I felt the two prompts were interlinked and decided to use them both in this post. hope you two both like the little piece I wrote! (& thank you, anon #2! such kind words :))

-Gendry’s back at the forge. after all, what else was he going to do? become some high lord of some distant land, living out the rest of his days swimming in gold? that was highly unlikely, to say the very least.

-he’s working every day, and to be honest there’s no place he’d rather be. sure, it’s sweaty and smokey and he sometimes feels like he’s drowning, but it’s like home. and now he’s in Winterfell, he can keep a close eye on Arya, even if she doesn’t want to keep a close eye on him.

-they haven’t really spoken since their last encounter, when Arya had come onto him and pretty much told him she didn’t want to die a virgin. he’d had no issue, of course, but now that the battle was won and neither of them were dead, what was going to come next?

-Arya, despite what she says, is still a highborn lady. and he, despite the fact that many might argue it doesn’t mean much now, is still a bastard. regardless of the status of his father, his parents were unmarried, so he’s worth nothing.

-he thinks it’s best to leave her be. they shared one time together which he’ll cherish forever, but he knows if he approaches her and asks for more - both to repeat what they had done and to take things a step further - he’ll be crushed alongside those good memories if she says no (which he, frankly, wasn’t willing to run the risk of).

-he’s buried himself in working, now. though there’s no upcoming battles (and, he imagines, there won’t be for some time), he gets to repairing and rebuilding swords. he forges the metal, makes some from dragon glass (you never know) and does everything but think of Arya.

-he’s got a half-formed sword in the furnace when there’s a loud slam of a door somewhere, and by the time he’s swinging around to look behind him, there stands Arya, always shorter than him, but her aura terrifying.

-”Arya-” he tries to say something, but whatever it was is stolen from his mouth by the Stark girl, who angrily looks up at him and interrupts.

-”What have you been doing?”

-he’s left with his mouth open, because what? what is this girl talking about?

-”don’t pretend you’ve been busy this whole time, Gendry,” she speaks like she should be rolling her eyes - like he’s an idiot - but she doesn’t. Not once does she drop his gaze.

-”I- don’t know what you mean.” his words stumble out of his mouth, and he almost drops the weapon he’s holding straight into the roaring flames as he forgets about it entirely. He decides it’s time to put it down, and so does so blindly, not able to stop looking at Arya

-”I mean,” she emphasises, obviously irked, “that it’s been a week since the battle ended. the wounded are being treated. the buildings are being repaired. the dead are being buried. where have you been?”

-”in the forge,” Gendry says stupidly, because he’s still clueless as to what she’s actually asking him, “where have you been?”

-”thinking you were going to come to see me, at the very least,” she snaps back, body bundled into fury at his slowness, “I could have been dead.”

-”no,” he shakes his head, feeling confident for the first time in their conversation, “I made sure.”

-”’made sure’?” her eyes narrow, “how did you make sure?”

-”I asked Jon.”

-she looks at him in utter disbelief. “you asked Jon?”

-he shrugs, “yeah. ‘course I did. who else would I have asked?”

-incredulously, she exclaims, “me! you could have come to see me! do I really mean that little to you, Gendry? you’d rather speak to Jon about me than to speak to me directly? you really are a bull-headed boy.”

-Gendry would laugh at the childish name if she didn’t seem so serious in her words and manner of speech. he wipes down his hands on his pants and stares at her, then opens his mouth and sucks in a sharp breath, speaking softer than he had been previously. he’s marginally afraid that Arya’s pulsing mind won’t hear him.

-”you know how much you mean to me.”

-”then why didn’t you come to see me?” she responds instantly, not quite shouting anymore but still aggravated, “why did you wait for me to come to you?”

-he splutters before he answers, because there’s no way to put it that sounds decent, and not self-deprecating.

-”because you deserve more than me.”

-the way Arya’s face softens in an instant makes him think she might just kiss him. he longs for her to do so, because he’s gone long enough without her touch. he’s missed her since the battle commenced, and though he doesn’t let himself get his hopes up often, he has to admit he’d been hoping she’d seek him out.

-she doesn’t kiss him, however. there’s a sense of dramatic irony when her hand collides with his face, because that’s exactly what he needs, even if the sting sears hot red across his face, like he’s been shoved into the fire as he’d heard some men had been.

-”you’re an idiot,” she tells him, but what he hears is something more endearing. he can’t help but smile, but then it sours and turns sad.

-”I’m serious, Arya,” he speaks solemnly, “you’re a lady, and I’m just a-”

-ouch. there’s the searing pain again, and he’s sure there’s a mark now, if there wasn’t beforehand. she simultaneously looks like she’s going to cry and burst into tears, which he doesn’t quite understand. she watches him, looking a little guilty as he presumes the hand print on his face begins to form, but she doesn’t mention it, at least not yet.

