#AIR WARRIOR III

[retrocgads]

USA 1997

[mcgregor]

"This is Anakin Skywalker: The most powerful Jedi of his generation. Perhaps of any generation. The fastest. The strongest. An unbeatable pilot. An unstoppable warrior. On the ground, in the air or sea or space, there is no one even close. He has not just power, not just skill, but dash: that rare, invaluable combination of boldness and grace.” ― Matthew Stover, Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith

[galedekarios]

the splendours of waterdeep

Gale: I hail from Waterdeep, the City of Splendours.

we've all heard gale introduce himself and there's a certain pride that colours his voice. but what exactly are waterdeep's splendours?

1. general noteworthy things about waterdeep

i) waterdeep is one of the cleanest cities in the realms

this is not only achieved by having many of waterdeep's buildings and facilities connected to a sewer system, but also through waterdeep's dungsweeper's guild. the members of the guild make their rounds through the city, sweeping streets, collecting trash, litter and refuse.

this service is paid for by taxes.

ii) waterdeep's water system

waterdeep boasts an extensive water system that enables the city to have free access to clean water. this free access comes in many forms: fountains, wells and bath houses. some establishment even have their own access to fresh water in form of tap water "with the turn of a knob", as volo puts it in his chapbook about the city.

iii) waterdeep, city of light

waterdeep possesses many signs and street lamps that are lit with continual flame spells:

hundreds of driftglobes also illuminate the city each night:

A driftglobe was a small glass orb that magically floated in the air and emitted light.

in addition to these magical means, so called lamplighters keep the streets lit - with the exception of the field ward and more dangerous areas of the dock ward.

iv) waterdeep and literacy

waterdeep is one of the most literate cities in the realms.

the font of knowledge is a temple to oghma, god of the domain of knowledge, in waterdeep. priests of oghma "valued, preserved, shared, sought, created, or uncovered knowledge and learning. [x]" the priests there offer free instructions and lessons in reading to everyone. the temple has a library, known as "the great library".

the city has many publishing houses and printing presses. books and chapbooks (short books containing various topics from memoirs to romances, politics, etc.) are popular, as are small and large paper advertisements that dot the streets and alleys. broadsheets are popular too in the city:

A broadsheet, also known as a short scroll, was a short, printed document which usually contained tabloid-style news or political rants. They were common in Waterdeep, where they were sold by broadcriers on the main streets.

some of these broadsheets popular in waterdeep are [x]:

The Vigilant Citizen, which was one of the most reputable broadsheets in the city.

The Blue Unicorn, which reported paranormal events such as haunted mansions or undead hiding among the nobility.

The Daily Luck, a sheet aimed at gamblers.

Horkle's Gossip Cauldron, whose style of writing was said to be profane and blunt to the point of rudeness.

The Mocking Minstrel, one of the most read broadsheets in the city, known for its caustic and sarcastic tone.

The North Wind, which focused on nobility gossip and fashion.

The Merchant's Friend

Halivar's Broadsheet

restaurants and other establishments in waterdeep often have printed menus that are placed outside, as well as handed out to those who choose to eat there.

2. the griffon cavalry

"Waterdeep doesn’t have the fabled flying ships of Halruaa, but it does deploy an aerial defense force. Brave warriors of the City Guard light out from the Peaktop Aerie atop Mount Waterdeep, riding fearsome griffons that have been bred and trained for that purpose. Each of the riders is equipped with a ring of feather falling — not merely to prevent death from mishap, but to allow them to perform stunning feats of aerial acrobatics. In both martial displays and in real battles against flying threats such as manticores, harpies, and outlaw wizards, the griffon riders actually leap off their mounts into the open air! For a breath-stealing moment, they fall like stones, closing in on their targets at incredible speed. Their opponents rarely see the griffon riders. When they are past the danger, the free-falling riders then suddenly halt in the air, drifting like feathers until their griffon companions swoop in and they regain their saddles. Working in concert with one another in this fashion, members of the Griffon Cavalry can rapidly eliminate any threat to the city — and even catch the body of the offender before it hits the rooftops below. Riders of the Griffon Cavalry are trained to stay above the rooftops, not because they fear crashing into towers and weather vanes, but because the smell of so much horseflesh in the streets below can sometimes drive their griffons into a frenzy."

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

3. the walking statues

"Over a century ago, just one of these eight behemoth statues stood visible at the northern foot of Mount Waterdeep, on a bluff called Gull Leap. Ninety feet tall, it resembled a bald human staring out to sea. Later events (discussed below) caused it to be transformed into the statue known today as the Sahuagin Humbled. When the Spellplague gripped Waterdeep in 1385 DR, six more walking statues suddenly appeared in the city, wandering to wreak havoc even as the Sahuagin Humbled remained motionless. The authorities and citizens of Waterdeep succeeded in stopping three of these new statues, breaking the Swordmaiden and the Hawk Man, and sinking the God Catcher into the street up to its waist. Then all the statues mysteriously stopped their rampage just as quickly as they had begun it. Tsarra Chaadren, the Blackstaff at the time, couldn’t command them to return to their former hiding places on the Ethereal Plane. Consequently, the city repaired itself and built up around them. Much later, in 1479 DR, the eighth statue — the Griffon — merged from the Ethereal Plane to defend Ahghairon’s Tower against intrusion. It roosted there for a time before flying to its current position near Peaktop Aerie on Mount Waterdeep. Once more, this activity seemed to be outside the Blackstaff’s control. Thankfully, all the walking statues have been dormant for well over a decade now, serving only as beautiful, cyclopean reminders of Waterdeep’s might."

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

the walking statues are:

the god catcher

the griffon

the sahuagin humbled

the great drunkard

the lady dreaming

the honorable knight

the hawk man

the sword maiden

below you'll find more lore and backstory about these walking statues of waterdeep:

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

edited to improve format and added text descriptions of the statues for easier reading:

the great drunkard

This walking statue stopped its rampage as it approached the Market, then fell backward and sat upon a building. When it settled, its arms fell limp at its sides and its head tilted forward onto its chest, giving the impression that it had fallen asleep. The statue’s huge stone battleaxe still stands nearby, its haft angled upright and its blade half buried in the cobbles. The rubble of the crushed building was long ago rebuilt into a broad stone stair (with railings and a ramp that drunkards are often rolled down) that ascends from the cobbles to the statue’s lap. That lap now holds a two-story tavern also built from the rubble, called Gralkyn’s Tankard. The unconscious pose of the statue and the tavern in its lap made the name of the Great Drunkard a natural fit.

the god catcher

This is perhaps the most famous walking statue in the city, thanks to its dramatic pose, its nearness to the Market, and the self-evident magic of its existence. The statue is of a well-muscled but impassive male human with its left leg sunk to the hip in the street, the result of a spell cast by the Blackstaff at the time of its rampage. Its left hand and right foot press against the ground as if it is trying to pull itself out. Its right arm is raised skyward, and above its open palm floats a sphere of stone. Its gaze looks up toward the sphere, and the pattern of bird droppings around its eyes gives it the appearance of weeping. All about the statue, climbing up its chest and on its knee and shoulders, is a tenement that carries the name “the God Catcher.” The tenement’s landlord is Aundra Blackcloak, an unsociable sorcerer who is rarely seen in the city except when she alights from the door carved in the floating sphere, which serves as her home. On the rare occasions when she wants to meet with city folk (typically to purchase odd substances for magical purposes), she appears unannounced on balconies or rooftops after dark. Her dealings are polite, though, and she pays fair coin. She never confides in anyone or talks about her own doings — and if anyone but she has ever seen the inside of her spherical home, they’ve said nothing publicly about it.

the griffon

The walking statue called the Griffon is shaped like the beast for which it is named. Though it stands on all four legs, its back is fully twenty feet off the ground, making it a mount fit for a storm giant. Although it has shown itself to be capable of flight, with the granite feathers of its wings spreading like a bird’s, the Griffon now merely stands in a regal pose near Peaktop Aerie atop Mount Waterdeep, looking to the southeast over the Dock Ward. Newcomers sometimes assume it to be a monument to Waterdeep’s Griffon Cavalry, but Waterdavians know better.

the sahuagin humbled

For years, the only visible walking statue of Waterdeep was known simply as “the walking statue.” It stood at the foot of Mount Waterdeep near the head of Julthoon Street. Then, after its critical role in defending the city against an invasion of sahuagin in 1370 DR, Khelben Blackstaff reshaped the statue into a sahuagin. It now bows low toward the House of Heroes on bended knee — a gesture of obeisance to the city, and an acknowledgment of the sacrifice of all who fought for the city in that war.

the lady dreaming

This fair lady caused much chaos when she was active. The statue has the appearance of a female elf, whose hair and clothing appeared to flow naturally as it walked through the city during the Spellplague. When the walking statues stopped, this one toppled onto its side, taking on the appearance of a titanic sculpture of a noble lady asleep in her garden.

the honorable knight

The Honorable Knight is a statue of a male warrior in plate armor with a shield and longsword. When the walking statues stopped, it bowed to those opposing it, straightened, sheathed its sword, and doffed its shield, setting it point down on the ground and upright by its side. It then ceased motion in this position, facing southwest toward the harbor, and looking for all the world like a castle guard standing at ease. The pose it assumed led to its naming, and it is viewed with respect by the citizens of the southerly wards.

the hawk man

This statue looks like a winged, hawk-headed being, and thus locals call it the Hawk Man. I can reveal that in fact it bears much resemblance to an aarakocra, one of the bird-people said to live in the Star Mounts in the High Forest. The statue’s wings are folded tightly against its back and have never unfurled, leaving its flight capability uncertain. It was brought low during its rampage across the city, and now it tilts decidedly toward the northeast due to a missing right foot — long ago broken up for building rubble, along with its right arm. Its left arm is extended out toward the north, palm forward as if in a gesture to say, “Stop.” The body has been hollowed out and turned into a tower shared by several wealthy tenants, which is officially known as Sparaunt Tower after its owner. The statue’s left hand extends over a courtyard to the north, wherein lies the entrance of a tunnel carved through the arm. Visitors and residents can ring a bell in the courtyard, whereupon a door guard acknowledges the ringer and lowers a rope ladder for tenants and expected guests (or a rope chair that is drawn up for guests who are infirm or laden with heavy items).

the sword maiden

This statue appears virtually identical to the Honorable Knight, except for its female form and open-faced helm. It was felled during the Spellplague after causing much chaos and slaughter. The residents of Waterdeep’s North Ward funneled much of their frustrated and dismayed reaction to its rampage into dismantling the statue, parts of which can now be found all over the North Ward, either incorporated into buildings or as bits of freestanding sculpture. The head of the Swordmaiden sits in a stand of tall trees in the center of the block of the North Ward bounded by Hassantyr’s Street, Tarsar’s Street, Whaelgond Way, and Ussilbran Street. The center of its jaw and mouth have been replaced by a door, which leads into the shop known as Thort’s Findings. Undevvur Thort is a wizened ex-adventurer who leans on a cane (which some locals insist is more than just a cane). He lives in the small shop, whose many levels, staircases, and landings fill the hollowed-out interior of the head, and which is crammed with oddments sold to Thort by adventurers and other travelers. These items bear little placards in Thort’s beautiful, flowing handwriting that identify them (or at least provide speculation as to their origin and purpose). Nobles and wealthy merchants who desire props for themed revels often rent some of Thort’s wares as decoration — and many sages, alchemists, and wizards visit him regularly in search of potentially useful items.

[wing-ed-thing]

Foul Creature (Tobirama x Reader) Part VII

Synopsis: You would say that you grew up together. From children, to teenagers, to young leaders, you did nothing but be who you were and Tobirama would forever name his love for you as the reason he hated the Uchiha.

Word Count: 5k

Tags/Warnings: Warning for dark themes ahead, including graphic violence. Fem!Uchiha!Reader. Please consult AO3 for more specific warnings.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII

Notes: Considering Izuna and Sasuke look so much alike, part of me wondered if I could use a picture of Sasuke for the front panel and if anyone would truly notice if I claimed it was a panel of Izuna haha

The gates to the Uchiha settlement were open, and enemy forces began gathering outside.

However, when describing the formidable territory the Uchiha had collected over the past few years, referring to their land as a settlement was a rather egregious understatement. The Uchiha gathered upon a sprawling territory equalling half the Grand Mountain range in addition to a handsome chunk of the flats, with the main sector they called home being in the center of the dense forest on a level section of the elevated land. 

After a long and strenuous trek up the mountain, the foreign battalions sat in wait among the tree branches in the shadow of their last obstacle. Tall, jagged tree trunks lined the main sector of the Uchiha civilization, forming a wall stretching almost infinitely in both directions. The barrier was interrupted only by a single open gate. 

It sprawled open in the cool night air. The sharpened ends of the wooden fortress pointed up toward the heavens, casting a jagged shadow across the ground to the treeline like ferocious teeth lining an agape jaw. 

A slight breeze caused the leaves to waver as the shadow-shrouded leadership pondered the open gate. Desperation and bloodthirst were almost palpable among the forces, exacerbated by fatigue and impatience. 

They ultimately trickled in against their better judgment, passing through the mouth of the Uchiha settlement in the moonlight. Years of passage in and out of the gate reduced the walking paths to little more than dirt and weeds. 

The battalions pressed on. The commanding warriors motioned for their squads to fan out in the darkness, moving low and quietly to fan out among homes and buildings. The battalions proceeded stealthily across the beaten-down ground, filling the entire west end of the camp before they squatted in the darkness with weapons at the ready.

Stillness once again overtook the quiet compound. 

The bright light of the full moon illuminated the settlement’s center, but the presence of the wooden fixtures left starkly black shadows around the camp’s perimeter. Even for nighttime, the shadows lingered a bit too largely among the buildings. 

Not a single Uchiha walked the dirt paths or stood guard in the tall perches that littered the fortress walls. Those had been the largest consideration in the foreign battalion’s strategy, as with the sharingan eye, a single guard could see down to the base of the mountain and miles beyond. And yet, not a single Uchiha soul was to be seen or sensed in the dimness of the night.

A muffled grunt sounded at the back of one of the squads. Members of the rear squads turned in alert, only to find nothing there but a swordsman-less sword and a patch of trampled dirt. 

And then the gate closed.

The honed ends slammed into ditches made in the ground long ago by movement. And before any response could be given to the disappearance of their most rear troops, all attention shot to the sealed-off exit. The invading force couldn’t help the surprised and horrified gasps that echoed through their ranks. Leadership hushed them quickly, whispering harsh words to recenter their feeble troops. 

Red eyes began to illuminate the darkness. 

Gurgling noises were swept off into the night as the warriors could only turn just in time to witness the corpses of their comrades being dragged off into the shadows. Kunai flew silently through the air. Blunt noises announced their impact, followed by the wet, squelching noises of blood spatter. 

Members at the front of their squads were quick to light torches, illuminating the battlefield in a wave of flame to reveal the creeping Uchiha waiting in the murk. The Uchiha held their weapons at the ready with their piercing gazes. Some crouched near the ground, holding the bodies of warriors before them with slit throats. A few of the captured were twitching; heads hung as the barely alive men were forced to watch their own blood stain the fronts of their armor red. 

With rage and fear in their eyes, the attacking forces led a charge, hollering out in the air with raised weapons. Their battle cries were enough for the battalions to summon back some courage lost at the sight of their fallen comrades. The clanging metal of swords filled the atmosphere as shouts rose toward the night sky. Uchiha stormed out from their hiding places, making expert use of their superior ocular abilities and quality weaponry. 

The resistance was futile. 

The sound of battle rang out, cries of pain only fueling the will of the Uchiha to defend their home. Forces gathered near the center of the main entry path, all having been stopped from moving farther. The enemy forces tried to press on in the face of their obstacle, but the bodies continued to drop. A mass of flesh and metal, the impact made an unmistakable clatter as carcasses hit the dirt below. One by one, they fell with a swiftness that dared to resemble mercy, and above them all, Madara emerged. 

Madara Uchiha, who already had a tall and bulky figure in his teenage years, had filled out his crimson-red armor. It proudly adorned his broad chest and squared shoulders, the pieces clanging together harshly as he moved— like a snake’s warning rattle. Madara’s foot found soft flesh as he stood tall upon the mountain of corpses, his oversized weapon slung across the back of his shoulders and the full moon framing his head. He wore his scars pridefully, displaying his well-earned trophies as symbols of his strength. Madara was no longer a boy green in his leadership skills but a battle-hardened man.

And his vast, infamous reputation proceeded him.

A few warriors stood strong against him, holding their swords up as they cried out rageful battle cries, ready to engage in combat again. But they were far and few between compared to the forces that turned and attempted to flee. 

Madara watched them with a critical eye, and the remaining warriors couldn’t help but glance out of their peripherals in horror as their remaining comrades were cut down as they ran back toward the closed gates. 

It was a massacre led by Izuna Uchiha.

He expertly swung his katana— his movements looking far more like a dance than a slaughter— pivoting in a single place as he cut down the fleeing forces that passed. The retreating forces who managed to make it past pounded on the closed entrance as those on the outside of the crowd were slowly picked off one by one. 

They clamored over each other, stepping on one another as they tried to climb up the towering fortress walls. Their wailing and begging resounded into the darkness of the night as Izuna moved in, his Mangekyō Sharingan allowing him to pay little regard to any attacking soldiers as he cut them down with ease.

The night turned silent once again. 

Tall torches were lit, lighting the battlefield in a rich glow. The cleanup began as Uchiha dragged corpses and barely alive men through the dirt to a pyre. Children scrambled through the blood-stained village to collect weaponry that could be melted down and reforged. 

Madara searched the piles of bodies himself, stalking through them like a proud tiger. Sharingan still ignited, he searched for survivors. Madara plucked one out of the pile by his hair. A strangled, boyish cry pierced the rotting atmosphere as Madara threw him down into a puddle of mud and blood. 

The swordsman, a boy no older than seventeen, picked his face up and laid against the bodies of his slain comrades. A gaping wound stretched across his stomach at the bottom of his ribcage, staining the cloth he wore under his armor a sickly dark red.

Madara stared down at him with severe eyes. The black patterns were still swirling within the reds of his irises. The young swordsman met his gaze head-on like a cornered and wounded animal, teeth clenched and brow knitted.

His shaking fingers tightened weakly around the hilt of his sword, and in one last act of defiance, the young warrior pointed the tip of his weapon at Madara. 

The entire sword shook.

Madara watched the display without expression, meeting the young warrior's gaze with a blank scowl. The young warrior quirked a semblance of a smile, painfully aware of his impending fate. 

Madara extinguished his sharingan, ignoring how the sword’s tip swayed with the boy’s dwindling strength. It was kicked away, and Madara took the boy by the hair again, dragging him off.

The young warrior moaned in agony but ultimately couldn’t do much to resist. Madara dragged the boy along the ground, filth that wasn’t his own collecting in the young warrior’s mouth as the skin on his torso tore. His head hit one stair, then another, and when Madara threw him down again, he found himself on a wood floor. 

The room was warm. 

When the young warrior opened his eyes, he could barely make out what he was looking at, but then the handcrafted cabinets became focused. Vials of plants in vials lined the shelves. Dried flowers sat suspended in liquids. He couldn’t take his eye off the jar in the center of his sight: a thick-looking clear liquid with the heads of white flowers floating within. The petals were slightly curled, but the flowers retained their overall structure. He couldn’t think; he could only stare at the little flowers suspended inside.