-”you’re not ‘just’ anything,” she states, voice lower than it had been before, signalling she’s started to cool down, “you’re everything.”

-now he’s the one who’s about to break down into tears, because nobody has ever told him that before. everybody who he’s come across has told him he’s nothing, either because of his birthright or his lack of skills aside from forging. his skin has turned hard to the words, coiled and conjoined to form steel. the only time somebody’s been nice to him is when they’ve been paid, or when they’re trying to sleep with him. after, they too insult him, or ignore his existence entirely.

-not Arya, though. Arya looks him in the eye, no reason to lie to him, having much more money than him, and having already lain with him. she stands before him, speaking such overwhelmingly kind words, and he’s about to cry like a baby.

-”Arya?” he asks tentatively, calling her name as though summoning a child.

-she does not verbally respond. seeming to understand where he was going (even before he did), she simply crosses the distance between them and encircles his waist with her arms, tucking her face into his chest. he envelopes her small frame in his arms, and puts his head atop of hers. there, he lays a gentle kiss.

-”thanks for coming to find me,” he says, but he’s not just talking about her seeking him at the forge.

-”you’re welcome,” she responds, causing humming throughout his chest, like she understands the ambiguity, and reciprocates the incentive.

-and maybe, gendry realises, they aren’t so different after all.

[paellaplease]

Firebird | Chap.4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 4: Seeker 

Look for the truth where the past has buried it.

*

  After exchanging a few more words with Kamori about her extended stay, the meeting concluded. Maiya bowed politely, bidding the two Ritos goodbye. Before she left, Kamori stopped her at the door, pressing an envelope to her hand. “Follow the address in this letter, my dear. The innkeeper there will take care of the rest. Winds be fair to you, hoo.” 

Maiya returned his smile, touched at his grandfatherly kindness. Her eyes briefly lingered on Revali's burnt feather before she turned away, the guilt she felt at indirectly hurting him still caught in her throat. 

She avoided Talako’s wary gaze as she stepped out of the hut, not wasting any time in making a hasty exit. One foot after another, careful not to trip, she descended the many village stairs. 

The young Enchanter released the breath she was holding as she cleared two levels. “So that happened,” She said aloud. The anxiety was creeping back in. Her heart felt like a butcher’s mallet. Thump! Thump! Thump! If her chest was a piece of meat, it would be well tenderised by now.

First order of business. She needed paper and a messenger pigeon-person-thing...Whatever they used in this village. Chief Kamori already assured her that a missive would be sent to her mentor’s private letter box first thing tomorrow morning explaining the whole situation. However, she knew that she needed to write to her mentor separately. Relaying whatever she can in great detail was of utmost importance if she wanted even a smidgen of a chance of surviving the Sheikah’s ire.  

Calm...calm. I am calm. 

Teacher was going to kill her!

Round and down she went, lost in her thoughts but aware enough to dodge around a yellow Rito child that was playing tag along the railing. Opening the note, she followed the address written at the top in Kamori’s cursive. That’s a lot of levels down . Nodding to herself, she increased her walking speed, making her way towards her accomodations for the next few weeks. 

The inn was located only a floor above the village’s main entrance, making it one of the first things travellers would see when they arrived. Like most structures situated around Valoo’s Spire, a flat platform jutted out from its doors, connecting the main arterial staircase to the wooden, circular, double-story building that was Rito Village’s one and only inn.

The building exterior was painted a deep red, with white curtains billowing from its many open windows. Planter boxes were hung up along the railings of the second floor, pink daphnes and other winter blooms peeking from their containers. 

Another staircase, though this time shorter and much more narrow with steps worn from years of use, ran flush along the inn’s side. Maiya theorised that it supposedly gave customers a means of accessing their rooms without having to pass through the reception area. That said, she was unpleasantly surprised to find that whilst most rooms were situated at the building’s second floor, the inn still offered beds on the first. In its lobby. 

...

What?

Eyebrow raised at the arrangement, Maiya tiptoed past sleeping travellers and made her way to the front desk. Tourist season must be in full swing, with most of the beds filled and a small sign above the front desk announcing a limited vacancy. A customer’s snores echoed from the corner. 

This is, um, unpleasant. She thought. But arguably not as bad as when Uncle Rohan had to crash at the forge after he and Teacher had too much to drink. Maiya grimaced at the memory. That Goron blacksmith’s snores were loud enough to wake Death Mountain...but I still wouldn’t complain if this place offers earbuds.

A burgundy Rito with a short side braid and golden hooped earrings smiled sunnily as she approached. “Welcome to Swallow’s Roost,” she whispered. 