He heard footsteps above him, somewhere just farther into the little building. The boy laid curled in on himself, unable to see much more than the shelf in front of him and Madara’s long legs, which ended somewhere out of his sight. The sound of the steps he couldn’t place was light and stopped short of him.

“I will grab another cot,” a woman spoke.

Cot? For him?

“No need,” Madara quickly cut her off. A few other Uchiha warriors entered the door, but the young swordsman could barely register anything. “Handle this swiftly.”

Another set of steps vibrated harshly through the wood floor. The young warrior’s eyes moved weakly, spying a familiar green armor from one of his allies. An Uchiha warrior hauled the corpse. The green-clad sleeve wavered limply in the air. He might have wondered how many of his comrades had been taken to this place if he had had more strength.

“Stay here.” The lighter steps walked off again. Even though they were traveling away, they were louder this time. The wood floor adjusted. The young warrior’s chest clenched, instinctively jumpy at unseen movement near his head. 

“I have informed you that there is no need.”

“Ah, let another boy bleed out onto my floor then. I will ensure that the mop makes it to your hand,” the woman quickly snapped back. More noises resounded through the wood floor as she seemed to drag something forward. It sounded large if such a sound existed. There came a pause. “Well, do you intend to make yourself useful?”

“Woman!” The shout was loud enough to make the boy flinch. He wrapped an arm over his stomach. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. He could hardly feel the sting of the dirt contaminating his insides. “Do not push your luck.”

Before he could comprehend, the young warrior was lifted up. He gasped in pain, a noise of distress falling from his lips as his wound stretched before he settled on an elevated cot. A thick layer of fabric sat between him and the thin mat. A lantern light flashed, blinding him for just a moment as a set of hands came over his wound. 

When he cracked open his eyes, he saw you. You stood over him, one hand stopping the bleeding of his large wound with a clean cloth. He flinched away as the other came toward his forehead. You brushed away some wet strands of hair stuck to his sticky forehead. 

Madara stood a few feet behind you, watching over your shoulder. He took a long stride forward. 

“That is enough with your nonnecessities,” he protested. You dismissed him with a sound of annoyance, holding your hand out to prevent him from getting any closer. 

“If you cannot control yourself, you may wait outside,” you nodded without a second thought, departing from the young warrior’s vision again. 

“Woman—” The foreign boy felt a sharp movement somewhere out of his vision. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of quick pivots and the sound of fabric snapping. Madara’s armor rattled. But the sound of a palm slapping skin that the boy anticipated didn’t come, and after a beat of slowly declining tension, you padded somewhere deeper into the room.

You left a cool breeze in your wake, and to his surprise, Madara remained quiet where he stood. The Uchiha clan head puffed to himself, the simmering of his temper not yet reaching a boil.

The door swung open, allowing night air to flow into the room, but the new spectator didn’t announce his presence. 

The foreign warrior could hear you fiddling with something in your hands. Rapidly weakening, all the young warrior could do was hold the fabric you slipped under his hand on his wound. 

When you appeared over him again, the lantern light illuminated the back of your head like a halo. And as you pressed something into his mouth, he couldn’t help but consider you one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. 

Even at this hour, your hair draped gracefully over your brow. You had grown into your awkward features from adolescence, your immature frame having settled nicely into a distribution of healthy adult weight and functional muscle. You filled out in the way your biology intended. This might have been the first time he’s ever seen you, but the way your skilled hands and sharp mind held a commanding presence over your apothecary didn’t escape him— even as the elite Uchiha warriors hovered over your shoulder with every move. 

You must be Madara’s wife, the young warrior presumed somewhere in the fog of his dizzying head. He considered the thought amusing, for who else could talk to the infamous warrior Madara like you had?

“Tell me—” You spoke gently and turned the young warrior’s head to the side to face you. You wiped off some of the grime that caked his face. —“What clan do you hail from?” Your hand wrapped gingerly around his wrist, and two fingers rested below his palm. The words spilled from his lips without a second thought. 

“Sugai,” he answered as if his throat had retained strength while the rest of his body waivered. The word spilled out from his lips. He hardly registered it himself.

The handful of warriors who stood behind Madara muttered amongst themselves. 

“The Sugai Clan…”

“Were all your comrades members of the Sugai Clan?” you questioned. Were. You didn’t even have to leave your apothecary to know what happened to the rest. The young warrior didn’t register your tense. He only answered.

“Not all,” he said before his voice drifted into a faint whisper. You leaned down so that your ear sat adjacent to his lips. Strands of your hair fell over the clammy skin of his face. You kept a keen watch over the young warrior’s hands. The cloth on his stomach had changed colors completely. 

You continued your questioning and interrogation in a soft, low voice. You muttered to each other in the lantern light. Madara waited with frustrated anticipation, simmering to himself. After all, Madara had little patience for your involvement to begin with. 

“It appears that the Senju have migrated north.” You finally resurfaced, adjusting your robes and releasing your hold on the babbling boy on the cot below. “They are snatching up alliances, it seems.”

“The Sugai Clan has allied with the Senju?” one of the Uchiha warriors questioned from behind you. Madara swiftly hushed him.

“Silence.” The room returned to a standstill in an instant, nearly militantly. Madara took a moment to think to himself, crossing his thick arms over his blood-stained chest plate. He stared at the dying warrior on the cot, watching as the pool of red crept onto the fabric below. His eyes flickered to yours. —“Not just the Sugai, but all minor clans in the east have been pushed from their territories. The raid tonight was unsurprising, to say the least—” Madara glanced outside through a sliver in the ajar door as the bodies piled up outside. “Clearly.”

“Four other small clans to the southeast have allied with the Sugai now that the land between Uchiha and Senju dwindles by the day,” you added, leaning against the counter. A jar of processed flower buds— the same that you had shoved into the young warrior’s mouth— sat next to your elbow. Your eyes flickered again to Madara’s, watching him closely to gauge his demeanor. You were the interrogator, but then again, when the head of the Uchiha ordered silence, even you were not immune. 

“Indeed—” He chose not to regard you. —“We expected as much. This information is not new.” 

Without a second thought, Madara swiftly cut the throat of the Sugai warrior before swiftly retreating out the door with his war fan. 

One of the men behind him collected the young warrior, throwing him over his shoulder to be burned with the rest of the corpses. The boy coughed up blood, spewing it onto the wood flooring.

The door flapped back and forth in the doorframe. You watched as Madara and his pack of elite soldiers left between sways of the door. They grew smaller in the distance with every wave. You lurched forward, intent on following after them, but an arm swiftly wrapped around your torso. The motion almost swept you off your feet as Izuna’s shoulder blocked you from racing out the door. He gave a bit into your velocity, pivoting a half-step backward.

“Do not go outside,” he warned. You gripped the arm holding you, looking into Izuna’s dark eyes. A neutral expression held his face in acute severity. You didn’t miss how he held you at a calculated distance. Izuna’s lip shuddered once. 

“You are not my keeper, Izuna. It is not your place to stand in my way.” You brushed him off and ripped your arm away from his stern grip before readjusting the shoulder of your robes. He let you, watching the backs of your robes while uncertainty swam in his dark irises. You set out through the door.

“Madara!”

Madara ignored you, pretending not to hear as he stormed away, but by the third shout of his name, he reluctantly stopped in his tracks. His posse of elite military figures passed by him as Madara heaved a heavy sigh, his armor clattering with the motion before he turned to you. You made your way down the stairs. Smoke and mild debris wafted through the air as the Uchiha warriors made short work of tidying up the settlement. 

“Madara!” You called again as he lumbered over to you. He held his back erect with his weapon still clasped tightly in his hand. Madara said nothing as he expressed his usual stoic demeanor. You stood at the bottom step of the apothecary with one foot on the ground. Madara stopped a few meters away, still within earshot. He did not appear anywhere near as concerned as you were as you questioned him with wide eyes, “Are you unconcerned that Hashirama has been named head of the Senju clan?”

Your words remained stuck in the air, caught by the particles and impurities that danced in the atmosphere. The smell of death floated in the cool, nighttime wind. 

Madara’s lip dipped into a frown. 

“Lack of concern would be reckless indeed,” Madara muttered, puffing another deep breath out his chest. He pivoted slightly, turning his attention upward toward the moon. “However, it is not as reckless as refusing an alliance with the Senju based on Hashirama’s lack of leadership experience alone in favor of attacking the Uchiha. Small clans certainly have foresight equivalent to their size. The Sugai prove to be no different.”

“I worry about what this change in leadership will bring. It is most unpredictable.”

“Then it is fortunate that you are not in a position to worry yourself over such things.” Madara barked out what could have been mistaken for a laugh. “We have engaged with the Senju countless times. Formidable as they may be, the strength of the Uchiha is far greater.” 

He dismissed you with a wave of his hand, returning to head deeper into the settlement again. Now that you had inserted yourself into village politics, Madara had had enough of humoring you. You followed. 

“Tobirama Senju is a foul, beasty man. I can only imagine how— how objectionable the older one must be.”

Madara moved with wide strides, continuing with extra swiftness to purposefully lose you. 

“And what do you know of Tobirama?” Madara scoffed. He faced forward, completely missing the expression of dread that fell across your face. 

“The tales from Izuma, of course!” You quickened your pace.

Madara stopped once again, but you ran straight into his backplate this time. You stumbled back, a hand to your nose. Madara barked orders into the orderly chaos in front of you. He had taken to his role as clan head long ago and excelled in the position. 

“For yet another time, you need not concern yourself with affairs on the battlefield. Do you understand this?” Madara only spared a glance over his shoulder at you. His irises flickering across your form with something akin to skepticism. Madara averted his gaze before you could meet it.

“You bring foreign boys to my doorsteps to rifle information from—”

“Enemy warriors who attacked your kinsmen and home.”

—“And you expect—”

“I expect you to hold your tongue and obey your clan head.” You stopped in the middle of your sentence at the sight of Madara’s sharingan. You frowned but looked away. You had pressed as far as Madara would allow. “Clean what you must in the apothecary swiftly, then go straight home.”

You retreated the way you came back toward the apothecary, sparing not even a pout of defiance at your clan head. 

When you arrived, you found your space pleasantly lit as you pressed open the door. Izuna stood in the center of the room by the counter. A bundle of incense sat between his clasped hands. Izuna muttered a prayer as the smoke cleansed the apothecary. Death had occurred here, after all.

Izuna had lit every lantern and candle in the apothecary with his fire style, and the warm embers lit your workshop in a serene glow. The flame flickered in the reflection of the jar that held your truth-telling flower buds. A small line of smoke drifted from the incense, sailing up toward the high ceiling far above your heads. He followed the wisps with his eyes, tilting his chin up as he appeared deep in thought. 

You guided the apothecary door shut behind you. Izuna continued to withhold his eye contact, almost as if you wouldn’t notice him and shoo him away if he didn’t meet your eye. The cleaning supplies had already been brought out of storage. The bloody cot— along with the others from earlier in the night— was gone, along with the bloody streak across your floor. 

You stepped forward to inspect the wood paneling. No, some of the blood stains still remained, deepening the color of the previous one, which deepened the one before that. 

“Women should not have to be so close to such barbarism,” Izuna spoke, gaze training on the little jar of flower buds. He placed the incense in a ceramic holder, lingering for only a second before finally turning to face you directly. 

The orientation of his clothes appeared neat compared to the rest of him. Sweat, dirt, and blood layered his skin, deepening the complexion of his skin tone. Spatterings littered his armor. A prominent line of rust-red extended from his chest to over his right eye, bisecting his face with sanguinary matter. But his hands were clean— starkly pale and pristine in comparison to the blackish mix of earth and gore that stained his skin above his wrists. 

“I will be standing guard outside,” he said, “I am well aware that you will not be sleeping tonight. I would normally protest, but it is preferable to you venturing outside.”

“Izuna—”

He offered you a nod and little else as he began to walk toward the door, the back of his robes fluttering with his stride. You stepped after him, swiftly snatching his sleeve. Izuna turned to you, his motion gentle. 

“Izuna, please. You are being ridiculous.” It was uncomfortable meeting his eye. He looked intently at you as if just speaking was a contract binding his full, undivided attention. Even without his sharingan, it felt like he was looking right through you. “Stay. Let me treat your hands and cleanse your armor.”

Izuna’s gaze flickered gently down to your hand as he slotted his index finger into your grip on his sullied robes. He cocked his head to the side, more interested in searching for grime he may have transferred onto his skin than your protests. 

“My presence here is unsanitary and overstayed.” He took your fingers in his, gently prying your stubborn hold off his sleeve. 

“Bathe then and come back.”

He held your attention as he slowly circled you, backing up until he put himself between you and the door. Izuna continued to gingerly hold your hand as if keeping his touch on you would prevent you from acting recklessly. His lips quirked to the side at your notion, and unlike his older brother, who you could read like an open book, Izuna remained as composed as ever.

“Your attempts to deceive me into disclosing information about the military ventures of the clan are admirable, but I am not so easily fooled.” He gave your hand a soft squeeze.

“As if I would dare attempt to trick you—” You could barely speak the full sentence without your lips crinkling in guilt. Izuna’s cheeks creased, forming deep dimples on both sides of his mouth. He slowly released your hand.

“I will be right outside.”

“We hardly spend time together anymore. Do you remember our expeditions into the forest when we were children?” you trailed off. “Before all that happened…” Izuna suddenly formed an air of seriousness about him. 

Izuna was the only one you told about your encounter with Tobirama— or, more precisely— that Tobirama had been the one to attack you. The feud between the Uchiha and the Senju had raged for generations, but confrontations rarely left the battlefield as the two large clans carved up territory. So when a warrior in training from the Senju attacked an unarmed Uchiha girl, the clan was outraged. 

You left willingly to the coast with family and a few others. Although, given that the art of fishing knots was passed down matrilineally, this wasn’t out of the ordinary. 

You were told it was to practice a protection ritual in the salty waters and lend your hands to bringing in fresh, coastal resources, but a deep part of you knew that the clan leaders worried about the Senju targeting young girls. And if any resource was more valuable to the Uchiha than salted fish or powdered shells, it was the upcoming generation of young women, for who would bear the next generation of Uchiha warriors otherwise?

In the wake of the Senju raid on the village, your relationship with Tobirama weighed heavily on you, blanketing your head and shoulders as his fur had for too many nights by the river. 

Izuna seemed like the right person to tell.

You masked it as a realization. He only asked you how you knew Tobirama had been the one to attack you so long ago. Your response was vague, but Izuna didn’t push. 

“It would not be wise of me to overstay.” His voice was gentle when he finally spoke. His light tone snapped you from the rabbit hole of memories that instantly plagued your head. Izuna backed up to the door, his fingers pressing into the wood. The flames that topped your simple candles wavered, but Izuna’s eyes didn’t budge from yours. He looked at you with a soft certainty. “I will be right outside.” 

“Izuna—” You took a step forward but stopped short. His brows perked up slightly on his forehead as he let out a light hum. He held the door slightly ajar. “I—” Your words left you under the subtle pressure of Izuna’s gaze. You toyed with the seam of your robes but kept your attention locked with his. “Madara still fancies me.”

It was meant to be a question, but the words left your lips definitively, almost like an accusation. Izuna’s expression didn’t change, and his forced stoicism only served to confirm your hunch. The corners of your lips fell with your shoulders. 

You turned with a snap, facing the counter behind you. You gripped the wooden ledge, intending to find something to make you look busy, but to no avail. Izuna continued to stand with the door ajar, unmoving. 

“Why is it always about what Madara wants?” you puffed. Silence overtook the apothecary. The flames continued to waver. “It is true. You are far too loyal, Izuna. Do you not know of such things?”

The door creaked farther open before stopping. You refused to turn around, even as the back of your neck and back began to feel heated by the imaginary gaze that haunted your curiosity. 

You took a breath, tilting your head toward a large jar on one of your shelves. You could just barely make out Izuna’s figure as he stood in the doorway, not wholly committed to facing fully away from you. 

“I will be right outside until you are prepared to retire.”

The wooden door creaked quietly open before swinging closed, wavering in the night.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Author Commentary: Timeskiiip! They're all grown up! When I was writing this fic I imagined it like how they reintroduce all the nostalgic characters in a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. That's it, moving forward imagine Foul Creature of the set of pirates! That will certainly work! Tobirama may not be in this chapter, but rest assured this is still a Tobirama fic.

More importantly: In my experience, I always thought that people didn't like when series were, say, more than 5ish chapters. I found that a lot of people lost interest, so I tried to keep chapters themselves long and the quantity of them to a minimum. In my latest poll, most people didn't have a preference, but after that, people liked multiple shorter chapters. I wanted to wrap this series up in 2-4 long chapters, but maybe I'll drag it out a bit so I can post more frequently. Thoughts?

@gracefulbumblebee @norasincubi @rahatake

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII

[otakuworks]

❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑. reborn au

feat. Zhongli x Reincarnated!GN!Reader | FINALE | wc. 5.1K

Based on 'See You In My 19th Life' | overview. this webtoon follows the story of a woman who somehow can remember all her past lives.

sum. there's always a factor chaining you from falling in love, usually you can never be bothered, but with Zhongli in your life you may have to pin down the source of your hesitation and possibly unlock new secrets from the consultant

cw. spoilers for the recent 3.4 update and intended inaccuracy of the lore

note. tumblr is so high it auto posted this on January💀💀

main m.list genshin.mlist

PART I < PART II < PART III (finale)

Strange, Zhongli really is the epitome of an oddity. You don't know if he was previously a magician or he simply knows how to make Mora appear out of thin air. Either way, you get freebie whenever he accompanies you in your untimely stroll

Though every freebie means a reward for saving his ass from getting scammed. The amount of times he hands off Mora to a person, who clearly has insidious motives, without second thought pales in comparison to the age of the late Archon.

You thought being friends with Hu Tao has taught him something, but clearly he's an airhead at heart when it comes to money.

Then came a particular day when you and Zhongli stroll in the streets of Liyue, you both passby a travelling storyteller who's halfway of retelling the tale of the lone warrior who sacrificed their life to save a Goddess.

". . .they were heavily guarded and fought neither for the Seven Seats nor to survive. Lady Guizhong also wrote in her tale that they were buried somewhere in the Guili Plains to commemorate the Lone Warrior's good deeds."

Eons of living can grant you insurmountable patience and restraint from spitting unfiltered comments that a person may take umbrage, you thoroughly believed you've mastered those skills long ago, if you slip a crack then you'd almost be an oxymoron.

"Bullcrap."

. . .You are a moron, after all.

You gained an immediate reaction from the consultant beside you who perched an eyebrow, seemingly intrigued.

You cough between your fist, "I don't intend to vilify Liyue's folklore, but that was straight up flawed."

Coming out as a bumptious person is the last thing you want now that you've gotten a new ally, but they were talking about you, more precisely about your past life as a swordsman.

Who knows someone better than themselves? And for Achon's sake why do they have to dub you as the Lone Warrior? Ugh, now you can sympathize what Diluc feels being called Darknight Hero. Yes, you know about his alter ego, can't fool a master disguiser.

"Why do you believe otherwise?"

"Huh?" When you gaze up at him, you saw the same intensity in his eyes when you first met him as he reiterated the question.

"O-Oh. . . sorry, I just didn't expect you to be open-minded when I literally called a famous Liyue story bullcrap."