Maiya mumbled a shy ‘hello’ back. She set her pack down and fished out her identification papers and coin purse. A leaf flew out of her open wallet. Oh damn. It was then that the Hylian realised, with much embarrassment, just how filthy she was from weeks of travel. The quick wash at the stables that morning took care of most of the grime, but her travel pack was still covered in mud and leaves. From the moment she entered the inn, she was already tracking dirt on the massive blue circular rug that covered most of the wooden flooring. 

I am the queen of good first impressions. 

“I would like to book one of your beds until the Winter Solstice, please.” Maiya said, glancing at an open bed warily, noting the thin divider between it and the traveller sleeping a few steps away. 

“Not a problem, but you won’t be placed in any of the ones down here, that is, unless you really want to,” The innkeeper said. She giggled at Maiya’s confused expression. “My apologies, let me clarify. These beds are reserved for single day travellers.”

From out of nowhere, the innkeeper pulled out a graph. It was framed, hitting the table with a dull thud . She grabbed a piece of charcoal to the side and pointed to a random line. “See here?” Maiya nodded, not sure what she was seeing. “We noticed that many visitors of our village have been on the road for quite a while and simply needed a place to rest for a few hours. By implementing this we’ve Roost Boosted our business by 15%!” The Rito grinned proudly. “It’s our solution for the short-stay traveller without breaking the bank!”

Not one to be rude, Maiya replied. “That makes sense.” So I’m not sleeping in the lobby? Nice.

The innkeeper didn’t even try to hold back an amused laugh at Maiya’s expression. “Ha! Relieved now, aren’t you? You’re adorable. My name is Cheska by the way, owner of this lovely establishment. I’m guessing you’re also on the search for a warm bath and a good meal?”

“And the softest bed you got,” Maiya said, recalling the difficult evening she had the night before.

“You’re at the right place, have you heard of our world famous Rito down-beds? Of course you have. Let’s sort you out!”

 The room was sparsely decorated in a cosy sort of way. The place was free of knick-knacks or paintings, and it soon became obvious that everything there was there for a purpose. 

On the right was a double bed and a wooden chest sitting at its foot- open, unlocked and empty. Opposite this, to the far left of the room, was a small fireplace. Stocked with logs, it was ready to be lit to ward against the later evening chill. 

Maiya pulled the cloth door further, stepping over the threshold. On the wall directly across from her was a window. The surrounding waters of Lake Totori and the leafy green Tabantha forests were visible from within its four corners. To Maiya's relief a writing desk was positioned beneath it, paper, inkwell and quill already supplied. Her mentor wouldn't have to wait too long for a response. 

The place felt untouched, as if frozen in time since the last tenant vacated. She liked it. It smelt like honey and sage. 

“Forgive us for the dust,” she heard Cheska say. The Rito swiped a few feathers on the top of the window sill, frowning at the dirt that came off it. “It has been a while since anyone’s set foot into this room. Would have offered one of our vacant newer ones too, but Chief Kamori suggested in the note that you could stay here.” 

“Where’s the original owner?” Maiya asked. 

“They left many years ago, when I was just a chick. Mama was the innkeeper at that time as I was still too young to learn the ropes.” Cheska tilted her head, earrings glinting. “I can’t really remember their face, but my ma described them as always a bit intense. 'Too many eggs in one basket makes a person go crazy, Ches!’ She would say. Whatever that means.” The Rito wiped her wing on her apron. “Wonder if that’s why they left, huh?” 

Maiya racked her brain for something to say, “Uh…”

“Anywho! Communal baths are a Spire floor up. Complimentary soap from the front desk will be handed out if you remember to cheer 'Swallows Roost Boost!' Oh! And clap twice. Don't forget that. That's very important."

She felt a headache creeping up. "Is it really?"

"Nope." Cheska grinned. "But it’d still be a good idea to have a wash before you knock-out for the day. Sorry to say it, hylianlla , but you stink!"

 The young Enchanter worked quickly to acclimate herself to her new surroundings. Whilst this was the first time she’d travelled so far outside Akkala, she knew it would be smart to be curious and observant. Everyone had their patterns, and the Ritos were no exception to this. Much like it did with enchanting, figuring out how things worked early around these parts was going to do her a lot of good in the long run. And not making a fool of herself by missing simple social cues was always a plus. 

Day one was when Maiya realised that Rito Village rose before the sun. The smell of freshly baked bread and the sounds of haggling at the markets began as early as the crack of dawn. Sitting on the railing just outside her room and picking apart her mandarin, she also found that some fruits tasted better here. 

She swung her feet. The cool mountain breeze and view were enough to brave the drop, and she surprisingly found herself at relative peace as she finished her meagre breakfast. It was a big change from earlier that morning. 