The corners of his lips tugged up in a curious smile, "Let's assume we share the same thoughts, and I want to hear yours."

You didn't understand what he meant but his compelling voice made you speak your innermost knowledge of history without a shred of a doubt, "Most content of the tale is accurate since it was written by the Goddess herself, from the description of their appearance, their background, and deeds before the spark of the Archon war, it's all veridical. However, the part where the Warrior is buried somewhere in the Guili Plains is what makes it erroneous."

"How so?" Zhongli queried almost immediately when you paused for a second to construct the proper words without offending the anyone who opposed your opinions.

"First and foremost, the Lone Warrior was never buried in the first place, for their body was nowhere to be found amongst the corpse of the warpath. Instead of saying they were buried, Lady Guizhong built a stone slab in the Guili Plains to commemorate the Warrior however, due to the circumstances of the Karmic Dept, the slab is most likely destroyed from the uncontrolled rampage of a Yaksha."

As far as you can reckon, the Yaksha who destroyed the slab must have died feeling guilty for eradicating the one memoir of the Lone Warrior. At that time, it was all a speculation from you who knows what the Yaksha must be feeling, but now all of it don't matter.

Saving Guizhong is a choice you've never regretted, Morax felt happy and contented in her presence, it's enough to suffice everything. A simple stone slab won't change your standpoint, even without one you'd gladly do it for the second time.

"What about you, Zhongli? You said we. . ."

Your voice slowly fades away with the wind to carry out amongst the trees and may Barbatos hears this conversation to let him know he had found his Y/N.

He had always imagine what sort of interaction happens between two bards, given the fact you've once told him you play the lyre when you were a child, he's eager to see you in action.

"Hmm, as I thought, we do share commonity in the matter."

That piqued your interest, "Pray tell."

You've never met anyone who's well versed in history like you do.

"I also believe the Lone Warrior never had their deserved burial, but Guizhong made it possible to tell the tale of the mortal who made saved her life. While I personally think they're righteous, it still baffles me why would they sacrifice themselves for someone they're not well acquainted with."

You awkwardly laugh at his astute observation, feeling the perspiration forming on your forehead. Historians often ask the same inquiry; why did they save Guizhong? The tale itself didn't hold any answer for that, and a handful of Liyue citizens doubt the honor of the Lone Warrior because of this— Zhongli is one of them.

"Regardless of their intention, the Lone Warrior has my respect, for their sacrifice has led for another woman's salvation, it is nothing to be easily disregarded." Zhongli added, taking a few steps ahead.

"I've noticed how you accolade the people of the past, especially their noble hearts and their contribution to Liyue. It almost sounds like it's what you do to your. . . umm, deceased loved ones."

His eyes bleaked, for a moment you thought you crossed a line, but he spoke in a solemn voice, "I have actually, I've lost so many good people over the years, but I've learned to move on and look back in the past with a smile."

Yeah, you definitely crossed a line just there.

Your eyes find purchase on your shoes, "You're a strong man, Zhongli. I can only imagine how you managed to do that. Is that one of the factors you decided to become a consultant?"

He seemed to hesitate to answer, as if contemplating his thoughts first, ". . .I wouldn't say it's a defining factor, but yes."

"Do you ever look back to your loved ones without. . . hurting as much as it did on the first time?"

"It's a good thing to remember someone who meant a lot to you, but if the memory of that person is making you suffer, you need to let them go. You might feel guilty at first, but after a while you'll be able to think of them again without hurting nor feeling guilty."

Just then, a fierce wind struck and swept through their bodies. The dry leaves that hung from the branches rustled loudly as moonlight illuminated. Zhongli, who silently looked towards the clamoring branches, murmured in a low voice only for your ears.

"Do not rush yourself to move on, everyone has different pace. It might take you years or decades, even centuries and I'll still be with you, so do not worry about going through this alone."

Did you hear that? It's the sound of your heart thundering.

Before you know it, you were giggling to yourself.

Your laughter bubbles up from between your lips like a clear spring, unrestrained peals of genuine amusement. The sound is so mellifluous, he almost can’t find it in him to comprehend that it came at his expense. It makes him feel special.

"It makes me think how old you really are, you sound like you've been living for thousands of years." You jested. "You're not wrong." He promptly followed. What...? That must've been a joke, eh?

"You sure do know how to do your job. I felt better after hearing that. Thank you, Zhongli."

One moment you were facing him, the next you're suddenly squashed against his chest as he cages you in his arms protectively. Not a good position to be in when your heart began to pump rapidly as his scent rubbed on you.

You were about to ask him what was the matter when you heard an audible and heavy thump behind you followed by a burst of the Geo element. Zhongli looked down on you.

"I apologize for my action, but your life was on the line, so I acted out of instinct." Yet he doesn't make any indication to let you go any time sooner, his hold on you only tightens.

You hid your flushed cheeks by coughing, "I'm not made out of glass, I can handle myself perfectly fine." Yet you didn't move from where you are and held onto his clothes.

"Correct, a few slimes are no big deal, but I can't take any compromises when it's comes to you, Y/N."

"I-If you have time to flirt then just get on with the slimes." You demanded with a huff. You should've seen how he had looked like a lost puppy, "But I wasn't flirting with you, I'm merely expressing my thoughts regarding about you."

"That's even worse!" You exclaim, having no courage to look at him.

That night felt like some distant memory, some dream too far for him to grasp. He thought of your eyes, shimmering in the light of the moon, of your laugh, loud and joyous.

He could picture you perfectly, the warm orange of the lanterns lighting half of your face while the cool light of the moon illuminating the other side.

And it's not a secret he's enamored with you. Even Xiao can deduce the subtle smile everytime your name is mentioned. He hasn't seen an ardor look on him for hundreds of years, it felt anomalous to see him blush like a teenager.

The Traveler and the floating emergency food didn't seem to mind the two, but Paimon has been really curious about it.

If Zhongli likes you then can't he just straight up confess that in your face? Life would've been so simple if people are straightforward🙄

Rough representation;

There's no concrete answer for it yet, liking Zhongli more than what you two are amidst the process of your healing would seem like he's taken you out of pity.

You don't want that type of relationship. You opt to sort yourself before consulting your mixed feelings you have with the consultant.

And by that literally means;

"You want to accompany the traveler in Jueyun Karst?" You responded with a resigned sigh.

Each day spent with him only shows a fraction of how ridiculous you probably sound to a youthful man.

Everyone in Liyue knows no mortal can get in Jueyun Karst, even if they did there would be no merit to achieve unless you're seeking for a beautiful view of the clouds.

"Yes, the adepti Ganyu had gone missing for days, the traveler asked me if I know the shortest way to Jueyun Karst, and I proposed to be their guide."

Lies.

The traveler is capable of navigating their way to Jueyun Karst.

In fact, they already left this morning and it's noon as you speak.

You only used that excuse to skedaddle your way out of the dilemma you got yourself into. You need the cortisol to die down. And that won't happen if the said dilemma is with you (e.t. Zhongli)

"Hmm. . . so, you've been in Liyue before yet you still accepted my offer to give you a tour." His statement gives off an accusatory tone, but his lopsided grin tells you otherwise.

You shot him a sheepish smile. "How can I let the opportunity of conversing with a handsome man go to waste? There's a reason why I'm an adventurer, Zhongli."

He shakes his head, "How long you'll be away?"

"Not that long, I'd say only a few hours. Why? Are you going to miss me?"

You only meant it as a joke, you didn't think he'd take it seriously.

"Yes."

You see, this is the reason why you want to avoid him.

Hah! In the end, you found yourself winded up somewhere in Yujing Terrace. You heard Glaze Lillies bloom in this area, it reminded you of My. Tianheng where a field of Glaze Lillies can be found everywhere.

"Another flower is blooming, such a beautiful sight, if only life can be as beautiful as these Glaze Lillies." You nearly yelp at the sudden voice speaking near your ear and reeled back.

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry if I had scared you." An aged lady with her gray hair tucked in a low bun spoke. "I'm fine. . ."

"Call me Madame Ping. You look quite familiar to me, child. Are you perhaps the adventurer the Wangsheng consultant was talking about?" You crane your neck at her question.

"U-Uh. . . if you're talking about Y/N L/N then yes, that would be me. May I ask what made you so certain it's me?"

"Ah! He hasn't stopped talking about you since he visited this place. That man is so stoic looking, but when he hears your name it looks like he's a different man all of a sudden."

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply through your nose in any attempt to bring your nerves down. You had heard those words on multiple occasions— that Zhongli was different around you, that he cared for you like he cared for no one else. There had been a few times where that statement rang true. Some that don't.

Zhongli felt like a breath of fresh air, a sunshine on a cloudy day, a tall mountain summit from afar. You loved the way he listens to your beliefs, you loved the way he trusts you with his secrets and experiences, you loved the way he deeply cares to others, you love the way he seemed to brighten up every room he walked into.

Goddamn you love everything about that man!

Even his stupidity to pecuniary is lovable.

Somehow he managed to bring joy to the same place you always associated with agony— every corner of the place was happier with him around.

It's no wonder you feel something that can only be named as infatuation— a feeling you once harbored towards Morax, but failed to realize it until your death.

But that had been so long ago, back when you were a little kid determined to become an adult. Now you're an adventurer with a thousand adventures under your belt. Now you were strong and experienced and prepared. And yet, you're still hesitating. Why?

"What seems to cause your inner turmoil, child?"

Your breath hitched and your intake became shallow, it feels like being reborn again. An advantageous thing about reincarnation is that you get to experience love in many forms, mainly familial love.

It was your gateway from the gripping anxiety you feel whenever you overhear hearsay in your town about Morax.

But not once did a family ever asked you for your problems, it's not their fault being unaware of your curse and if they did ask you would've probably non the wiser— it was because they don't share the same sentiment having to live for thousand years.

With Madame Ping, you feel so inclined to relay your thoughts as if you're indeed a child ranting problems with your mom, something about her just puts your mind at ease. And you only just met her not too long ago.

You took a deep breath and tore your gaze from the Glaze Lillies, "There's this man that I fostered feelings for, since I started liking him. . . I always felt like I'm standing over burning charcoal. Do you know what that feels like? Not being able to stop my feet from moving even for a moment. I can't run. I want to, but there's something holding me back."

"Hmm, that sounds too complex," she sighs, "then again, being young has many complexities just as we adults have. With the way you're describing it, I won't say it's holding you back, child."

You lifted your gaze at her, confusion now painted your features.

"If I were to put it, you're simply tangled up in your past."

"W-What—"

"And you need closure if you want to face your feelings head on."

A closure? Is that what I'm missing? Should I vent my pent up feelings? Ugh. . . Will that really help?

Sensing your dubious demeanor, Madame Ping smiled, "You do not need to heed my words. I'm simply offering a suggestion."

"No, I'll consider it. In fact, I think it's the best course to deal with this. Thank you, Madame Ping!"

And so you dash from the place in search of something.

You run pass the vast greenery of viridescent grasses and colorful wildflowers— a meadow, where you'd usually go for meandering while accompanied by the evening breeze or gilding sunlight. It was perfect setting of tranquility for a maladaptive daydreamer like yourself. You'd imagine yourself laying down and naming the constellations that coincidentally appear in the sky, or count the exotic birds that flew by, or hum a tune that's been lost in history.

Looking at you now versus your past self equates for hypocrisy.

An amalgamation of both morose and agitated countenance now marred your features. Any person who sees you would imagine how tumultuous your life has been, it's nowhere near nirvana.

Trembling as you arrived at your destination, you stand in front of Morax's statue and traces the meticulous handwork with the pads of your fingers. The entire place feels like him, as though you’re with him at arms reach, but too far to actually hold him.

"It's really pathetic how I try so hard to move on, only to come back to you when something is amiss in my life," you murmured, "but I'm not here to endlessly whine about every misfortune in life, I want to release this feeling in order for me to be appeased."

You heaved a deep breath.

"I love you, Morax. I still do. No amount of flowery apologies can fix the damage I made for stalling my confession to you. I was young and had a plethora of uncertainties that made me second-guess myself. I guess. . . the guilt of leaving you pushed me to the brink of watching over you throughout my consecutive reincarnations, I wanted to make sure you were happy. And now, I want to be happy too. I feel happy with Zhongli and I don't want to make the same mistake of hesitating then later regret on it."

Some days your sadness was a mild lisp. It barely scratched the surface of your voice, but today melancholy had waged a full scale assault on your vocal chords.

"I've decided I'll confess to him, not today, I still need to build the courage to face him. I'm thankful for the time we spent our earliest days together, truly I am, but it's time for me to move on. One day I will look back on our childhood and say 'I love you' once more without the lingering ache in my heart. I'll never stop coming back to you, Morax. . . so, instead of bidding farewell, I'll see you later."

It felt good to vent your feelings out that you nearly cried that day as you walk back in Wangshu Inn and now you're ready to confess your feelings to the consultant whenever you're ready. And whether he'll accept it or not is entirely up to him.

"Are you free this , Y/N?" A strange look obscured the consultant's face, what's even more strange is the fact he's not even looking you directly.

"Yes. . .?" Something tells you he's not in a good mood.

Crap. . . someone give him Mora! ASAP!

"I wish to speak with you alone. Will you come with me in Mt. Tianheng?" Asked the consultant who seemed a bit on edge this evening after you came back. His spurious stone cold expression obnubilated akin to the look of a man who's gearing up for war.

His ominous mien warranted your logic to say no to him, but you're too far on the line of sanity to even refuse the man you like. "Sure."

>> TIMESKIP. . .

You thought not confessing early to Morax before your death was the worst decision you've ever made. Think again, 'cuz this is most definitely the worst, baddest and stupidest decision ever.

You never made it a point to come back to this place— it brought back a storm of memories, some of which were more comfortable being shoved to the recesses of your mind and be kept there for eternity. But for whatever reason, you feel inclined to follow him and disregard the uneasiness of returning in Mt. Tianheng.

Zhongli has been strangely quiet all the way here, at this point he'd be randomly stating facts, not be a complete mute-walking pillar.

Thus, you suck up your inner turmoil and deal with it instead of fleeing right off the bat.

"You're strong for keeping your head up this far." He accolades suddenly to particularly no one, except if he was referring to you.

"Me?"

He comes to an abrupt stop and finally, FINALLY faces you. And shit do his visage screams he's not playing around. He's not here to be buddy-buddy with you. He looks genuinely distress.

About what though?

. . .

. . . . .

. . . . . . .

Oh. . .

Oh no!

Did he see through your lies earlier? That you're supposed to be with the traveler in Jueyun Karst? Double shit! Not good!

A thin sheen of sweat accumulated on your forehead as you try to come up with an excuse, "U-Uh. . ." but came up with nothing.

You mentally prepared yourself for a parade of admonishing words from Zhongli, you genuinely thought he's going to nitpick on why you shouldn't have lied to him and probably question the motives behind your action. At least that's what you thought.

"This guilt is unbearable even for an immortal."

"Yes, I know I lied about going with the traveler in—. . . Huh?"

What?

His eyes seemed to shine brighter than the stars as he stares deeply into yours. You sense an underlying promise in those determined orbs, it instilled the feeling of anticipation and anxiety.

"I am Morax."

The air suddenly became suffocating for YOU. Breathing gets hard. There’s this feeling in your chest that’s gnawing through your body, affecting your every movement.

Conflagrated flames and scalding ice, the physical feeling tied up in all the emotions that seem to leak from ZHONGLI'S features— fear, hope and adoration churned his guts.

An unkempt strand of your hair overshadowed your eyes from Zhongli's standpoint. It seems as though he made the decision that'll compromise the friendship he had built with you.

Being the bearer of the knowledge of your reincarnation didn't come easy for an immortal who's supposed to be imposing as a mortal.

Ever since he saw you paying respect for his passing, his instinct is blaring at him to tell you his true identity. Though he has to admit it's not entirely his gut-feel that added a major factor of what he had done now— it was his selfishness, yet again.

He had gone through multiple scenarios of what your reaction may be; Would you laugh at his face? Are you going to dismiss his claims and think it's a prank? Will you run away from him?

Not like it matters to him.

You can do all of those and he'd still want to be with you.

Heck! He knew you were telling a fib about your involvement in the Traveler's quest and it didn't change his feelings for you.

". . ."

As crickets filled his ears, he takes a feeble step forward and spoke in a solemm voice, "You must have a lot of questions, I can guarantee to answer all of them but know that it was never my intention to prolong your suffering by hiding my identity."

He knows.

He GODDAMN knows!

Your words broke up and all you could mutter were stuttering sounds. Hot tears streamed down your face, and squeezed your eyelids shut in the hope the tears would stop. Your choppy breathing and watery eyes remained for quite some time as stand there unmoving. What else is there to say?

Before you know it, both of your shoulders were grasped in a firm but gentle grip of gloved hands. There's so many mixed feelings stirring in a boiling pot, and you can't make out a definite conclusion until you arrive in some sort of resulting point.

Are you angry for his decision to play dead? Betrayed he kept this from you? Pained that he didn't trust you? Relieved that he's really alive in the flesh? Happy that he knows it's you and you don't have to pretend around him? Which is it?

Amidst all the chaotic thoughts, you still feel safe in the presence of Zhongli— Yes, Zhongli. You hate how it feels so warm, you hate how you want to bask in his embrace, you hate the solace you find yourself in when he's around even in your worst time. Just then, similarly back in Inazuma, the sky shed tears to empathize your mourning heart. The heavens really find your suffering amusing.

In your haze vision, he was moving his lips but the words fell on deaf ears, your sense of hearing refuse to comprehend the meaning behind his statement. It's probably for the best.

Zhongli, the ever so keen who promptly took notice, snaked his arms around your shoulders and pulled you in a somber embrace and gently placed your head in his chest— an act of shielding you from the dangers of the world and offers you a safe haven.

The veil dropped and walls crumbled.

Your feeble hands grasped his flaunting waistcoat like a helping hand. Your scream synchronises with the thundering and the minimum space between you muffled the cries. Your undecipherable emotions echoes with the storm like a reflection on the mirror.

And everything leads to the man desperately clinging to your bare fingers on the cliffside of a bottomless pit you dug yourself into.

"Look at me."

Compelled to do so, you lifted your blurry gaze. A Geo Archon known for his wisdom and strength, is standing in his barest version. The version of a man who weeps only in the presence of whom he loves and trusts.

[ source: Pinterest. please comment if you know the artist so I can credit ]

"Z-Zhongli. . ."

A single index finger met your quivering lips, "Shh. . . The rain isn't stemmed from sadness. So get drenched, and be refreshed. I hope it washes away the hot bitterness felt by your heart. When that hurt washes away, let's return home together."

". . . Together? It sounds surreal. . . I don't want to believe it."

"May I kiss you for proof?"

You're too absorbed in the heat of moment that every rational decision flew out the window, but maybe the most rational thing to do is to indulge yourself.

You nodded, with your permission Zhongli has never been the happiest till this day.

His lips descended on yours with fervor, immediately you can feel his desperation, his love, his determination, his grief— it's overwhelming it almost knocked you on your feet. Quite fortunate he has his hand on your back to keep you steady while the other is on your cheek as he drowns you in his presence.

You feel hot, it's unusual during the rain shower, but the hypnotic intimacy he applies in his action takes your breath away.

Heat pooled in your stomach, the prospect of kissing Zhongli is something you didn't know you'd be craving for more and your heart skipped a few beats.

Your whole body tingled, the feel of his towering frame leaning on you as he encased you in his arms felt like you're ascending to Celestia.

Albeit slowly, you felt yourself gradually being pulled up to the surface accompanied by the hands of your savior.

It still wasn't clear if he's dreaming this moment, but there was raw emotion in the way you weave your fingers through his free tresses and caress his scalp. Zhongli kept his eyes half open, sneaking a guilty glance at you every time he comes back for air to assure himself this isn't a product of his imagination.

He doubts the authenticity of it all. He's not sure if nature rooted for this moment or if Celestia tricked him into this perfect present to appease his guilt, but every passing second makes him want to stay in this illusion and for the first time in eons, he felt like a little dragon discovering new treasures— he discovered you yet again.

Slowly, the pull apart, chest heaving and face flustered.

Zhongli suddenly felt more guilt, he had acted out of the line and kissed without properly courting you, not so gentlemanly. The smile on your face, however, eased the guilt in his heart and subconsciously mirrored your smile, it was simply contagious.

"It's really you, huh? I can't believe I didn't realize it was you." You placed your palm on his cheek as to reassure your sanity, in response he leaned impossibly closer to your hand.

"Words cannot describe how much I want to expose myself to you, and how apologetic I am for staging my death. Had I've been aware of your existence and your knowledge of the past, I would have come up a different solution and not cause you more pain."

Yeah, it really is him. No other man can look after your feelings like he does, and there's no other man lovable as him.

"I really want to ask how did you know, not only of my reincarnation, but also my awareness of my previous life. Is it because you were a former Archon?"

Heaving a deep sigh, he pressed his forehead on yours, his fingers traverse down the corner of your lips until it wipes away from what it looks like the remnants of your tears.

"I don't need to be an Archon to know it's you. Your kindness, compassion and everything beautiful will always attract me no matter what form you may take. No other being can impersonate someone so precious as you, Y/N. It's why I knew it was you the moment you wear your heart on your sleeve."

Times like this always reminds you why you fell for him so hard.

"As for your memories of the past. . . you weren't exactly being cautious of your words when you were speaking to my statue. No normal mortal has ever called me Morax other than you."

Oh. . . you were rather grateful for it.

"So, you're saying I'm not normal to you?"

"Y/N, reincarnating while retaining your memories is not exactly a trait of a standard normal mortal." He does have a point.

"Hey, look. The rain has stopped."

Hands adorned of scars, bruises and wounds that once grasped the pointed end of every sharp edged rocks are now held by the calloused hands of another fighter.

You watch as the lustrous moon rose up the sky, pride was balm from its full fledged form, exuding sufficient fulguration for the inky night and the prodigious number of stars turned into extraordinary bright white hued after the rain. For the first time, the deepest somber night just came out of its humble abode.

He kept his eyes on you and his forehead glued on yours, it looks like he's not planning on letting you go any time sooner, "Indeed, it seems like your heart has eased up too."

"Yes, and I have you thank for that." You gently grabbed the wrist caressing your face and rubbed figures of eight. "Thank you for having the courage of revealing your true self, it have me the right to courage to fess up what's on my mind."

You pulled away from his embrace and took his hand on yours, you can feel his burning eyes fixated on your actions, "I never got the chance to confess everything when I was dying in your arms. I thought it was for the best, but I'll say it now."

Watching you straighten your spine, Zhongli couldn't hide his anticipation. He has vague idea what you mean, but he didn't want to keep his hopes up, so he remained calm and let you continue.

"I love you. Whether you're known as Morax, Rex Lapis, Zhongli or any other names, I'm hopelessly in love with you because to me you're the dragon who kept me safe from the dangers and prioritize me over your own happiness. You're my first friend, my first confidant, my first partner in crime, my first protector, my first crush and most importantly, you're my first love. You're my every first, and you'll be my very last."

Every joyful feeling known to man hit Zhongli like a meteor and he couldn't help himself to claim your lips once again. This time he was more gentler and more on conveying his overjoyed expression. The kiss was brief as he pulled away immediately.

"I have always adored you, Y/N. Your death nor your lack of reciprocation doesn't make my feelings any different. Do you remember the promise I made? I will take you at the highest peak of the sky, I meant it literally that time, I'm more willing to fulfill that promise both literally and figuratively.bI'm grateful to have met you in my life, and I'm more grateful that you feel the same as I do. I will do my best to keep you happy, Y/N."

"Dummy! I should be the one saying that." Your eyes began to feel moisture yet again. "Would you look at us. It took us a couple thousands of years before getting to this point, it's almost laughable and I— ACHOO!"

". . ."

". . ."

"Let's head back. It almost slip my mind humans are quite fragile even just a few drops of rain, and your drenched clothes are not helping."

"Aren't you the one who told me to get drenched and be refreshed?" You replied sardonically, though the lovesick smile on your face betrays you.

He chuckled, "Let's continue this back home."

Home with him. It sent the elephants stomping in your stomach. Forget the fluttering butterflies!

He intertwined your fingers with his as you both walk back with goofy smiles, "Yeah, let's head home."

An idyllic hilly meadow greeted your sight as you stand tall after an arduous journey. Beside you is the prize worth of every gems in the world. As your blood-soaked hand held his, the two of you embarked a new journey towards tomorrow.

And this this time, you won't be alone. Mazes may seperate you two along the way, you'll always find your way back to each other's arms. A farewell between star crossed lovers doesn't exist, for they will meet later on at the end.

─ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃. werp that will wrap up this series, I'll be working on with all of your requests and if I can insert the Xiao version of this then it's considered lucky. thank you everyone for supporting this fic, for encouraging me to continue more than one part and sharing your thoughts about it. i value comments more than anything so pls tell me what you think, I don't reply to all comments but I read all of them 💙💜

─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @itsyourgirlria @shizunxie @elsoleil @cherlynono @slzaar @katsuissus @tikitsune @useless-potatho @chimsblogg @lemonlimesocks @multifandomvoyage @malt-rants-and-stuff @jameineliebe @angelkazusstuff @eissaaaa @beezgobuzzbuzz @towos @atsukawolfcat @sunflowers1970 @avery-needs-more-fics @angstylittleb1tch @bigcandlesmolbrain @lxmine @imk1ra @chihawari @bishishbored @yuuki4646 @sunsethw4 @princeabomination @alexiris @chocolateneapolitan @ayra2452008 @ittosoneandoniwife @alatus2716 @thetwinkims @sweetbills @nanami-s-tie @rain-and-a-nice-nap @a-rose-byanothername @swirrley @lasignoramybeloved @magicalnaturenerd @boundedbyfate @extremelytoastybread @vvyeislazzy @dear-dairiess @crowleysthings @imafatpug @tjjjrsj + kokomisimppp alice4wonderland2184 quereespf haru-tofuu vv3ntii and others that I can't tag for sum reason tumblr won't explain •_•

©OTAKUWORKS | FEB 2023

[assortedseaglass]

We Have This Hope - III

Osferth x Lady-in-Waiting

[Masterlist]

Story Tags: Fluff, Slow Burn, Mentions of Violence, Strong Language, Religious Guilt, Smut

Notes: Barely proofed. Will do later. Hope you enjoy my loves. H x

Aefry and Osferth’s mutual fascination continued over the week and, much to Aefry’s delight, she was provided with plenty of chances to see him, for wherever Aethelflaed went, Uhtred seemed to follow. What’s more, wherever Aethelflaed and Uhtred went, so too did her ladies and his band of warriors. 

Following their fleeting meeting after mass, Aefry had glimpsed Osferth on her way back from the meadows just beyond the keep’s edge. She’d spent the day there with her book of psalms and her pages of drawings. Butterflies, plants, the skies above her and the ripple of the Itchen river. Wrapped in a shawl and sat beneath the old oak that guarded the grassland, Aefry was content to draw, read and daydream. Of her parents, of life beyond the keep, of warriors, of the boy with rough-shorn hair and worried eyes…

The day was drawing in when she made her way back to the warmth of the keep, the grey sky purpling as the sun descended below the trees. A brisk coolness settled on her cheeks, and she felt them turn red. These transitory days of autumn, like those of spring, brought a promise of something on the horizon that only the birds above them could see. In a life so still and, though she was grateful of her position, monotonous, Aefry found the quiet adventure in them thrilling. She thrilled too when, against the darkening sky, a white horse gleamed. Walking slowly, it’s head bobbing with each step, it looked like a spectre. Her cheeks burned all the hotter when she saw the man leading the horse to the stables. 

Head downcast like that of his steed, he too seemed aglow in the twilight. Pale skin smooth as clay, his breath taking flight against the cold air. With his shoulders slumped, Aefry saw not the shy yet brave warrior monk she had become so intrigued by those last days, but a boy. Somehow, despite his quiet courage, he seemed defeated. Not once had he looked up to see his progress towards the stable, glancing only at his feet as they shuffled across the hard earth. He was missing the gentle sunset, had not stopped to look in the direction of the blackbird singing in the hedgerow, not noticed how she stood at the edge of the field, watching. She had to know what troubled him. Spurred on by that desire, any decorum left Aefry as she hurried forward. 

At the rustle of leaves underfoot nearby, Osferth glanced up. Catching each other’s eyes, they both abruptly stood still. Osferth, hand at his sword, gawked at her. Aefry wobbled on the spot, having been caught rushing towards him. The white horse huffed and a great cloud of its breath rose into the sky. 

The look that lingered between them was a second longer than proper, and Aefry became once more a young lady of propriety. Smiling gently, she moved slowly towards Osferth. He glanced quickly at the white horse, patting its thick neck as if finding something to do. Not even Uhtred or the King stirred this much nervousness in him. 

“Forgive me, Sir-” 

“Osferth,” he corrected. Aefry was relieved to see a small smile curve his lips. 

“Osferth,” she whispered his name. To say it aloud, with no title, seemed indecent. “I am on my way back to my mistress, but when I saw you-” Aefry teetered on the precipice of this confession. Did it reveal too much? “Forgive me. I thought you looked sad.” 

Osferth looked straight at her then, and the hand that rubbed the horse’s neck fell to his side. “Not sad, my Lady, just defeated.” 

“Defeated?” She took a step closer to him, eager to know what caused the good man’s disappointment.

Osferth saw the worried crease of her brow and hurried to reassure her.

“Finan, he has been teaching me to spar. ‘Properly,’ he says.” It was as though the moon had risen early. All at once, Aefry saw the purple blooming under his eyes and the small grazes to his cheeks. When he held out his hands, dropping the reins of his horse to reveal the smattering of bruises across his knuckles, she gasped and took hold of them. 

How intoxicating it was, this woman’s worry for him. Excitement, rapidly followed by shame, overcame Osferth and with all the effort he could muster he took his hands back from her. How wanton, to crave more of it. 

“Wait, please,” Aefry said, turning in the direction she arrived from. Osferth watched her reach the edge of the meadow and crouch by a green mat of vegetation. In the low light, it was as if watching someone ascend from deep water. As she walked back to him, a handful of green clutched in her hand, she slowly came back into focus. Osferth shuffled from foot to foot and swallowed, looking quickly back to the horse. Blinking quickly, he saw the outline of her inside his eyelids. The ripple of her long hair, the sturdy footsteps towards him, her silhouette growing ever closer as her hips swayed side to side beneath the modest tunic she wore. He knew at once he would recount the image of her walking slowly towards him in the twilight. That night, in all likelihood. Osferth blushed and bowed his head. His boots were caked in mud, no doubt his tunic torn and much the same. He flattened the hair on his forehead and, shame yet again welling up inside him, hastily dropped his arm. 

“I acknowledge my sin to you, and hide not my inequity-”

“Pardon?” Aefry had begun tearing the leaves in her hand as she stopped before Osferth.

“I-er, she is-she is restless,” Osferth gestured to the horse.

Even with his head bowed, his body stooping to appear small, he towered over her. Aefry came eye level with his leather cuirass, and the cross the rested there. A good man indeed. Funny, Aefry thought, that she found the holy men of the keep so pious they bordered on arrogance, boring to the point of inertia, or else more sinful than those they preached to. Power, she supposed, was the currency of man, and there was plenty for those who had taken holy orders under the command of the King. In Osferth, however, the presence of the cross at his chest calmed her, for she had seen the truth that he was a good man. Ruled not by power, but by his kindness and conscience. A true man of God. He was still shuffling uncomfortably at her side.

“Well then,” Aefry said with a gentle smile. “We best get you both inside.” Her twinkling eyes met his and Osferth’s heart drummed unsteadily in his chest. She turned on her heel and made her way towards the stables. With the click of his teeth, Osferth and his steed followed eagerly in her wake.

The closer they drew to the dimly lit stable, the clearer the voices within it became. That is to say, one voice. The two men inside barely noticed as Aefry pushed open the door and slipped inside. Instead, it was the sound of horse hooves on the dampened ground that told the men they were no longer alone. 

“Hurt your bollocks as well as the rest of your body?” Finan said to Osferth, indicating the horse he hadn’t ridden and laughing heartily. Sihtric smirked but continued brushing the dark horse he rode. Beside them, Aefry appeared from a small stall with a bowl of water.

“Fuck!” Finan jumped back at the small woman’s seemingly sudden arrival. 

Blushing at the language, Aefry laughed. “Perhaps, Osferth, you should take sparring lessons from me. He may be the brute but I clearly have the cunning.” She playfully nudged Finan’s shoulder and found he didn’t budge. It made her giggle all the more and the three men stared at her. Sihtric in question, Osferth in amazement and Finan in mirthful admiration. Unaware, Aefry continued tearing the plant in her hand and adding it to the bowl.

“What have you there?” Sihtric’s voice was quiet. 

“Yarrow,” Aefry offered him one of the flowering stems. “It helps to soothe swelling.” She watched as Sihtric turned the flower between his fingers. Despite his height, his fearsome, bicolour gaze and endless stoicism, there was gentleness to this man she was certain many overlooked. To all of them. Whereas it was plain in Osferth, behind the tough exteriors of Sihtric and Finan lay good-hearted souls. Sihtric with his childlike wonder, Finan with his easy humour. Uhtred too possessed a tenderness, if the way he looked at Aethelflaed was anything to judge. 

Silence, but for the huffing and shuffling of the horses, settled about the stable. Aefry worked the yarrow and water into a paste, unaware of the silent exchange occurring above her head. 

Osferth, still shy around his adoptive comrades and overcome with an emotion entirely foreign to him in the presence of Aefry, looked everywhere in the stable but her. Occasionally, as he glanced between the ceiling’s beams or the hay-strewn floor, he caught either Finan or Sihtric’s eyes. Sihtric, in his usual way, fixed him with a knowing stare somewhere between teasing and curiosity. Each time Osferth caught Finan’s eye, however, he entered into a silent battle with the Gael. 

Finan indicated Aefry with his head, encouraging Osferth to step closer, or else would mouth instructions. “Talk to her!” “Say something!”. Once or twice, he even caught Finan making lewd gestures. When the Gael balled his fist before his crotch, Osferth’s eyes widened and he darted into one of the stalls. In doing so he brushed against Aefry’s shoulder, and the warmth he felt beneath her shawl sent a surge of lightning through him. 

Flustered by the commotion of his own sudden movement, Osferth almost lost track of where he was and what he was doing. He span around. “I’m sorry, my Lady-” Osferth’s voice died. Aefry was watching him with a smile. No annoyance at his carelessness, worry no longer knitting her brow. Simply smiling at him. 

Though bolder than he was, Osferth had noticed in his few meetings with the lady-in-waiting, of which this was the third, that, like him, Aefry was content with silence. He wished then that he had the courage for idle chatter. This lingering silence was torturous. The more she looked at him, and the more he looked at her, the more likely it seemed to him that heaven truly was real and not just a tool to frighten men into subjection.

“Let me see your hand again,” Behind Aefry, Finan walked past the stall and winked. Osferth didn’t move, and so Aefry came to him. Mistaking his infatuation for his earlier disappointment, she reached out and took his hand. Osferth almost whimpered. He bit the inside of his cheek to silence himself and released a ragged breath through his nose. 

“I’m sorry, but the yarrow will help.” 

Osferth let out a shaky laugh at her unknowing sweetness. “‘Tis fine.” When she began massaging the yarrow into his knuckles, Osferth held his breath, for never before could he remember being touched with such gentleness. 

He barely remembered his mother. Sometimes, he thought of her running her hand over his head, but was unsure if this was a memory or merely something his mind had conjured up in the absence of her. When he entered the monastery, it was with the clap of his uncle Leofric’s hand at his back and a promise that he would always be near. 

In their memory, Osferth touched the cross at his chest. Aefry’s eyes flickered there but she asked no questions, and began rolling a torn piece of cloth about his hand.

Behind the walls of the monastery, Osferth knew nothing but prayer and penance. 

The blond hair his mother had allowed to grow long was roughly shorn, his clothes were replaced with itchy hand-me-down robes, and despite having lived so meagrely before, he would have given anything to sleep on the hay mattress of his uncle Leofric’s rather than the wooden board and blanket of his shared quarters. 

That first room he shared with two other boys, Arric and Hablendan. He did not need to ask why they were sent to the monastery. The abbots looked at the three boys with an obvious disdain that they did not show the other novitiates. They were woken between matins and prime, then set to work preparing breakfast for the sleeping monastery. After a long day of work and prayer, Osferth and his companions would say compline, or vigil before Sunnundaeg, and await the abbot to permiss them sleep, long after everyone else had retired. 

Bastards. Shame of father and family. That was why. 

“A stain upon the good King’s virtue.” 

“Nothing but a whore’s shame.”

“It would have been far better if you had never been born.”

When Hablendan succumbed to a fever aged eleven, the penitential psalms were hurried, his anointing near forgot, and the abbots slung him in a haphazard grave beyond the monastery wall. Only Osferth and Aerric kept vigil.

Arric left the monastery suddenly, and from time to time Osferth imagined he had run away with a tradesman or visiting abbess. That way he could believe a life beyond that harsh place existed. A monastery in a warmer climate perhaps, or a new life altogether. 

“Osferth?” 

So tender was her voice that Osferth thought he’d imagined it. The voice of Hablendan or Arric. Perhaps even his uncle or mother. 

He blinked in the dim light, and felt a warmth about his hands. She had taken both in her own, and held them gently before her. Her eyes, a muddy mixture of browns, were looking up at him with concern. 

“‘Tis fine,” he said again, although the lump in his throat betrayed any attempt at ease. Aefry nodded, held his hand a moment longer, then let go. Osferth twitched awkwardly before coughing and clearing the stall to make way for his horse. That he had been about to take her hand once more, Aefry did not know.  

“Will your mistress not worry where you are?” Sihtric was heaving his horse’s saddle onto one of the stable beams.

“If Lord Uhtred is with her, I doubt it entirely,” Aefry said with a smile. “Her mother, however-” The men laughed. “I am away. Remove the dressing in the morning and the swelling should have gone down,” she addressed Osferth. “If not, seek me out and I will gather more.” 

“He surely will,” Finan stepped forward with yet another gleeful glance in Osferth’s direction as he wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. “I’ll walk you back.”

Osferth’s heart sank. He had not known Finan long, but it was enough to see the long looks women gave him. Wit, kindness, honour, strength. How could he possibly compete? Aefry and Finan were backing out of the door when Sihtric nudged Osferth’s shoulder and nodded in their direction. Aefry was looking hopefully at him over Finan’s shoulder.