Maiya had awoken before first light, bleary eyed from another nightmare she couldn’t quite remember. Walking outside to catch her breath, she spotted a squadron of warrior Ritos flying overhead in the early twilight. She’d nearly called out and waved to them, doubtful that they would hear her anyway, but thought better of it when she caught the familiar sight of blue amongst their ranks.

The Hylian exhaled, tilting her face to the warming sunlight. Watching the sky now, about three hours afterwards, she saw a dull orange Rito depart from one of the upper floors, flying in the same direction towards the mountains. She wondered if they were a warrior too.

She bit into her fruit, chewing somberly. A warrior. She was supposed to find a worthy warrior. But how could she now when the dagger rejects one of the best fighters this village could offer? 

Perhaps I have to look harder. 

Maiya closed her eyes, the rune on her hand aching. "Where do I even start?"

On the list of tasks to complete whilst she was here, another began to weigh heavily on her mind. She remembered that Teacher said this was her opportunity to gather more information for her studies. Where books on Ancient Weaponry were limited, tomes on Enchanting were extremely rare. Most were burned, buried or lost to time when the Sheikah were subdued 10,000 years ago. 

Enduring information survived in bits and pieces, some being handed down by word-of-mouth through stories and secrets. Whilst this worked to protect knowledge, it made finding consistent techniques difficult. And with all known Enchanters aside from her and Teacher either lost, dead, or in hiding, finding instruction beyond her mentor’s library and her mentor herself felt almost impossible.

Feeling hopeless, Maiya stared at the new glove which covered her left hand, lifting it so that the eye-shaped scar underneath would be at level with her own. The rune was quieter today. She turned her hand, examining the neat seams at its sides and the small tufts of feathers which cushioned her palm. The fit was perfect. She wondered how much study and practice it would take to make something this good. 

A memory of one of her Teacher’s lectures came to mind. 

“Most Enchanters encountered in legend are Sheikah, however this does not mean that they are the only beings with an aptitude to enchant. ” Her mentor’s voice echoed in her head. She could visualise the moment easily, see the tall woman in a dark hood pace the room, her long pendant of a weeping eye lightly swinging.

“In fact, were it not for the Goron People in Eldin and the teachings they kept of their late-Enchanters, I would have never fully mastered the flame for my first weapon. Hence, I would have never become Enchanter were it not for me seeking their guidance. We are nothing without the teachings of others.”

“I am nothing without the teachings of others.” Maiya repeated, words eaten up by the cloudless sky. 

All of Teacher’s old books said that the Hebra Highlands were the original birthplace of ice enchantments. Rito Village, with its close proximity and history of keeping physical records, was her best bet in finding actual information regarding Ice Enchanting or even runes if she were lucky. She needed something , whether it be a book or an old myth. Anything to lead her in the right direction for her research. And she had no idea where to start.

Questions, questions…

“Why so glum, hylianlla? ” 

“Shit!” Maiya jumped, dropping her fruit, she tipped forward, body seconds from falling into the waters below.

“Woops! Hold on there.” A wing reached to grab the collar of her jacket, pulling her backwards.

The young woman fell onto the wooden decking behind her. She groaned, rubbing her back as she rolled and stood up gingerly. Familiar burgundy feathers, braids, and now silver triangular earrings met her gaze. “Good morning Cheska, nice earrings. Please don’t do that again.”

The Rito looked slightly apologetic, tossing her mop’s handle from one wing to another. “I’m sorry for that, you see I was just cleaning out the room next door- terrible stuff really, the man left a smell that you can’t just scrub out- when I saw you sitting here all sad looking and lonesome.” She looked a bit bashful. “I was going to leave you to your thoughts, but then you said something ominous out loud and my curiosity got the best of me.”

Note to self, don’t repeat Teacher’s top ten quotes in public. 

Cheska continued, “Were you thinking hard? I don’t think you blinked once. You looked like you were trying to set something on fire with your eyes.”

Maiya laughed dryly. “Would you believe me if I said you were not the first one to tell me this?” 

The Rito’s curious teal eyes seemed to gleam even brighter. Those apparently were the wrong words to say if she wanted the feathered woman to leave. If she didn’t before, Maiya well and truly had Cheska’s attention now. 

The innkeeper placed the mop she was holding to the side, and with a flap of her wings was over the railing and seated next to Maiya as if she’d been there the whole time. “Alright! What ails you on this fine morning, little traveller?”

Maiya sighed. Might as well . “Is there a place here that stores information?” 

“Depends,” Cheska said, holding up three feathers, lowering them with each suggestion as she ticked off a mental checklist. “Fifth floor we have a library for general stuff. Cookbooks, numeracy and literacy texts, some basic readings on science. The elders use it as a resource in the syllabus for the young’uns.” 