“Goodnight Osferth, goodnight Sir,” Sihtric nodded his head at Aefry. Osferth bowed a little. 

“Come,” Sihtric said to him. “You have more to learn than swordsmanship.” And together they trudged towards the inn on the outskirts of town, Osferth hanging off his every word. 

In the opposite direction, Finan and Aefry walked in comfortable silence. The sun had set fully and torches flickered at the welcoming gates of the keep. In a few moments, they would be sheltered in its warmth. Aefry’s stomach gave a rumble and she laughed. 

“Thank you, Sir, for walking me back,” Finan smiled and Aefry continued. “Though, and I do not mean to offend, I suspect it was not for my safety.” Expecting to see annoyance in her eyes, Finan looked at her. To his pleasant surprise, he saw her eyes twinkle in the low light. A broad smile stretched across his bonny face. “I do believe Saeflaed will have returned from her father’s by now.”

“I would not have let you walk back alone, lady-”

“Aefry.” She corrected, holding a hand to her chest. He copied the movement.

“Finan.” Aefry nodded and Finan continued. “But a glimpse of her would not go amiss.” 

Aefry’s smile widened. Finan had thought her a meek little thing at first, smaller than her companions, not so pretty as Saeflaed or outspoken as Adburh. But he saw now that he was wrong. Behind the round cheeks and rosy complexion, pleasing manner and quiet reserve, a brightness burned within her. Quick to help and to laugh just as he. The youngest of Aethelflaed’s ladies, he thought perhaps, despite Saeflaed’s beauty, that Aefry was his favourite.

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Aefry said, her voice full of that longing awe one heard in a girl recalling a princess, or a little boy dreaming of the battlefield.

“I’ve never seen a fairer lass,” 

“And here she is,” she indicated the keep gates, where a golden haired girl stood waiting. Aefry turned to Finan, a knowing glint in her eye. “Almost as if this meeting were planned.” 

“Not a word to your mistress of Uhtred,” Finan held her arm gently. 

Aefry held a finger to her lips as she slipped away, and Finan watched as she clasped Saeflaed’s hand before disappearing through the gate. 

Over the next few days, the three men and three women followed their leaders like a gaggle of children. 

Having told Aefry how much she liked the man, Saeflaed either clung to her arm or Finan’s, whispering hurried observations in the former’s ear, flirtations in the latter’s.

“His wit is as sharp as his sword!”

“There’s something about his eyes,”

“I watched him train the monk,” Aefry’s ears pricked. “His arms, Aefry!” 

Poor Adburh was quite taken as ever by the silent Sihtric, but the discovery of his wife had left her quite bereft. 

“Many a man takes a mistress, Adburh,” Saeflaed had said.

“I’ll not be a man’s whore,” Adburh snapped from beneath her bedsheets.

“Not even a man so beautiful?”

Adburh sniffled and Aefry silenced her friend with a quick glance. 

When next they saw Uhtred and his men, all walking the halls and corridors of the keep as he spoke to Aethelflaed in hushed tones, Aefry was forced to abandon her position by the monk to remind Adburh that she was at court. At once, the red-headed girl’s shoulders straightened, the crease of her forehead vanished and her steps became lighter. 

“He is a handsome man, ‘tis true,” Aefry whispered to Adburh. “But not the man for you, my friend.” Adburh’s face soured at once and she made to protest. Aefry didn’t allow it. “Aside from his marital status, he is far too quiet and serious. Imagine the household you would run together! You, fearsome and outspoken. He, fearsome and silent. That poor man would not stand a chance.” Adburh laughed sadly and linked her arm through Aefry’s. Together, they processed behind the others.

Uhtred and Aethelflaed were a way ahead now. Uhtred too, seemed equally bewitched by Aethelflaed as Adburh was with Sihtric, and Aefry was glad to see a man bestow her mistress some compassion. The image of a gentleman in her presence, Uhtred listened to Aethelflaed’s words as though she were bestowing upon him a prophecy. He walked half a step behind her at all times, and always, his gaze was directed toward her. 

Finan and Saeflaed, still holding his arm, were a few paces behind them with Sihtric. Aefry giggled as Saeflaed’s golden curls bounced animatedly as she spoke to him, and Finan looked over his shoulder at the noise and winked. 

Osferth saw him do so and glanced to where Aefry and Adburh walked. The moment he looked at her, Aefry’s steps faltered. 

“Are you alright?” It was Adburh who sounded concerned now. 

“Yes. Yes, fine,” Aefry resumed her steps and looked to Osferth. He had turned back to face the front. Let him look round again, please. The strange sensation that had made its home in Aefry’s chest ever since she met the monk stirred, and she gulped a few times to steady her breath. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Adburh,” Aefry lay a hand atop her friends. “Believe me when I say, I am fine.” Adburh eyed her suspiciously but they continued ahead. 

Osferth walked alone between the groups, hands clasped behind his back. As people passed them in the corridors, going about their business, Aefry found a new appreciation for his height. She had seen few men so tall. He was taller than Finan, that was certain. Now, she saw he was taller than Uhtred and much the same height as Sihtric. She thought of the three warriors and their broad backs, and her mind wandered to what lay beneath Osferth’s robes. Whether he would become as muscled as them as he continued his training- 

I’m sorry. Let him look at me, and I’ll spend Sunnandaeg in the chapel. 

Aefry did not know precisely what it was that she longed to see, but when Osferth turned to look at her again, his mellow eyes brightening when he saw her already watching him, she felt a small part of her desire to be seen by him sated. 

“Aefry, your cheeks are flushed. Are you certain-”

“Adburh!” Aefry dropped her friend’s arm in annoyance and took a few rushed steps forward before realising where she was; a step or so behind Osferth. When Adburh stomped past them, her temper flaring, Osferth startled and gazed back. Upon seeing Aefry so close, he startled again but smiled all the same.

“Her fires are burning rather hot today,” Aefry mumbled, giving Osferth a small curtsy. 

“Is everything well?” said Osferth as he watched Adburh storm ahead.

“She had some bad news,” Aefry wouldn’t betray Adburh’s feelings, no matter her annoyance.

Osferth hummed and waited for Aefry to fall into step beside him. Unlike that which she had shared with Finan, Aefry could not say their silence was comfortable. On the contrary, both seemed strained to think of something to say and altogether uneasy. 

“The yarrow worked-”

“How is your practice-”

Both spoke together, blushed and allowed the quiet to resume. After a moment, Aefry took Osferth’s hand. Perhaps it was an excuse just to touch him, but she brought his knuckles to the light of a passing window and examined his bruises. The yarrow had worked indeed, for she could make out the bone and blue veins of his hands. His hands. How small hers suddenly felt underneath his. When she looked up at him, she saw he was still staring down at their entwined hands. 

“Do you need anything more of me?” she whispered.

Osferth’s eyes flickered to hers. “Lady, I-”

“Come on, Osferth!” 

Finan’s voice boomed down the corridor and Aefry stepped quickly away from Osferth. Onward they walked. 

“That is much like how he speaks to me when teaching,” Osferth said lowly and Aefry laughed. “But he is kind do it, and a good man.”

“That he is.” 

Osferth watched her from the corner of his eye. She smiled as she looked in Finan’s direction and he tried to quell his jealousy. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” he whispered. 

Ahead, Uhtred and Aethelflaed had stopped outside a large cabinet of rooms at the fore of the keep, and Aefry, distracted on their journey there, noticed at once that it was the study of the King. She quickened her steps, leaving Osferth’s side, to stand behind her mistress. It would not do for Lady Aelswith to see her at the side of one of Uhtred’s men and not her daughter. 

No sooner had she, Saeflaed and Adburh settled behind Aethelflaed did the door to the cabinet open. Father Beocca stepped out and grasped Uhtred’s hand. A moment after, the King entered the corridor and all in his presence bowed their heads. Aethelflaed kissed his cheek. 

“You are ready?” He said to his daughter and Uhtred, to which they nodded and entered his private chambers with Beocca. As Aefry bowed once more, she noticed the King’s intelligent eyes carry over Finan and Sihtric, before flicking to the man stood still in the corridor.

Subtly, so imperceptibly, Aefry saw Alfred falter. From her reverent position, she looked sideways through the veil of her hair.

Osferth was looking pointedly at the ground, his shoulders a little stooped, his head a little bowed.

When the King turned away, Osferth looked up and saw that Aefry was watching him again. With a sad smile and nod of his head, he retraced his steps, away from his fellows, and out of sight. A haunting sadness had returned to his eyes, and Aefry thought of little else all evening.

Early one morning under the guise of prayer, Aethelflaed brought her ladies-in-waiting to the town chapel so she may share some secret with Uhtred before he and his men left for the north.

Finan and Sihtric were stood at the door, happily talking when they arrived. They bowed to Aethelflaed as she passed, sharing a knowing look, and greeted the ladies. Saeflaed placed herself by Finan and leant gaily against the stone wall so that her hip jutted just so. Adburh, too, stood scandalously close to Sihtric. He said nothing. Aefry did not worry about Osferth’s own whereabouts, for she knew he would be inside.

Sure enough, when she pushed open the chapel’s great doors, daylight streaked into the chamber and set him aglow. Sat on a simple wooden bench at the back of the chapel, his head was bent in prayer. Like a moth to a flame, she drifted towards him, sitting carefully beside him as he prayed.

The creaking of the wood gave her away, and Osferth opened one eye. When he saw her sat beside him, he smiled and relaxed in his seat. Together, the monk and the young lady sat in contended silence at the back of the chapel. After a while he looked at her fully and saw the happiness on her face.

“What has you smiling, my Lady?” Osferth whispered in her ear as they sat side by side. Aefry looked up at him. His hands were clasped in his lap, his head bowed slightly to hear her answer. Wherever he went, he always looked in prayer, and she wondered if it was the same on the battlefield. If he fought with as much grace as he did everything else.

“Those two,” she indicated Uhtred and Aethelflaed with her eyes. “It is good to see her smile again.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched her face glow with tenderness. It seemed her permanent state. On occasion, he had seen her about the keep with Aethelflaed and her other companions. Where Adburh and Saeflaed seemed suited to keeping the princess jovial, the lady beside him must have been picked as a companion for her quiet sincerity. When Aethelflaed fell into clouds of despair, it was Aefry she went to to lift her spirits.

When Osferth stumbled upon Aefry in the town, or sat in the meadow beyond the keep, she moved with serenity, like river buttercup in a stream. It struck him that she was prayer incarnate; contemplative, curious, calm.

When tending to the horses, he watched her in the meadow. She gathered flowers, read beneath the oak tree, or when not alone, talked spiritedly with her companions. Just as fascinated as she was with the monk, he too was with the lady-in-waiting.

“Though she doesn’t show it, not to Lord Uhtred, she is sad.” The monk titled his head towards her as she spoke. “You are away tomorrow, are you not?”

He nodded, eyes scanning hers. Would she be sad when he left? As Aethelflaed was for Uhtred?

“Take care, Just Osferth,” she smiled. His mouth twitched at the corners, and she knew he wanted to smile. “What?”

“My lady, do you think perhaps you could simply call me Osferth? The others have given me their own name, I should like to hear mine just plainly.”

The lady’s eyes lit with mirth. “What do the others call you?”

He sighed and looked at the cross atop the alter, as if pleading for help. “‘Baby monk.’” He whispered it in her ear like he was at confession, and she would have shuddered were it not for the ridiculousness of the name. She sniggered and the monk pinched his nose.

“Are you a monk anymore?” She had turned to him slightly, though she still glanced at her mistress every now and again. “Now that you are in Uhtred’s company?”

He thought a moment and watched his hands. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

She took his hand in hers and faced him directly.

“You are Osferth.”

“That I am.” There it was again. Pride. Looking at her pretty face, open with kindness and judging of nothing as she watched him, Osferth felt that whatever he had been, or would be, was fine because she saw him. She.

“What do you think life would have held for you? Had you the choice?” Aefry knew the question was intimate, and should he rebuke her, she would understand. To her happiness, he did not.

“I do not think it matters, lady.” Visions of himself as a prince, or an ealdorman with wife and child flashed before his eyes. “My lot was chosen long before I was born.” Aefry knew he was thinking of his father’s actions but said nothing, only let him continue. “With another mother, another father, in a different realm perhaps my life would have been different, but it does not do to dwell. I am thankful for what I have been given.”

He watched her side, for she had turned to face Uhtred and Aethelflaed solemnly. Her lips parted delicately, plainly thinking over what he had said. A few strands of hair had fallen loose from the braid knotted at her nape, revealing the pulse point on the elegant column of her neck. Osferth was struck with the desire to run his finger along it and the britches beneath his tunic tightened. He shifted on the hard pew. Damn. Faintly, as though listening through water, he heard her say something similar to “we should leave them be.” He looked up to see Uhtred and Aethelflaed departing through the door behind the chancel.

“Will you pray with me?”

Her hand was still in his and she squeezed it before clasping her own in prayer. “Of course.”

Aefry knelt before him and he swallowed, shifting his hands beneath his tunic before kneeling beside her. Osferth wasn’t sure how long they prayed. Or rather, how long she prayed and he tried to. Her devoted mutterings and deeps sighs of breath were beautifully distracting, so he settled on watching her pray instead.

She leant her head on her hands, as though this would open a direct channel to help her commune with the divine. She glanced up on occasion, to gaze at the altar, before casting her eyes down. When she hastily wiped a tear from her cheek between devotions, he found he could take it no more and moved towards the offertory shrine next to the tabernacle. He hadn’t seen someone so moved by prayer since the monastery, and even then he believed the abbot did it to scare the oblates into servitude.

He took a candle and, placing it next to its fellows, lit it with a taper. Closing his eyes with the flame in hand, a moment’s solace finally found him, and he prayed for that which he always could. When he opened them, she was there beside him, placing her own candle upon the shrine having silently finished her prayers. As if in slow motion, he watched as she covered his hand with hers and moved the taper he still held to the wick. The candle flickered into life, and she let go.

“Who did you light your candle for?” she whispered, watching the flames dance together.

“My mother.”

“I lit mine for you. I want to see you safely back in Wintancaester.” Sadness befell Aefry’s eyes and Osferth said the only thing he could think that would ease her unhappiness.

“I shall try, my lady.”

She nodded. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

His lips parted with barely supressed awe. “Psalm ninety-one.”

Aefry nodded again. “The psalms are my favourites.”

“My lips praise you, because your faithful love is better than life itself.” Osferth whispered, his eyes intent on hers.

“Psalm sixty-three.”

“Yes,” Each time he was near her, his voice floundered. It seemed it was not just he who struggled. The light of the chapel cast Osferth in a soft glow and his eyes, pierced by the sun, looked aflame. Aefry watched as his tongue ran slowly over his bottom lip and, mindful of their place in God’s house, pressed the back of her hand to his so as to feel close to him.

“I must away, my lady.” His words were abrupt, their sudden intimacy overwhelming.

“Yes, you must,”

Osferth swallowed, and with some urgency said, “But I will see you soon.” Her beautiful face became doleful as she looked at the bidding candles and he stepped closer to her. Her eyes, brimming with tears, took in his face and as he made to brush them away, she stood on her toes to place a chaste kiss against his cheek.

Frozen before the shrine, Osferth listened as her steps carried her from the chapel, away from Adburh and Saeflaed, from Finan and Sihtric, and from him.

In the meadow beyond the town, beneath the oak tree, Aefry let her tears fall.

“The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night,” she said aloud to the grasses and the birds. Please, she begged, please let him come back.

Notes: Matins, prime, compline and vigil are part of the liturgical hours in the catholic faith, and are prayers that are said throughout the day. Typically for a monk, there would be matines, prime, lauds, none, sext, vespers and compline. Vigil came before holy days and some even took nocturnes which is around 1am. I used to live with a monk (true!) and sometimes I would do lauds with him. Fifteen minutes of quiet is a lovely way to start the day!

Tags: @arcielee @babyblue711 @elizarbell @chilling-in-my-head @skikikikiikhhjuuh @fan-goddess @sylas-the-grim @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @targaryenrealnessdarling @doomwhathouwilt @gemini-mama @myfandomprompts @bcon24 @humanpurposes @wise-owl @bookwyrmsblog @yentroucnagol @allthefandomtherapy @hightowhxre @elizarbell

[wttcsms]

daylight [pt. iii (1/3)] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 22k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women, deployment author's notes this is a shortened version of the chapter; i got too excited to share my work with everyone, and also, i know your attention spans are all lacking. if you survived reading 20k+ words in one sitting, pls soldier on and leave a comment expressing ur thoughts x much love <3

part three: no falling in love

“Name?” The bored voice of the administrative assistant tasked with filing away the paperwork for all deployed soldiers stares at Colt with a mixture of disinterest and delight. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, halfway wanting to put on a good show for her and halfway wanting to disappear into thin air. She’s bored, probably thinking about what she’s going to eat for lunch after this, but Colt knows all too well that bored Marleyans make for the most dangerous ones. Best not to get on her bad side and remind her that prior to doing this lineup, she was the one who had checked him in and confirmed his name. 

“Colt Grice.” He answers, and she frowns, like she was expecting any other answer than the one that actually answers her question. 

“Unit?”

“Warrior.”

“Blood type?”

“O negative.”

“Race?”

The energy in the room comes to a standstill. He knows that this is just a formality, that she’s just doing her job, but he also knows that she’s staring directly at his armband. He also knows that most people tasked with dealing with people like him don’t enjoy doing their jobs and would actually prefer to do anything but. 

“Eldian.” He says, and she repeats it back, slowly, exaggerated. 

She makes a note on her clipboard, checking all the boxes that correspond to the answers Colt has given her. The bright red pen of hers matches the bright red she coats her lips in, and she tears at the perforation in the paper, handing Colt the lower-half of the sheet. 

“Turn this in to the people running the clinic.” She tells him, looking more disinterested than ever now that her interrogation with him is over and that Colt has proven himself to be a very boring and painfully polite young man. 

When Colt gets to the clinic, which is nearly half a kilometer away from the administrative office, he turns in the slip. The lady at the front desk glances at it, then hands him a clipboard with a form for him to fill out. He’s not sure how to feel when he realizes that the form is asking the same exact questions that the administrative assistant asked him, and he feels like he should point out the fact that all the answers the clinic needs have already been turned in to them through the slip of paper he just handed them. 

He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows doing so will only slow down the process some more. So, he fills out the form, hands it to the front desk lady, who then looks down at the form and compares it to the slip of paper he gave her, as if checking to see if there are any discrepancies. 

“I’ll let you know when the doctor is ready to give you your physical.” 

Colt spends the whole day like this: just going through the motions and complying with anything the Marleyans ask of him because that just so happens to be the natural order of things around here, around anywhere. For a country that prides themselves for their innovation and intellect that helps them maintain their superiority over everyone else, Colt (and perhaps every other Eldian soldier forced to waste their time with this deployment process) thinks he can spot some internal inefficiencies in their military. 

(Not like he’s going to say anything about it. Not like he can.)

After being poked and prodded by the doctor (who, just for good measure, wastes five minutes to ask Colt for his name, unit, blood type, and race), Colt is then sent off to the on-base barber who shaves his hair off to the standard buzzcut given to all Eldian soldiers who are fresh to the fight. Colt isn’t vain by any means, but the haircut takes less than a minute to complete, and he feels foolish for hoping that this process would be just as lengthy and meticulous as everything else he’s had to endure. His last stop of the day is to the uniform repository, where Colt is given a brand new uniform and dog tags to wear for when he’s sent off to the war. 