“If you want some political and business advice, or a long winded talk on our current economics, then ask Chief Kamori how his day is going. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fearless leader, but he needs to get out more.” 

“How about old information? Like old history?” Maiya tried. 

“Old history, huh?” Cheska went quiet for a moment, looking at the final feather she held up. “Then you should definitely see Honoka in the Archives. She knows heaps about old teachings. More than anyone else in our little llaqta. Got a whole collection on dead languages and legends not even Old Man Yieni would tell- not that he does much storytelling anymore but I digress!” 

Sounds promising . Maiya smiled. “I think that’s it, Cheska.” 

“Is it really? Oh, I’m happy to have helped. It’s the fourth level from the top by the way! Might be a difficult climb, for a Hylian I mean. A lot of stairs. Don’t get too winded on your way up. Take your time.” She pushed off the railing, flapping her wings and hovering in the air. “You don’t owe me anything by the way. Just maybe let me know if you find something interesting. Actually, definitely let me know if you find something interesting.” 

“You’ll be one of the first,” Maiya said, pushing off from the railing she was leaning on. “Thank you, Cheska. For the help and the directions.” 

“Not to worry, Miss Maiya!” She did a somersault in the air, and dipped down past her sight. A few seconds later she resurfaced, picking up her mop and buckets with her talons. “Oops forgot these! The things a girl would do to get some good gossip around here. Good luck, hylianlla! You’ll need it! ”

Maiya took Cheska’s advice, ascending the spire whilst taking time to enjoy the village with a more wakeful and less anxious mind than the one she had yesterday. A range of colourful shops and little wooden houses were found on every level. It was refreshing to see how open everything was. Doors were mostly long pieces of cloth, rolled up to air out the home and let the wind in. Children ran to and fro, some who were old enough to fly zipping around the clotheslines. There was so much laughter in the air. Their elders sat and gossiped on the front porch, a few leaning out their windows or resting in their rocking chairs. 

It was loud, full of energy, and Maiya loved it. 

There’s an antique store on this level. The pottery is so beautifully shaped! Are those little clay wings?

A jewellry shop. The fine details are so exquisite! I wonder how they got the metal to bend like that without snapping?

A tavern! I’ve never been to a tavern before! 

Distracted by the sights, it took her an extra few minutes to reach her destination.

Meeting the Head-- and only-- Archivist of Rito Village, Master Honoka, was, well for lack of a better word, interesting. A security gate behind the main cloth door rattled and shook as the Rito Elder unlocked it, pulling it back in a single motion. She peered at Maiya through the thick glasses which rested at the top of her beak, cautiously taking in the appearance of the small human woman who awkwardly stood at her doorway. Even whilst leaning on an ornate silver cane, the Rito stood three heads taller, practically towering over her. “Unfortunately, we don’t take walk-ins,” the old woman said. Her voice was intelligent, educated, and extremely tired. 

“I’m not here to sight-see,” Maiya said. “Are you...are you the Archivist?” She shuffled in place, willing herself not to stare at her shoes. “If so, nice to meet you. Do you have any texts on arcane weaponry? Something that mentions blue-energy, or ice magic?” 

Master Honoka expression softened, but her grip on the gate did not waver. “I’m sorry, hylianlla , but the Archives do not welcome tourists anymore. If you wanted to know how to make ice arrows however, I suggest you see the bowyer a level down. Though don’t get his shop mixed up with the blacksmith’s, that bird is a gruff one. Now have a good day.” She shuffled back, pulling the gate to shut her out.

Her rune flashed. “Wait!” Maiya said, unsheathing the flame dagger. Its orange gleam was as bright as ever, catching the morning light. Her hands shook minutely as she presented it in front of her in a nervous hurry. 

Perhaps shoving a knife with little explanation in front of an elderly lady was a bad idea, she thought. Honoka’s eyes widened, a small gasp escaping her beak. She gripped her cane tightly. Maiya’s gloved hand warmed. She panicked, wondering if it was going to hit her. However, as the Elder advanced, her eyes caught the light of the red flame, feeling the radiant heat which ran under the metal of the dagger. The rito stopped, eyes widening in recognition. “Enkantada,” Honoka whispered. 

In an instant, the door was pushed back. Maiya jumped as a wing wrapped around her wrist, quickly pulling her into the hut. 

Immediately, the familiar smell of dust and books filled her senses. Maiya blinked, looking up. All around her, covering the walls and reaching the ceiling, were shelves upon shelves of precious books. 

The collection was massive . 