The sun is already setting by the time Colt makes his way back to his barracks, and when it seems like the world is giving him a good and proper beatdown, it usually sends him somebody to mock his misery and make the sting of being the universe’s punching bag burn deeper. 

“Heard the news,” a familiar voice stops Colt in his tracks. Porco stares at the crisp uniform Colt’s holding, and scowls. “For deployment?” 

“Yeah,” Colt says, even though he knows that Porco knows. 

He snorts. “Great. Maybe the enemy won’t bother shooting at you once they realize what a shame it’ll be to let top-tier drycleaning go to waste.” 

Once again, the world is ending when Porco makes a valid point. The whole process of preparing for his deployment feels silly and senseless; after all of this, all Colt has in his brain is “Name: Colt Grice, Unit: Warrior, Race: Eldian.” The craziest part is that no actual combat-active military official has given him any details on what’s happening at Fort Helena, and why he’s been chosen to be deployed there. 

The uniform feels heavy in his hands, and the weight only becomes more burdensome when Porco asks him, “Hey. Does Falco know yet?” 

It’s Falco’s first year in the program. Because he’s so young and still too early in the process to be considered as a Candidate, he stays in the youth barracks, which are appropriately stationed far away from the actual soldiers. From the ones who will actually have to answer the call to arms. 

“No. I just got the letter last night.” 

Something indiscernible softens in Porco’s features. “I’d hate to be the one who has to tell him.” 

Colt forces himself not to make a face. Falco won’t take the news well, no matter how Colt gives it to him. Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time someone hasn’t wanted to be in Colt’s shoes. Sometimes, not even Colt wants to be himself. 

“Yeah.” He finds himself agreeing with Porco. “What an unlucky guy.” 

All soldiers cleared for deployment are confined to staying on base at all times, probably because when you tell young men that you are essentially sentencing them to death (or, at the very least, forcing them in a situation where it’s more likely than not that they are going to lose a limb — and most people happen to like having all their limbs, thank you very much), they get scared and start thinking up stupid things like deserting their country or trying to kickstart a munity. 

Then again, the only people who are allowed to be frightened enough to pull stunts like that are the same people who have nothing to lose. Colt has a titan to inherit, a family to feed, and you. All of the Eldian soldiers getting prepared to be shipped off to Fort Helena are in similar boats.

The Marleyan unit assigned to Fort Helena, however, is in a state of all sorts of distress and chaos, and Lieutenant Michael Sells is enjoying every second of it. 

Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the top bunk of the barracks, Michael looks down at his fellow Marleyan soldiers who fucked up badly enough to be receiving the same punishment as him. Marleyan soldiers aren’t supposed to be the ones who get sent to the frontlines; sure, there are some idiots with ideas of grandeur, and those are the ones who volunteer to see some “real action,” but for the most part, joining the military just seemed like a better alternative than spending their young adulthood stuck in a university’s lecture hall. 

The thing they forgot to consider is that when you mess up in college, you get sent to the dean’s office. When you mess up in the military, you get sent off to the shitty deployments that no one wants. War is war, an enemy soldier who doesn’t know anything about you but is hellbent on shooting at you is a pain in the ass wherever you go, but like with everything else in life, there is always something better. Considering that Michael is on this assignment, and every soldier here has a long list of transgressions (long enough to the point where their officers can no longer turn a blind eye to them), this is an indicator that Fort Helena is going to be literal hell on earth. 

Early on in the war, the first wave of soldiers to come back from the battlefield all complained about rats in the trenches and the lack of plumbing. One group was fighting closer to a mountainside, though, and they actually had sufficient enough coverage from the enemy to set up a decent camp. Trenches or tents. Both aren’t screaming luxury, but one is infinitely better than the other, that’s for damn sure.

“We’re fucking screwed!” Jude scowls, kicking at the uniform hanging by his bed. 

“Can’t be that bad,” Elliot rationalizes from the top bunk across from Michael. “They’re sending off Eldian units with us, and they outnumber us by quite a large margin. Chances are, we won’t even be on the frontlines.” 

“It’s true,” Oliver is sitting at the singular desk crammed in the barracks. He claims he’s writing a farewell letter to his girlfriend — all three of them. “This is just a scare tactic to get us back on the straight and narrow. You think they’d be willing to sacrifice us for that fort?” 

Jude’s frown doesn’t disappear, but he’s silent. Elliot and Oliver have a point, and everyone here knows it. That’s because the boys in this barrack aren’t enlisted soldiers, but officers. They’re the ones who’ll get the nicest benefits package, the better meals, the high ranking titles. They’re the ones who society holds up to a pedestal. Elliot, just like Michael, is a legacy — someone who already has a generation of their family who served as an officer. For most Marleyans, this is something you can boast about. 

“Don’t worry, Judy. If Captain Baron decides he’s sick of us and forces us to be human shields for the Eldian soldiers, he’d pick me first.” Michael sounds too cheerful at the prospect, and Jude glares at him. 

You either love Michael, or you don’t. There is no inbetween, there is no merely tolerating him — only like or dislike.  Everyone else in the barracks is on decent terms with the lieutenant, even going so far as to consider him not just a comrade but a friend, but Michael’s the type to sniff out the few who despise him, and then he antagonizes them for sport. Jude belongs to the group who dislikes. 

“Don’t call me Judy, and don’t spout off bullshit like that, either. Don’t act like you wouldn’t willingly fight alongside those damn devils. We all know why you’re here.” 

“Really?” Michael’s eyes go wide. “Why am I here?” 

In the office, there is a big, fat file labeled SELLS, MICHAEL (LT.) with a very long record of transgressions committed by the angelic-looking young man who is anything but. What a shame, the officers who have to update his file muse, that he is nothing like his father who was honorably discharged as an Admiral for the Navy. The only thing Michael seems to have inherited from Admiral Sells are his looks. 

The fact of the matter is that Michael is here because he is a problem child who manages to stir up trouble no matter where he is and no matter who he is with. At least on a battlefield, they can make good use of his restless energy, and hopefully the fear of being killed in action will be enough to get him to behave. 

He’s been a pain in the ass since the moment he came into this world (a C-section baby, which is a universal indicator that someone is destined to be annoying), and he’s only grown into a walking, talking, migraine-inducing bastard ever since. 

“Don’t act all innocent. We know you started the fight with Brutus.” Jude sneers, as if Brutus the Brute didn’t deserve the one singular punch Michael managed to get on him before getting his ass handed to him. 

“If you can call that massacre on Michael a fight.” Oliver pipes up.

“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Michael asks him, not offended in the slightest. 

“The real question is, whose side are you on?” The look Jude gives Michael reminds him of the same glare one of the other Marleyan officers, James, gave him during visitation day. The visitation day where James’ girlfriend couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of Michael. It’s a look that’s full of contempt and vitriol. 

Everyone likes to act all holier-than-thou when it comes to Michael, and it’s because nobody is more openly rebellious than him. They think that he can’t keep a secret, that his heart is constantly on his sleeve, and they’re right; too bad no one can actually read him. Michael gets into fights all the time, and he’s either stupid or brave with the way he shows no fear in attempting to take on guys twice his size. In middle school, he lost a tooth (that has since been replaced with a fancy implant that blends seamlessly with the rest of his pearly whites, despite the fact that he thought the gaping hole would’ve added character) because he picked a fight with a high schooler about to graduate. Everyone misinterprets his bold actions for recklessness, but he does stupid shit like this because he cares. No one knows he picked that fight because the boy said something downright vulgar and disgusting about Claire, one of his older sister’s friends. Just like how no one knows that Michael didn’t swing at Brutus because he took the last brownie during dinner, but because Brutus was the one who nicked Colt’s face. 

“The right one.” Michael cheekily answers, not elaborating further. Let everyone make their assumptions about what that means.

Alize Evans is no one’s fool. 

When the universe deals you a shit hand in life, the least you can do is not be stupid. Alize might’ve came into this world as an accident, the result of a drunken mistake (perhaps she inherited bad luck from her mother; she can’t be certain, considering that the only mother figure in Alize’s life had been the stern mistress of her orphanage), and it’s because of this that Alize is very careful in not making mistakes in her life. 

Maybe ending up at The Gentleman’s Club wasn’t exactly a part of her master plan, but Alize remains adamant that she is not stupid — just down on her luck. 

It isn’t stupid to walk the streets of the red light district alone. Alize knows the area better than the back of her hand. She lives here. She knows the strip of street to avoid unless she wants to have the stray dogs’ shit under the soles of her too-tight shoes. She knows that the drunkard who looks like the type to harass women is quite the opposite; in fact, he’s probably one of the kindest men who stay around this area. She bought him a bottle of cheap liquor once, just because decent people are hard to find and the least she can do is show her gratitude in a way that doesn’t automatically demean her. (Deep down, she knows that he wouldn’t have accepted free rein of her body, the only currency she has unlimited access to. It had cost her a week’s worth of wages to gift him that bottle.) 

Turns out, he’s not stupid either. He’s just down on his luck, too. 

Alize’s bad luck seems to be on a winning streak. Not only did she wake up late, but the bruises scattered on her body have turned a ghastly shade of purple with a sick, faint green ring around one of the abstract shapes. In the winter time, she’s paler. She already sees a lack of sun, and the darkness of this season doesn’t do her any favors. She likes it when it’s spring; she tans easily, for one, and everyone says spring is the season of possibilities, of new beginnings. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She doesn’t believe in those sorts of things. But it’s nice, she supposes, to indulge every once in a while and believe in things like that. 

Her bad luck clings to her as she walks down the street, quickening her pace. She knows the creepy, distorted shadows in the corners of her eyes are just figments of her imagination; the street lamps are all cracked and now line the street just for show. They don’t actually work. The whole district is shrouded in darkness, with only the censorious moonlight to look down on her. She hates moonlight. Nothing good has ever happened to her when it makes its appearance. 

That fact won’t change, either. She knows this when she hears the predatory whistle coming from behind her. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows she doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to run. She knows that there is nowhere to run. She knows that she wants to try, anyway. She knows that things will only be worse if she does. 

Alize pauses. She takes a deep breath. And then she turns around. 

It’s a Public Security Authorities officer. Mid-forties, at least. He looks like today is his lucky day. 

She wonders what that might feel like.

“What’s a young girl like you doing around these parts? Don’t’cha know it’s dangerous?” He smirks, and she can see every wrinkle and crease on his face, all thanks to the moonlight. She curses the wretched thing. She hates everything that looks down on her. Not even the solar system can escape her wrath. 

She doesn’t say anything. He’s leering at her, licking his chapped lips as he eyes her, his excitement evident as he openly admires the armband circled around her left arm. 

A piece of fabric that defines her entire being. A piece of fabric that is the reason why she receives the worst customers in the brothel. Men like the one standing in front of her liken her to something inhumane, filthy, but they’re the ones who fuck her like savages, like devils. The irony isn’t lost on her. 

“Let me walk you home, sweetheart.” The man grabs her left arm, gripping her armband. He tugs her with such a force that she almost wishes to see the piece of gray fabric come loose. She remembers when someone used it to choke her with it, and then she decides that with the way her luck is going, he’d probably have the same idea. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll be quick. Maybe Willa will feel bad and brew her a cup of tea when she manages to limp her way to the brothel. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows to let the man drag her away. She’s resigned to her fate. 

And then, the strangest thing happens. 

Another man is strolling down the street. Traffic here is usually light considering that there isn’t much in this area, save for abandoned buildings and the occasional homeless trying to seek shelter from the harsh, biting wind. Alize thinks her luck is getting worse when she notices this one is wearing a cream colored uniform, too. 

When he comes closer, she’s pleasantly surprised. At least he’s cute. Say what you want, but having an ugly bastard slobbering over her is awful. If she’s going to be used, why can’t she at least have a decent view? It might distract her from everything else. 

“What’s going on here?” The young man says, blue eyes focused on the officer before traveling to Alize. She looks at him briefly before focusing on the gravel underneath her feet. 

“Nothing for you to worry about.” The officer spits on the ground. “Go run along and find your own hole to get your dick wet in.” 

“See, when you say stuff like that, it does make me start to worry.” Alize dares to take another look at him. He’s blond. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and he has such an easy-going manner about him. The top two buttons of his military issued coat are undone, and she spots a peek of bright white cotton from his undershirt. He’s tall. Taller than her, and even taller than the man who has her in his grip. “I don’t think she likes the way you’re handling her.” 

“You think I give a fuck about what a bitch like her likes?” 

The blond man’s eyes narrow. Gone is his easy-going manner. Alize can feel the shift even from her current position, which is her being all cowered and looking like she wants to be as small as possible. Apparently the man senses the change in his demeanor, too, seeing as he loosens his grip enough for Alize to slowly free herself. 

“I think you should give a fuck on how I feel about it.” He says, taking a step forward. “You know that PSA officers with a rank as low as yours are only allowed jurisdiction in his designated internment zone.” Another step forward. “This isn’t an internment zone.” 

“You’re a fucking greenie. You’re barely a second-rate private in the military.” The man snarls, spotting the lack of any high ranking adornments on the blond’s uniform. 

The blond shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t an internment zone, meaning that as an officer in the military, I have more authority here than you.” He smiles. “Bet you give a fuck that a greenie like me can tell you what to do, and you have to sit down like a good dog and listen.” 

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows that she has the opportunity to run. But she’s frozen in place, admiring the way this young soldier seems to greet a fight like an old friend, with welcoming arms. If it came down to physical blows, she thinks he’d win, easily. 

The man’s hand seems to gravitate towards his side, but the blond is quicker on the draw. Before the PSA officer can grab his gun, he finds himself staring down the wrong end of this private’s pistol. 

“I’ll let you take out yours, too, if you want. It’s only fair that you show me yours after I showed you mine.” The moonlight illuminates the smug expression on the soldier’s face. “But know this: the law won’t give a damn what went down here. All they’ll care about is that a PSA officer broke the law and drew his weapon against a Marleyan militant officer in the military’s jurisdiction. You think you’ll have any power from a jail cell?” 

“I have connections.” The man snarls, still hesitant to whip out his own gun. 

“Really? What a coincidence, so do I.” The soldier releases the safety on his pistol. “Do you mind sharing who those connections are? My uncle, the commanding officer of the PSA, might be interested in knowing, too.” 

The man’s face pales. “You’re that Sells kid.” 

“Yeah. Trying to make a name for myself, though, so take out your damn gun and let’s try to make headline news, okay?” 

They don’t make headline news. Instead, the man apologizes to this “Sells kid”, and then he turns and apologizes to Alize after the Sells kid tells him to. 

“Get on your knees and kiss the ground she walks on.” The soldier commands him to do. Alize feels a sick sort of satisfaction witnessing the man slowly get down and press his lips to the dirty ground. For once in her life, Alize is the one who is looking down. What an addicting feeling. 

When the soldier gets bored of humiliating the man, he sends him off by tapping his shoulder in farewell; he does so with the barrel of his gun, whose safety is still conveniently off. One wrong move, and a bullet could be pierced through the man’s shoulder blades. 

“You want me to walk you to where you wanted to go?” The soldier asks her, clicking his gun and sliding it back into its holster. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She nods, and he lets her lead the way. 

She starts to foolishly believe that maybe her luck can turn around. 

But then he drops her off at the front door of the brothel, hands in his pockets. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks her, when she doesn’t immediately walk in. “Is it not safe for you in there?”

He sounds like he actually cares. Gone is the stern soldier with the cocky attitude and smirk. The gentleman standing here doesn’t seem like he just shoved his gun in someone’s face less than ten minutes ago. He’s interesting, this soldier. 

She shakes her head, giving him a tiny smile. This brothel might actually be the only safe haven for her here, perhaps even safer than the shitty apartment she rents a couple of blocks away.

“Will you come in and join me?” I won’t even charge, she wants to add. 

He seems to pick up on her suggestion, and he gives her a small smile, too, while shaking his head. “I’d feel a lot better knowing that you’re somewhere where you feel safe. I think some time alone would be good, don’t you agree?” 

Alize’s never been alone for long stretches of time. She grew up in an overcrowded orphanage, then traveled with a small group of runaways when the original mistress died and got replaced by some creep who eyed like the girls in the house like a butcher looking at a prize pig. Even when sleeping and begging on the streets, she always had at least one other person right with her. Renting this apartment is the first time in forever that Alize’s ever lived on her own, and even then, she spends so much of her time in the brothel, surrounded by her chosen sisters, blanketed in their warmth and comfort, that she forgets all about living on her own.

“I don’t know how else to repay you.” She admits. Out of all her meager belongings, she’s come to terms with the fact that her body and Eldian fetishization are her most valuable. 

“You don’t have to repay me.” He says, and she almost wants to roll her eyes. 

Alize isn’t stupid. Life is a series of transactions. You receive, you have to give back. Otherwise, karma will intervene. Karma is a sick and twisted bitch who balances the scales in the worst way possible. Her luck might be starting to turn around, but she’s not going to push it.

“I can’t have you walking around with my favor in your pocket. Let me pay you back now.” 

He waves a hand carelessly. “You don’t owe me anything.” 

For once, Alize dares to go against a soldier and stand her ground. “No. I really do owe you.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum, staring at the closed door of the brothel. 

“Fine.” He says, but then he follows it up with something she isn’t expecting. “Pay me back by going inside and taking care of yourself. Take it easy tonight, okay?” 

Alize isn’t stupid. She takes the offer. 

But, of course, seeing him changes her perspective on things. Meeting him while flat broke, weak, and defenseless proved to her that her luck could change at any time. This hope that builds up in her causes her to seek him out, to expect him to walk through the brothel doors and maybe the story Willa tells her comes true. The story about the girl who saves the businessman and gets her happily ever after. 

Alize is stupid. He doesn’t come back. Which means he doesn’t come back for her. Luck can turn around, but it can go back right where it was, too. The disappointment that follows serves as a cruel reminder of what being stupid does to a girl. 

When she looks into the worn faces of the girls working alongside her, Alize decides right then and there to protect them from the soul crushing discovery that no one in the world is coming to save them. Don’t even bother dreaming about it. 

So when she turns her attention to you, demanding you to spill the details on the soldier, you mistake this interrogation for being an unwanted intrusion. If you had realized sooner that it came from a place of care, you wouldn’t have immediately played dumb. 

“What soldier?” You ask innocently, perhaps playing a bit too dumb.

Margaret lets out a loud laugh. “You’re so full of shit! ‘What soldier,’ my ass! Nadia, can you believe her?” 

Nadia looks at you for guidance on how to react, what to say. All you can do is shrug helplessly. Hurricane Alize has already touched down, and there’s no stopping this force of nature. 

“The soldier who visits you and brings you gifts and just wants to talk.” Alize says, crossing her arms. “Tell us about him.” 

“I don’t know much about him.” Besides the fact that he ran away from the girl who gave him his first kiss. Besides the fact that he loves his family, especially his little brother, Falco, as easily as breathing. Besides the fact that he kisses you with poorly concealed restraint; you think you can taste the hunger for more on his lips, but he’s too much of a gentleman to cross that line. You don’t know much about him, besides him enlisting in the military for his family. He was supposed to go in sooner, to prove his family’s loyalty after his uncle got exposed for being an Eldian Restorationist. 