Maiya gasped. A part of her, the giddy childlike excitement at discovering something new, jumped for joy. It’s like she was standing in the middle of a perfect storm. Some books were hardbound, the titles on many of their spines in languages she’d never heard of before. Others were nothing but just paper and twine, on the verge of falling apart and standing on their last legs. She saw books with paper backs, and books wrapped in animal skins. The top of her banada felt warm, with beams of white, dusty daylight shining from the oculus above her. 

Someone cleared their throat. Maiya whirled around. The elderly rito stood only a few steps away, cane outstretched. The metal stick nudged at the arm which held the dagger, lifting it up higher to the dusty light that filtered in from the glass ceiling. 

“Who are you?” Honoka said, cautious yet not unkind. She reached for a dial at the side of her glasses, turning it. The lenses on her spectacles moved and folded into a focal point, magnifying her vision. She leaned forward, examining the dagger with a critical eye. “An Enchanter? I can’t believe it. I thought there was only one of you left.”

Maiya’s shoulders sank, sinking the dagger back into its sheath. “Two now, actually. I was only given the title a few weeks ago. I’m sorry for the confusion.” 

“It’s no trouble, dear,” Honoka said. “I apologise as well, we’ve had an issue the past few months with thieves. The Yiga Clan have been pretending to be travelling scholars looking for precious, old books in our collection. We’ve lost many in the past month and I didn’t want to take the risk.”

“That sounds terrible.” 

“It is,” Honoka said, looking close to tears. She sniffed, squaring her shoulders. “Nevermind that. What brings you here, Young Enchanter? 

“I’m learning how to enchant Ice Weapons. Someone told me that you’re a collector of old knowledge.”

“I’m a historian and archivist, enkantada. Not an antiquarian. However, yes, I believe I might have something along those lines.  And who was this Rito that directed you here?”

“The innkeeper.”

Master Honoka sighed, taking her glasses off and rubbing her head. “Of course it was Cheska. That girl never has the sense to not stick her beak where it doesn’t belong, especially if she can get a story out of it.”

“Do you know her?”

The old rito hobbled to the middle of the room, cane glinting in the early afternoon light. “She’s my niece.” She tapped her cane to the ground, giving the floor two experimental wacks.

Maiya stood to the side, not quite sure what was going on anymore. “Uh...what are you doing?”

The Archivist raised her cane over the floor once again, stabbing its end into a barely noticeable hole in the planks. She twisted the cane and stepped back, lifting up a long piece of floorboard. It came away easily, nailed-in less tight in comparison to the others. 

Underneath there seemed to be a deep gap in the floor, holding what looked like four mysterious rectangular stacks. 

Maiya bent down to get a better look. The inside was dusty, probably from having not seen the light of day in several years. As she moved closer, she realised that the stacks she saw were actually books, all faded and leather bound. 

“Many years ago,” Honoka said, looking down at the cobweb covered tomes. “I was asked to burn these. Me, being the stubborn woman I was back then, followed my heart and decided to hide them instead.” 

“Why?” 

“Knowledge is never supposed to be destroyed,” she said, looking at Maiya seriously. “We should not fear mistakes nor the things we don’t fully understand. If we did, then we would never learn from our shortcomings and continue making regretful decisions.” She turned away, walking towards a back room. “I will be in my study, the tomes are free for you to peruse. Let me know if you don’t understand anything, I have a few cipher guides you might find useful.”

“Thank you, oh wait!” Maiya couldn't help her curiosity. “Who asked you to burn them all those years ago?” 

Honoka paused before she closed the door. Her back was turned, the intricate weaving and patterns of her multicoloured shawl contrasting with the pale peach-almost white of her feathers. 

“It was the King of Hyrule, young Enchanter.”

[ducktracy]

149. the village smithy (1936)

release date: december 5th, 1936

series: looney tunes

director: tex avery

starring: earle hodgins (narrator), tex avery (blacksmith), joe dougherty (porky)

a few reviews ago, i said that porky in the north woods was the first cartoon to debut the “porky signature” opening. turns out i was wrong, it’s actually THIS one! (a small error, though, considering porky in the north woods is the cartoon right after this one. still, my mistake!) one of my favorite tex avery cartoons at warner bros, chock full of disney rebellion and fourth wall breaks. a witty retelling of the longsfellow poem that pins porky as a clumsy smithy, which results in trouble.

earle hodgins does a wonderful job as the narrator. we open to him literally setting up the scene—after he says “under the spreading chestnut tree”, a chestnut tree falls to the ground, the “standing” village smithy not behind, lazing on the grass and most certainly NOT standing. the narrator sighs. “i said STAND. stand up, you lug!” the smithy does so, his back to the audience. “hey, this way!” he whips around to ogle at the audience before swaying bashfully. while lauding the smithy’s physique, comedy’s greatest friend, juxtaposition, strikes hard. instead of seeing the smithy’s brawny arms, we’re met with twigs, hilariously accompanied by his overly large, sinewy hands. recognizing the folly, the smithy takes a moment to inflate his muscles by blowing into his respective thumbs.