He had been a sickly child, he tells you, back against the wall as he resigns himself to the floor, letting you have your bed all to yourself. He’d be bedridden and useless to the Marleyan military if they took him in, and luckily, they saw some sense in that. His parents foolishly dared to dream that the government forgot about wanting to take him, but after his father falls ill and it lands on him to handle his family’s finances, of course he enlists. Of course they remember him. Of course they make him pay for everything with interest. Always waiting for him to slip up, always delighting in punishing him. Mocking him. 

You know that he had to learn how to take it all lying down. To grit his teeth and bite back any protests. To resist the urge to ask the Marleyan officer what did I ever do to you? 

You know that he’s gentle. Genuine. Sweet. Soft.

No — maybe soft isn’t the right word. You’ve felt the smooth ridges of hard-packed muscle underneath his shirt. You’ve seen the flex of his biceps, felt the rough calluses of his fingers every time the ghost of his touch lingers on your skin. You’ve seen the way he delivers his words, how he can say something with such strong conviction. He never raises his voice to make a point, but the stern look and his steadfast adamance that he wants you to be happy, even if it’s not with him, because he cares about you, was strong enough to knock some sense into you. You think of how it’s his natural instinct to protect. You think of the way his body immediately went to shield yours when that bar fight broke out, his stance that seemed so formidable, unyielding to any external force. 

You think of his casual discussion of the abuse subjected to him. How he tells you, in the same soft voice he always uses, as if he’s telling you the weather today, about how one time some Marleyan soldiers pulled a prank on him and handed him his food in a dog bowl, with DEVIL DOGGY crudely etched into the metal. He had to eat out of it, he explains, because he was hungry. This was his only meal of the day, and it was one against too many. He’d never be able to get a lunch tray. 

Despite it all, he didn’t let it turn him bitter. Vengeful. Mad at the world and seeking to take it out on others. You wouldn’t blame him for turning cold; anyone else would. But Colt lets it bounce off of him. 

You like that. You like everything about Colt, you realize, but you like his resilience. His unwavering good character. He isn’t soft; maybe tender. You could cut him to the bone, but he still wouldn’t lose shape; he might even put up some resistance. 

“Really?” Alize narrows her eyes. “So what exactly do you two talk about then?”

Everything. A story for a story, you decide one day. You’re sitting on your calves, knees digging into the stiff mattress, and the excited expression on your face makes Colt give in to your whims before the request even fully leaves your mouth.

A story for a story, he agrees.

You tell him the bits and pieces of your childhood that you remember. You tell him about how it feels strange to cling to a culture you think is dying, that soon no one will remember, but stranger yet to not take pride in it, to not want to hold on to what generations before you have held on to. He tells you about how he doesn’t like the feel of a gun in his hands, but that he’s such a good shot, his officers want him to constantly be on the frontlines, armed with it. He’s never been on the frontlines, he reassures you, when he notices your horrified expression. A couple of simple deployments, as a reserve in case the battle doesn’t turn in their favor, is all the action he’s seen so far. Probably will be that way for the foreseeable future, since the military doesn’t like risking the Warrior Candidates with the most potential. 

“Anything that comes up naturally, I guess.” You say, holding all your conversations with Colt close to your heart. “Alize, what does it matter what I do with this soldier?” 

“It matters because every time I mention the soldier, you get this look on your face.” Alize is not a mean person, but the way she says look — dripping with disgust, topped off with pity — you suddenly go on the defensive. 

“I can’t make facial expressions anymore?” You ask her, and the girls in the room shift their bodies awkwardly. Someone clears their throat. Alize is silent, but she doesn’t lower the intensity of her glare. 

“I’m worried about you.” She sounds like admitting this is a painful ordeal. “I don’t want you making a mistake.” 

I don’t want you making a mistake. You’ve whispered this exact phrase in the dark, saying it so softly you almost think he won’t be able to hear it, but he does. Of course, he does. He notices everything about you. 

He looks at you, that same unwavering conviction coating his words as he reminds you, nothing about you is a mistake to me. 

“So what if I make a mistake? It’s my life.” You regret telling her this the moment her stern expression falters, revealing something hurt and pained, before she brings back her perfect poker face. You’re so used to being the older sister that sometimes it’s jarring to come here and interact with Alize, who is the designated older sister in this room. You don’t know how to handle being the one that is cared for, too used to having to be the strict one, the one who does the caring in a less-than gentle manner. 

“Mistakes hurt.” She says flatly. “But by all means, continue living your life how you want. It’s yours.”

You don’t make mistakes often. 

When Marleyan forces destroyed your homeland, sent you and the rest of the survivors running to a false salvation (the sprawling, abandoned hills on the outskirts of Marley’s cities), you made many mistakes. You were too trusting. Just shy of fourteen years old, you had a six-year-old little brother to take care of and parents who left behind nothing to help you. It’s not their fault; who anticipates their young daughter to take on the role of matriarch? There’s no instruction manual, no how-to guide on what to do when you’re a refugee with no skills, no talent, and nothing to offer to a country that already looks down on you. You used to be so desperate that when it seemed a citizen was taking pity on you, you chose to trust them. To believe in their goodness. 

You quickly learn to stop making that mistake. 

You can’t talk to strangers, then. You only stay close to the other refugees, only trusting their kindness, sometimes hesitant and fearful that they could turn on you, too. 

You make more mistakes. You misjudge how long food can last, what the weather will be like, the intentions of the people around you. Sometimes, you reject kindness because you think it’s viciousness in a clever disguise; gone are the times you accidentally identify cruelty as care. 

(You don’t make the same mistake twice.)

Occasionally, when you think about who you are, you think you’re a dog backed into a corner. A dirty alleyway. Surrounded by bigger, hungrier dogs, with no room for escape, no chance for survival. Some days, you think there’s something admirable in not backing down without a fight. Other days, you find that playing dead and hoping they lose interest is more reasonable. Every day, you know that it doesn’t matter what you do — you are still a dog backed into a corner.

You don’t like being backed into a corner. 

You don’t like feeling small, and you certainly don’t like feeling vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless. 

You know your position in life. The men who filter in and out of your room remind you of this. 

Cheap whore. Loose fuck. Good for nothing. Bitch. 

Katie, one of the quieter girls in the brothel, admits to everyone that sometimes she takes sleeping pills in the hopes that it’ll get her drowsy and she can filter in and out of consciousness when she’s working.

It’s better when you’re dead to the world during the sex, she says. If I could be asleep and unaware of everything happening to me, I’d be so happy. 

Everyone handles this job differently, but you could never let yourself be so unguarded. No matter how tired you get, your body refuses to go limp and allow you a brief moment of sleep when you’re in the presence of a strange man who paid a price to have his way with you. You made a lot of mistakes in your life, but falling asleep in this brothel will not be one of them.

But one night, you find yourself fighting the urge to let your eyelids droop and your body to sink into the mattress. Colt’s telling you about how he finds it odd that Michael is actively avoiding some investigator who’s visiting the base. Colt can’t seem to fathom why. The investigator supposedly only covers cases concerning Eldians, and he doesn’t look like someone who would want to get into a fight with Michael. You’re struggling to follow along, and the last thing you remember hearing is oh no, I’m stopping you from sleeping. 

When you do wake up, your mind is on high alert. You instantly sit up, heart racing. 

Calm down, nothing bad has happened to you. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry. You can’t tell if the pounding noise in your ear is from your heart or the rush of blood to your head. You sat up way too fast. You can hear your ragged breaths, and you close your eyes, resisting the urge to chastise yourself for being so weak. You’ve never fallen asleep here before. You followed the same routine you’ve always done, so you shouldn’t have even been tired. There’s no reason why you should have fallen asleep, just as you realize there should be no reason for the thin sheet on your bed to be covering you, a pitiful excuse for a blanket. 

You pause. Calm your breathing. Reassess the situation. 

You didn’t have the sheet covering your body before you fell asleep. You know this because you never use the sheet as a blanket. You slowly turn your head and find Colt slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, his breathing calm and steady. The position looks uncomfortable, and when you move to sit on the edge of the bed, letting your sock-covered feet hit the wooden floors, you can still feel the chill of hardwood biting through the cotton. 

He didn’t do anything besides tuck you in. You glance down at the watch on your wrist, only feeling safe enough to wear it when he’s around. Not even thirty minutes have passed. There’s still an hour left of your time that he is promised. 

You didn’t make a mistake, you realize. 

You take the thin sheet and drape it over his body, hoping that it provides some sort of comfort. You do this, and then you climb right back into bed, turning to the side so that you can get a view of his peaceful expression before you allow sleep to drag you under its spell once more.

After that, Colt insists that you go to sleep whenever you feel tired. You tell him that that isn’t fair, and he gives you a look. 

Fairness is a foreign concept to him. 

You never realized just how late into the night your shift takes you. You never realize how sweet a peaceful slumber truly is. The first few times you go to sleep, Colt still remains on the floor. Then, one night, he’s helping you readjust your watch and suddenly your right arm is hanging from the bed as you sleep, and he’s holding your hand, equally unconscious to the world. You wake up to the comfort of his hand still securely wrapped around your own, the rest of his body relaxed on the cold floor. You don’t let go, feigning sleep when you notice him stirring and about to wake up. You want to see what he does when he thinks you’re still asleep; every time before this, you’ve always been open about being the first one to wake. 

You wonder if this is when you relearn the lesson of never trusting outsiders. You hear him shift his body, try to reawaken muscles that have gone slack. And then, he’s moving your hand, slowly bringing it upwards. You fight to keep your eyes closed, your body relaxed.

A quick brush of his lips against your knuckles. He squeezes your hand, and when you shift your body, prepared to finally “wake up,” he’s quick to drop your hand, acting as if he’s done something he shouldn’t have. Like a kid caught with his hand in the jar of cookies. 

(He’s been that kid before; you couldn’t stop laughing at his retelling of the whole ordeal. He turned pink, telling you that it was because Falco wanted the cookies, and he refused to listen to Colt’s explanation of how they weren’t allowed to have any until after dinner. 

“Did you take the blame for everything?” You ask him, with tears in your eyes from how hard you’ve been laughing. 

“Yes.” He admits to taking the fall, acting as if he was the one who wanted the cookies, and Falco was just a tiny witness and not the reason for getting him into this situation. 

You start laughing again, to the point where your stomach aches. You’re unaware that he thinks the sound of your laughter is the soundtrack to his life, and both of you are unaware of how he’s pulling you in even deeper. 

For someone with a fear of falling, you sure don’t know how close to the edge you really are.)

In the months leading up to you kissing him in front of your whole community, these are the moments shared. Every conversation, every secret, every story for a story, every shared slumber, the singular barely-a-kiss upon your hand — all of it fills the cracks and crevices of your heart. 

(You refuse to admit to being scared of a lot of things, but the meaning behind him taking root inside your heart — that’s the scariest thing to you.) 

You try to steady the beat of your — slowly transitioning into his — heart every time you watch the door handle twist. You know not to expect him too often nowadays; his training more grueling, more intense, as his inheritance of the Beast Titan is fast approaching. If it’s not hope (and the inevitable disappointment that soaks you to the bone when you realize it’s not him) that’s serving you a slow death, then it’s the waiting.

You have experience in waiting. Waiting in long lines at the food bank during the cruel heat of the summer, knowing that leaving the line in search of water would be fruitless and only result in you losing your place in line (and as a result, food for the next two days — three if you limit your own portions). Waiting for your parents to miraculously come back from the dead and to give you a big hug, tell you that you did such a good job taking care of yourself and Ramzi. Waiting for your particularly rough clients to finish having their way with you and to leave you be. You’re always waiting. Always in a constant state of looking forward to what comes next; a side effect that stems from the fact that your current standard of living always leaves much to be desired. 

And you know about desire. As much as you’ve tried to avoid it, to avoid the senseless action and feeling of want, you’re only human. You dream of a better life; nothing too luxurious. A small apartment instead of a tent. A real school for Ramzi to attend instead of the volunteer tutors who come by once or twice a week, covering material that kids Ramzi’s age have already learned years ago. A different job, even. You’re fine with labor — your current work already is laborious — but a respectable job. Something that won’t have people who know what you do sneer and spit at you. Cleaning houses, watching over spoiled children — yes, those are preferable jobs. You’re not a person accustomed to selfishness, to letting your desires run rampant. You are not asking for pleasure from the world; you’ll gladly settle for a reduced sentence of pain. 

But desire grips you by the throat, winds itself around your body, chokes you, strangles you, in all matters involving Colt Grice. The unfamiliar, devastating punch of want hits you in your heart as all you can do is stand frozen in your room, trying to let what he tells you sink in. 

It doesn’t sink in. It hangs stagnant in the air, looms over the both of you before expanding, surrounding you two on all sides. Takes the shape of the four walls, and suddenly, it’s closing in on you, everything is closing in on you. 

Why is it that you always have to wait? Haven’t you waited long enough for just a glimpse of something bright to enter into your world? You’ve dealt with all this shit for years, suffered in silence, took everything lying down, and Colt stumbles into your room, stuttering over his sentences, and you dare to think that this is your luck turning around. That the universe is throwing you a bone. That nature says spring is coming early, spring is here to stay. Every time he walks through that damn door to enter your room, you see the sun peeking through the storm clouds. 

“You’re leaving?” You don’t like the way you practically choke on the question. 

Regret roughs up the soft features of his face. 

“Yes.” 

Colt Grice is handed a metal container that is roughly the size of a shoebox and is informed that anything placed in there will be sent to his family in the case that he does not return. 

He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the empty box resting on his lap. Whatever is supposed to go in here is meant to be a satisfactory consolation; sorry you lost your older son, here’s some junk he found in his barracks to help you remember him. He places the lid back on the container. How is anyone supposed to fit a life inside something not even a foot long? 

He lays down on his bed, savoring the stiffness of the mattress and the cold sheets neatly tucked with military precision. This will be one of his last days of enjoying the comforts of a real bed, and Colt is not the type to be ungrateful. He can take pleasure in the little things. 

He has to be able to — if he waited for anything major to happen before he started considering it to be a win, he’d never have a cause for celebration. 

There’s this funny feeling he gets sometimes. Moments in his life where he feels like everything is moving too quickly for his liking. One second he’s tossing a ball back and forth with Zeke, then he blinks and he’s in the mess hall, listening to Porco complaining about “the fucking slop” they’re being fed that day. He knows it’s silly, knows that the impending deadline of thirteen years won’t loom over his head just yet, but the idea of this life — his life — being cut short has never bothered him before. 

And then he meets you, and suddenly, life stops moving at a pace where everything around him is a blur and leaves him feeling dizzy, unable to find his footing. Suddenly, time stands still for him. He finds his footing. He can stand tall. Everything is in hyper focus, and he’s all too aware that the future is bleak. 

His future’s always been destined to be bleak; if he wasn’t in the Warrior Unit, there’d still be a chance that he’d be used as a titan for war. Just not the kind that grants some form of glory. Just the kind used as a weapon. Just something in a military general’s arsenal. He’s certain that “unleash the titans” is written on a slip of paper and is put inside a case alongside grenades and guns. 

He shuts his eyes, thinking about his sheer impermanence. His lack of a future has never been a major cause for concern. Eldian families know what to expect when their sons and daughters end up in the Warrior Unit. But then you kissed him and all he could think about when he felt the pressure of your lips against his for the first time was maybe there is a future out there for me. One worth chasing after. One worth being alive for. One with you. 

He wants a future now. He wants it so badly, so desperately, that all he can do is lay here and curl his fingers around the bedcover, ruining the hard work that went into perfecting the appearance of his bed. All he can do, all he’s allowed to do, is grit his teeth and force down the bitter truth: he has no future. 

And he would really, really love to have one now.

It’s not like this dream is new — just repressed. He’s gotten too good at pushing down his selfish desires in favor of thinking about what’s best for the collective good. If he becomes the Beast Titan, his family will be elevated in status; better healthcare, better home, better paycheck to mail to them. There would be less pressure on Falco to do well; there would be no point. The Grices would have given up one son; surely, even Marley would have pity and tell them to do everything they can to hang onto the last one. As a child, he used to skip recess breaks to help his teachers clean up the classroom or grade papers. He’d wipe down the windows, pretending that he doesn’t want to be one of the carefree kids swinging on the monkeybars. Because of his volunteering to help the teacher, she was less stressed, with no frustrations to take out on the students. No one ever thanked him for doing this. No one even acknowledged it. 

“What’re you thinkin’ so hard about?” Porco drops the metal lunch tray onto the table. It’s the sound of the tray making contact with the aged wood that snaps Colt out of his thoughts and back into reality. 

“I wasn’t thinking about anything.” He’s lying, but Porco doesn’t need to hear about his inner turmoil. 

“Don’t bother lying if you’re not even going to try to be good at it.” Porco snorts, digging his spoon into the mushy vegetables steaming on his plate. “You’re being sent home tonight, aren’t you?” He’s in the middle of chewing a mixture of too-soft carrots and green beans. Colt pretends not to notice the way the vegetables are being blended together in his mouth. Pieck complains that Porco needs to learn how to chew with his mouth closed, and out of spite, he chooses to do the complete opposite. 

“Yeah.” Colt uses his fork to play with his food, poking at an overcooked steamed carrot. “Falco gets to spend the night at home, too.”

“Damn. How’d he take the news?” 

Colt cringes. “Didn’t get a chance to tell him.” 

Porco gapes at him, but then his stomach growls and he’s back to shoveling more food in his mouth. He has the decency to swallow first before resuming the conversation. “You’re fucked, Grice.”

It’s not like leaving Falco in the dark was intentional. He stays in the barracks designated for younger kids, and Colt’s been running around the base, trying to make sure that he’s properly preparing for his deployment. He meant to take the walk to Falco last night, after he finished finding things to put in that damn shoebox, but thoughts of you, his mediocre life, his wasted time and lost chances, his family — all of those thoughts weighed him down, kept him chained to the bed. He couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. And his box still remains empty, shoved underneath his bed. It’s gotten to the point where he’s even debating asking Porco to fill it on his behalf, but who knows what he considers appropriate? 

“The worst part is, Falco’s definitely been notified that he has the opportunity to be sent home, and the reasoning they’ll give him is because an immediate family member is being deployed. He knows I’m being sent away, and now he’s just waiting for me to actually tell him.” Colt sighs as Porco beats him to his drawn conclusion:

“Yeah. You’re super fucked.”

After a few minutes of silence, Porco finds even more stuff to ponder about. “Hey, how’d your girlfriend take the news?” 

Seriously, since when did Porco suddenly become so chatty? Was the tasteless lunch food not enough to keep him occupied? Colt takes this moment as an opportunity to shovel a heaping of hot, bland mush into his mouth in order to avoid answering that question. He thinks he burns a few taste buds in the process, but with the food that’s being served to them, it’s not like they were being used in the first place. 

Colt wishes Porco didn’t have such a stubborn streak. He sits there, unimpressed, waiting for Colt to finish eating, which takes no time at all. The silence and his bemused expression say enough: hurry up and answer.

“Didn’t really get a chance to tell her, either.” 

Porco blinks. 

“Damn it, Grice. Who does know about your deployment?”

He thinks for a second, mentally doing a count. “Well, for starters, you—”

“Okay, so no one. No one knows you’re being deployed.” 

Well, when he puts it like that. 

“I planned on telling them.” 