“and now, the blacksmith shop.” the smithy throws up his dukes and boxes at an unseen foe as the shack falls into place right behind him. contented with his new shop, the smithy goes inside to investigate, while the local schoolchildren come to observe the smithy at work. “they love to see the flaming forge and hear the bellows roar.” a wonderful closeup as the bellows lets out a ferocious lion’s roar, the narrator remarking “boy, what a roar!”

one of my favorite gags in the entire cartoon is when the children are observing the smithy. the narrator suddenly grows hotheaded, shooing them out. “alright kids, get out of the scene now! you bother me.” even better is the reaction from the kids, all grumbling and trudging away, one even kicking a van across the screen in defiance. hodgins’ voice combined with tex’s timing make for a wonderful end product of comedy.

with the smithy now alone, he pumps the bellows up and down and up and down and up and down up and down up and down up and down—the narrator repeats “up and down” at a furious pace, the smithy struggling to keep up, pumping frantically with his giant tongue hanging out of his mouth in exhaustion. another wonderful gag that is succinctly timed. even better is the dialogue spawned from the gag: fed up with his mistreatment, the smithy tosses away the bellows and directly addresses the narrator. “listen, chief! take it easy. we got plenty of time, this cartoon ain't half over yet!” tex avery provides the voice of the smithy (though i’ve also heard theories that this is tedd pierce, which i wouldn’t totally rule out either. i’m pretty sure it’s tex, though.) i believe this is virgil ross animation.

so, with that reassurance that we have plenty of time, the narrator introduces our hero, porky pig. great juxtaposition with the triumphant fanfare and then the pan over to reveal tiny, portly porky shaking his fists in the glory. the narrator takes a moment to recollect himself. “let’s see, we have the blacksmith—“ the smithy sticks his tongue out at the narrator “—the blacksmith shop... now, boys, we need a horse.”

bob clampett animates the scene of the smithy and porky looking for the horse, porky hilariously lifting up a magazine and a barrel on the ground, as if a giant horse would be hiding under such menial and small objects. the fated horseshoe clops grow louder, and a camel struts into view. “oh, my mistake. this little fellow belongs in our foreign feature picture.” a cane drags the camel offscreen, and the void is soon replaced by a white horse, thrown onto the scene.

the smithy pulls the horse out of his reins and leads him to a barrel, where the horse sits down like a human. measuring the horse’s hoof, the smithy declares “size 6 and 7/8ths!”, a number that would be frequented in quite a few cartoons, particularly porky’s preview, another avery cartoon, where porky himself labels the number as “(FUNNY)”. porky dutifully salutes and scours the shop for a suitable horseshoe, stacked in shoeboxes in neat rows of shelves. another director attempting to pull off such a literal gag may have gotten a few polite chuckles, but tex ensures that it’s funny. it’s not that wild of a gag if you think about it, but tex approaches it like it is. his love of jokes and gags really breathe life into his cartoons.

absentmindedly, porky reaches into a box of rubber horseshoes instead of iron horseshoes (cleverly named bad-year, a take on the goodyear tires.) for reasons unknown, rubber horseshoes were all the rage in the 30s, presumably because they were much quieter than iron and much more comfortable for the horse. unfortunately, being rubber, they aren’t so easy to smelt. lots of bounce-back. porky finds this out fairly quickly as he goes to hammer the horseshoe, then getting whacked in the eye by the hammer and glaring at the horseshoe suspiciously. very funny animation by bob clampett. porky tries again, getting hit once more. instead, he ducks out of the way, so the hammer can’t hit him. of course it does, konking him on the head. ah, but wait! the perfect solution! porky places a nearby kettle on his head like a helmet, and braces for impact as he pounds on the horseshoe. nothing. now complacent, porky takes off his “helmet”, and the hammer wastes no time whacking him in the face, completely unprompted. porky’s befuddled stare is lovely after the fact.

horseshoe in hand, porky goes to hammer the horseshoe to the horse’s hoof, but accidentally nails it to the smithy’s outstretched foot instead. porky gives him the okay (another high pitched “okey dokey”—i knew it was reused again!), but quickly comes to realize his mistake. animation is quite literally bouncy, rubbery, and amusing as the smithy walks through his shop, practically skipping as the rubber propels him into the air with each step. his footsteps grow higher in height, to the point where the smithy bangs his head against the ceiling. aggravated, he pries off the horseshoe, throwing it out of the shop in frustration. it bounces against a tree, and, being rubber, knocks right back into the smithy like a boomerang. this time, the smithy tosses the shoe out and slams the door shut, thinking he’s outwitted the horseshoe. not the case—the horseshoe flies in from behind courtesy of an open window and hits the smithy, a gag that would be reused in porky’s badtime story and later tick tock tuckered.

instead of letting his temper get to him, the smithy gingerly places the horseshoe on the ground with the utmost patience and grace. of course, the horseshoe comes back with a vengeance, slingshotting into the face of the smithy from just the slightest contact with the floor. a lovely gag with perfect timing. now visibly furious, the smithy places the horseshoe in a clamp, locking it so as to keep it still. locked in place, the horseshoe causes the entire shop to tremble vigorously as it tries to break out of its vice. the smithy puts the shoe out of its misery by shooting it with a gun, the shoe flopping down motionless. in all, a great sequence that really takes advantage of rubbery animation. not unlike porky’s dog drinking rubberizing solution and literally turning into a rubber hose character in porky’s tire trouble.

a befuddled porky wanders into the scene, bringing the smithy his trusty steed. the smithy orders porky to get him a (proper) horseshoe. the smithy literally smacks the horse into its reins, pushing its entire body through the exposed hole, while porky prepares the horseshoe, smelting it.

in many of my tex reviews, i often laud him about his use of timing and speed. a few times i’ve mentioned how the timing has thrown an entire cartoon out of proportion. this is always the scene i have in mind. porky grabs the smoldering hot horseshoe, running across the shop with the searing death trap unsecured in a clamp. porky trips, and the horseshoe is sent flying into the air, landing right on the horse’s butt and essentially branding it. the horse justifiably leaps up in agony, and with the cart attached, barrels into the smithy. thus, the smithy is sent toppling into the wagon, pulled uncontrollably by a burning horse.

just a great number of gags, one after the other. the chase leads out of the shop and right through a general store, reducing it to nothing but wood planks and half a foundation. past the traffic guard they zoom, spinning the guard around like a top in the process. whirling past a bank destroys the façade, and the interior is exposed as we spot a robber trying to hammer his way into the safe. a ditch digger ducks just in time for the horse and the smithy to race by, the digger popping his head up from the hole and ogling at the audience nonplussed.

a sign reads HERE THEY COME!, and certainly they do come, spinning the sign in the process so that the other side reads THERE THEY GO! the horse manages to flip the cart and itself over a chasm, maintaining no breaks in the chase. just a great setup as the sequence freezes for a moment, the smithy addressing the audience, “whew! what a buggy ride!”

the chase is lead to a fence, the pulled string slingshotting them BACKWARDS. as expected (yet still exhilaratingly so), the entire chase scene plays out backwards—a classic tex averyism. this entire chase scene is highly reminiscent of a chase scene in tex’s first droopy cartoon, dumb-hounded, though to a higher degree. same exhilarating chase, same exhilaration reversed. here, the damage is essentially reversed—the sign is flipped back to HERE THEY COME!, the ditch digger almost gets his head cut off once more (though this time he asks “say, am i missing something?”), the bank façade is restored and the robber concealed, the traffic guard is put out of his interminable top spin, a newly constructed general store with workers putting on the finishing touches is moved out of the way just in time for the horse and the smithy to not so safely return to the shop.

winded, the smithy wipes the sweat off his forehead. “say, listen,” he addresses porky, “tell me how all this happened.” porky re-enacts the scene. “well, i just had a hot horseshoe like this—“ he holds up another scalding hot horseshoe, “—and i was running like this, and uh...” as he runs with the horseshoe, he trips over once more, and the horseshoe is sent flying into the horse’s rear a second time. we iris out as the entire chase scene starts from the beginning, the smithy sent toppling into the cart and barreling into the general store.

so much to address! but, in all: this is one of my favorite tex cartoons at his tenure at warner bros. earle hodgins does a fantastic job as the narrator, tex as the smithy. the cartoon is so anti disney, so sardonic, so wild and out there, so unconventional. it’s still hilarious (and then some) 83+ years later, and still innovative and new. the fourth wall breaks are strong and feel natural, not at all forced or obligatory. the animation is fun and amusing, especially in conjunction with the increasingly frustrated narrator. and that chase scene is just impeccable. truly a scene that just goes off the rails. remember, all of that destruction and havoc occurred because porky TRIPPED and a horseshoe burnt the horse. 10 seconds in and the chase wasn’t even about the burn anymore, it was just a chase for the hell of it. and it totally works. i definitely encourage you to see the scene, if not this entire cartoon in general. i can’t implore you enough to watch it. i truly think this is one of the best cartoons we’ve seen in this journey. see for yourself and allow the cartoon to succeed in where my words have failed.

link!