“When? When you’re already on the battlefield?” 

Colt flinches. “When they would have less time to worry about me.” 

Porco pauses, the snarky comment sliding back down his throat. For once during this conversation, Porco seems at a loss for words. 

“They’re always going to worry about you.” Porco says, all sarcasm gone from his tone and replaced with a seriousness that Colt doesn’t get from him often. 

Colt thinks about how Porco used to react when Marcel would be sent away, even if it was just for a training camp sponsored by a different town’s military unit. He’d be even surlier than usual, and with no Marcel to stop him from picking a fight, he’d get into more trouble, too. People’s worry seems to manifest in different ways. When he first made it into the Warrior Unit, his mother pulled out his baby album and started tearing up at the rare photos of a baby Colt. The six year old boy with a front tooth missing, smiling for his elementary school photo, is the son she sees being taken from her. 

Colt doesn’t know how to verbalize his feelings on the matter without embarrassing himself. If it were possible, Colt would gladly shoulder the weight of everybody’s worry for him. He doesn’t like the idea of his parents and little brother anticipating Marleyan officers coming to them, presenting them with a shoebox filled with trinkets meant to represent his life. He especially doesn’t like the idea of you anxiously waiting for him. He sees the split second of desperation in your eyes when you watch the door crack open, trying to see who’s behind it. He knows the relaxed slump of your body when you see it’s him is reserved just for him. He doesn’t want to try and imagine the reaction you have when it’s anyone else. 

(Because it will be, for at least several months, someone else.

And he will be miles away, trying to dodge a spray of bullets coming from men he doesn’t know, powerless to help you and maybe even himself.)

“That’s the problem.” He admits to Porco, before pushing his tray aside, losing his appetite.

When Falco is born, Colt can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that this crying, red-faced gremlin swathed in a baby-blue blanket is his brother. 

“This is your baby brother, Colt,” his mother cooed, rocking a newborn Falco and beckoning Colt to come closer. “His name is Falco.” 

Colt doesn’t know what baby brothers are supposed to do. For the first few days since they’ve brought him back from the hospital, Falco sure doesn’t do much besides cry and sleep. There’s a funny feeling he gets, though, whenever he hears his little brother cry. He wants his little brother to stop crying; not because the noise bothers him, but because he doesn’t want tiny Falco to be in any sort of distress.  

Colt’s still too young to worry about things like life and death, but he does find himself on his tip-toes, peering into Falco’s crib, seemingly worried that if he doesn’t watch over Falco himself, Falco will just disappear into thin air. He doesn’t ponder on it too much, but as Colt stares at the peaceful state his normally loud brother is in, Colt realizes two things: life is very precious, and he wants his brother to enjoy this life for as long as he can. 

He offers to carry Falco at any given moment, telling his mother that she’ll have her hands full while cooking and can’t carry him herself. He watches with morbid fascination (and a little disgust) as his father explains how and why he has to change Falco’s diaper, and even though he’s just joking when he asks Colt if he wants to change Falco the next time, he grins when young Colt nods solemnly. 

“You’re a good big brother,” his father tells him, squeezing him on the shoulder. 

A good big brother. 

This praise becomes one of Colt’s goals in life. He’s a dutiful son, a capable soldier, and a dependable older brother. He’s the one who Falco looks up to in this world. Falco’s the reason why he doesn’t ever fight back against the blatant disrespect some Marleyan soldiers show him. Falco’s the reason why he’s careful about who he hangs around with; Colt was never meant to be with the group who walked him straight to the red light district. Falco’s the reason why Colt finds himself nervously trying to build up the courage to give a request to Zeke. 

“They’re sending you to Fort Helena.” Zeke says rather than asks, tossing the baseball in a wide arc. Colt winces, but not because of the impact of the ball landing neatly in his palm. 

“Just my luck, I suppose.” He says, throwing the ball. 

It’s an ancient-looking thing, discolored from age and dirt. Colt can’t understand why Zeke hangs onto it, but asking him that seems even scarier than the prospect of asking him for a favor. 

“Do you?” Zeke raises an eyebrow. “Think you’re lucky, that is.” 

Colt catches the ball once more, hanging onto it for a few more seconds than necessary as he mulls over the question. He thinks about his family gathered around the kitchen table, no fear of ever starving, a nice roof over their heads. He thinks about Falco falling just short of making the preliminary list of future titan inheritors; with Colt inheriting the Beast, the Grice name will be restored. There will be no reason for Falco to chase after a meaningless legacy full of empty glory and an early death. He thinks about you.

“I’ve lived a better life than most.” Colt answers carefully. 

“Gonna be a bit of a short life, huh?” Zeke holds a hand up to stop Colt from tossing the ball back to him. Zeke fumbles with the inner pockets of his jacket, taking out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “My advice to you is to start doing whatever you want, otherwise the deadline starts to get to you.” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” 

Zeke takes a drag of the cigarette, casually exhaling smoke. “I don’t want to leave behind unfinished business.” And he leaves it at that, choosing to not elaborate any further. Colt doesn’t press him for more details; they don’t have that sort of relationship. Despite the fact that Zeke’s been a full-fledged Warrior for so long, Colt has a feeling that Zeke doesn’t really have any relationships that allow him to confide in others. “On that note, do you have any scores you’re trying to settle before you go?” 

Sometimes, Colt gets the funny feeling that conversations with Zeke are more like interrogations. Unlike Porco, who outright asks what’s on his mind, Zeke meticulously pokes and prods at all the weak points Colt wasn’t even aware he had. Colt finds himself shifting his weight around, the baseball suddenly feeling too heavy, his uniform too restrictive. 

“I just want to ensure that the people I care about are well taken care of, long after I’m gone.” 

Zeke studies him for a moment. The more time they spend together, the more layers of Zeke Colt thinks he unravels; the only issue is, surface level stuff is easy to understand. It’s when you start to dig deeper into a person’s being that they start to become confusing. He makes an effort to try to get to know Zeke, not for his own personal gain, but because no one really knows Zeke. How incredibly lonely it must be, Colt thinks, to not be known. To not even have anyone willing to try to learn you.

Of course, he knows that eventually he’ll understand what goes on in Zeke’s mind, that one day, Zeke’s memories will blend in with his own. But Colt’s not the invasive type. He needs to be invited in. 

“You’ll do a lot for your family.” Zeke comments.

“They’re my family.” And Colt leaves it at that, certain that nothing more could be said on the matter. In typical Zeke fashion, he pokes and he prods. He’s perfected the talent of softening the words that come from his sharp tongue, though.

“Your parents and your brother; they mean that much to you?” 

They mean the world to me. I’d die for them without any hesitation. I’d give up anything to ensure they live good lives. Those answers come to Colt naturally. He doesn’t have to think about saying them, but he does pause. Thinks to himself what a good answer might be. 

When he was younger— the Beast still wholly belonging to Zeke, Colt uncertain of what his bleak future might hold — Zeke had always seemed to be an enigma. All Colt knew about him was that he mostly kept to himself, that he proved his loyalty to Marley by betraying his family (and by extension, revealing Colt’s uncle as a dirty Restorationist), and that he knew much more than he let on. Colt figures out this last bit of information through years of conversation and mentorship. Zeke’s trick, Colt realizes, is that he lets everyone else around him do the talking. At best, Zeke will offer up the most bare minimum reply he can get away with.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” It’s a cheekier reply than what Colt would normally give, but he relaxes his shoulders when he catches the barest hint of a smile on Zeke’s lips. 

(That’s another thing Colt notices about his mentor; he doesn’t ever seem to smile.) 

“You worked hard to inherit the Beast. The appeal of being a Warrior so enticing that you would shorten the time you could spend with your family?” 

Colt sometimes forgets that Zeke technically has no family; his parents are either deep in the dungeons or dead due to their betrayal to the country. Colt hasn’t decided which fate is worse, and now he wonders if Zeke knows what has become of his parents. Zeke also doesn’t have any siblings; he probably can’t see where Colt is coming from.

“What I do affects my family entirely. If I become a Warrior, they receive the benefits and retain the status of honorary Marleyans.” Colt clears his throat. “Even after I’m dead.”

“Your brother — I heard he wants to inherit one of the Titans, eventually. Maybe follow in his older brother’s footsteps and take the Beast.” He’s not asking a question, but Colt can’t help but answer.

“That won’t happen.” He’s quick with the reply, tightening his grip on the battered baseball. “He’s already ranked close to the bottom of the list of candidates, and there wouldn’t be a point to him inheriting a Titan anyway.” 

“There’s always the opportunity to make Marley proud.” Zeke’s being sarcastic; his actions might indicate that he’s nothing but loyal to the motherland, but his expression and attitude suggest otherwise. “That’s not a pointless ordeal.”

Yeah, but this conversation is starting to feel like one. Colt loosens his grip on the baseball, unsure of what direction Zeke wanted to take this conversation in. Maybe it’s just a setup, and he’s trying to gauge Colt’s loyalty to the country before he officially inherits the Beast. Having someone who can transform into a powerful monster at will is already dangerous enough; imagine if that person just lost control or wanted to take their anger out on the people who abused them on a daily basis. 

(Honestly, the more he considers it, the more he realizes the amount of self-restraint Porco truly possesses. 

That, and the fact that he’s a mama’s boy. If he went rogue, Mrs. Galliard would surely pay the price for his transgressions.) 

“I just don’t see the point in him wanting to be on the frontlines of war.” Colt decides to say. It’s the truth. “There’s nothing to be gained from it.” 

“You’ve got a point there, Grice.” Another drag of his cigarette, another puff of nicotine-infused smoke being exhaled. “War’s only glorious when you see the pretty posters telling you it’s an honor to enlist. Won’t be long ‘til he’s being sent out there. The disillusionment they feel after their first deployment is always worse than the shell shock.” 

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Colt locks eyes with Zeke, and he continues speaking before he loses his nerve. “Falco still has some time where he’s considered a child, and you know that war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He looks up to you. Could you possibly… make some time to throw around the ball with him, maybe convince him that some fights just aren’t worth joining?” 

Zeke doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes off his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it, still possibly mulling over Colt’s request. 

“If it’s a request from my favorite successor, then sure.” A brief flash of a smile. “Hopefully he throws half as decent as you.” 

As a baby, Colt wasn’t very fussy. His mother used to tell him that she was worried about him while he was growing up because he wouldn’t make a lot of noise. She tells stories about how, as a child, he would curl up in bed, trying to make himself as small as possible, almost as if he was scared of taking up too much space. This anxious reflex was something he grew out of, probably because that growth spurt of his resulted in him taking up a lot more space everywhere he goes. It’s hard to hide in plain sight when you’re the one who has to grab stuff on the top shelf for others.

Falco isn’t like that, though. Colt remembers the long nights of constant crying that came from his baby brother’s crib, the way he could never hold in his wails of pain when he would skin a knee while playing on the decrepit public playground in the internment zone, the excited shouts of joy he let out as he barreled straight into Colt’s outstretched arms on the days a young Colt would return from the military base. Falco might be nearing ten years old now, but he still hasn’t outgrown much of his childhood; tufts of feathersoft hair that still sticks out against his longer strands, baby fat that makes his cheeks appear to be chubby, adult teeth that fits awkwardly in his mouth, and most incriminating of all: his innocence. 

Falco doesn’t know anything about war. It’s because their father doesn’t like to discuss it, and Colt will do anything to ensure that Falco never learns. He complains that everyone in their family babies him, and Colt doesn’t know how to tell Falco that it’s because to them, he still is a baby. When Colt looks at him, he still sees the little brother who would hide behind his back, wiping his tears and snot against the fabric of Colt’s shirt. 

Colt isn’t the type of person who speaks up for himself, but it’s an entirely different story when it comes to others. Growing up, he would get teased on the schoolyard, yelled at by his instructors in the military, sneered at, spat at, laughed at. He took it all in stride, and when it comes to matters concerning only himself, he still does — take it all in stride, that is. Just last week, he was on courtyard cleaning duty, except the Eldian units had no brooms to sweep with. He had to make do with a crutch (loaned to him by an injured soldier who felt bad for him) shoddily attached to some raggedy broom bristles. 

The alternative would have been to ask a superior officer for a proper broom, but Colt already knows how that would have ended: with him getting yelled at in front of everyone, absolute humiliation and shame coursing through his veins, and still, no broom. 

When you spend most of your life being someone’s go-to punching bag, you start to get a feel for what’s a losing battle, for what fight is worth having. 

Even if things will only prove to get worse for him, Colt jumps to the defense of others. Even if it’s a losing battle, when it comes to matters concerning Falco, it doesn’t matter what odds are stacked against him, what cruel punishment awaits for him; defending Falco will always be a fight worth having. 

It’s why he’s the big brother who kills all the bugs, the brother who checks the closet and under the bed to make sure there are no monsters in the room, the brother who couldn’t hold in his shout of disapproval when he saw the youth commanding officer punishing Falco. He’s the brother who enlisted so Falco would never have to. 

And now, picking him up from his barracks so they can take the train home, Colt realizes that he will have to be the brother who leaves. 

It leaves a bad feeling in his stomach, punches him in the gut, and it’s silent as he and Falco board the train. It’s no more than a twenty minute ride to the internment zone from base, but the silence between them makes the seconds drag out and feel like years. Even worse — no amount of time seems to be sufficient enough for what Colt wants to say to him. 

Sorry I didn’t tell you I was getting shipped off to war. Hey buddy, looks like I’m heading off to war! You’ll never guess where I’m going! Don’t be selfish; let your brother get some glory for you to brag about!

He thinks he’d rather get waterboarded than say any of those statements to Falco. If the roles were reversed, if he was the younger brother feeling betrayed over his older brother’s silence, what would he want to hear? 

The truth. 

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was scared.” 

Falco looks up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. He’s sitting on the seat across from him, and Colt can’t help but notice the way he’s still short enough to where his feet don’t even hit the ground. It makes him swallow hard, before continuing. 

“I was scared you would be worried about me.” 

“But I am!” Falco interjects, looking like he’s about to hop out of his seat. “That’s why I’m training so hard, so that I can be the one who fights alongside you in the future!” 

The thing about little brothers is that they can’t fathom a scenario where they’re not right by their brother’s side. Falco doesn’t think about how awful going to war will be; just that it’s important to him that they’re with each other when it happens. Colt thinks back to the way Porco used to go around bragging that one day, he’d be fighting side by side with his older brother, Marcel. 

Then Colt thinks about the haunted look on Porco’s face when he realizes that his older brother is dead. When Porco’s birthday comes around, the one where he reaches the age Marcel never had a chance to be, he doesn’t celebrate. Colt stares at the earnest expression on Falco’s face, memorizes his childlike naivety, and prays that nothing changes about him when he comes back from Fort Helena.

(Because he will come back. There’s too many people waiting for his return.)

It’s barely late in the afternoon, but there’s a darkness that smothers the internment zone of Liberio.

The sun is shining, and Colt can feel himself already getting overheated in his uniform as he steps off the train, but even the sunlight does nothing to wipe the grim expressions off the faces of his fellow soldiers. Everyone’s excited to be off base and to see their loved ones, sure, but this isn’t a holiday visit 

When there’s active war and their enlisted sons are stuck on base, Eldian parents know what it means when they see their child on the doorsteps of their home, no prior explanation given except for a letter in the mail sent just a day before the dreaded arrival of their son. 

Opening the door and seeing their baby in uniform isn’t a cause for celebration. It’s the chance that this very well may be the last time they ever see their child again.

No one is out in the street. Parents and families have received their letters in the mail, telling them that in twenty-four hours, they can expect to see their soldier returning home for the night. 

Not even a full day, Colt realizes. He’s back a few hours before supper, but what really can he do with his family before he wakes up at the crack of dawn to head on a train to a warzone? Maybe, in the few hours he has with them, he’ll figure out a proper way to say farewell. 

The Grice family home is modest, unassuming. Much like its inhabitants. 

Barnaby Grice is where Colt inherits his height from, but he’s developed a slouch (a disappointing consequence of his chronic back pain) that makes it hard to believe. His shoulders sag, and he looks tired. Mom says it’s because he can’t sleep at night; too much restless energy. His father is good with his hands; before the illness took over, he had been one of the engineers — one of the few Eldian engineers, too — that worked on the Navy’s ships. He still wants to work, offering to help fix up neighbor’s boats, free of charge. It’s a slow death, to be a busybody whose body is failing them. 

Amelia Grice fusses over her husband constantly. With both of her boys now out of the house, it’s easier to manage the household, but that doesn't mean she can’t find problems that need her attention. If keeping an eye on her husband proves to be not enough to keep her entertained, she spends her time flipping through old family albums, seeing her little boys, and then wondering what she can do to help them. She’s taken up knitting; sewing is essential, but knitting is purely for pleasure. There’s a stack of sweaters and blankets she’s managed to make, and they’re all going to be stuffed in her sons’ knapsacks before they take the train back to base. 

(She knits every time she thinks about them.

It’s going to be impossible for them to take all her completed projects back with them.) 

As plain as it appears to be, it’s home to Colt. He stares at the faded red brick exterior of the house, the shutters black (and the color too saturated, indicating that it’s been freshly painted since the last time he’s been here), the welcome mat swept clean from any outside debris. 

He doesn’t even have to knock on the door for it to swing open, revealing the tired, worn, but relieved expressions on both of his parents’ faces. 

“Colt, Falco, you’re back home!” His mother ushers them into the house, and Colt is slapped in the face with the strong wall of nostalgia. 

When was the last time he’s been back home? 

(Will this be the last time?) 

No matter the time that’s passed, Colt can tell that his mother’s been cooking her famous roast; the spices are still marinating on the meat, and he can recognize mom’s cooking from miles away. If he faints on the battlefield, the scent of her cookies should be enough to bring him back to full consciousness. 

He sees his father’s work boots still resting by the front door, and as he walks further along the narrow hallway of their home, he spots the pencil marks etched on the wall. It’s markers for his (and then Falco’s) new heights as they went through their childhood years. Amelia is back in the kitchen, fussing over the food, and Falco follows her, probably in the hopes of sneaking in bites when she’s not looking. 

Barnaby watches as Colt looks at the pencil marks he left behind all those years ago. He can still picture his son barely able to reach his shoulders, and now Colt is easily taller than him. 

“Should I get out the tape measurer and pencil?” He asks, smiling as Colt seems to be broken out of whatever trance he was in. 

Colt gives him a sheepish grin. “I just couldn’t believe I was ever this tiny. Even Falco was taller than me when we were the same age!”

“I can remember when you weren’t tall enough to reach the cabinets so you would have to climb on top of the counters.” When he catches the faint blush on his son’s cheeks, Barnaby laughs. “Bet you would rather not remember that, huh?” 

“Mom screamed at me to get down because she was scared I was going to fall off and break open my head or something. Her yelling was what nearly made me lose my balance!” 

“Ah, your mom just worries about you too much.” 

“Don’t play Mr. Tough Guy!” Amelia peeks her head out from the kitchen. With her back turned, only Colt and Barnaby can spot Falco mischievously popping one of the baby potatoes from the pot roast into his mouth. They hold in their laughter while his mother continues. “Just so you know, Colt, your father’s been up all night ever since we got that letter! He even started sifting through our trashed newspapers for any articles he might’ve missed on Fort Helena.” 

“I was just curious about the crossword.” Her husband mutters, but she rolls her eyes. 

“Falco, go set the table! You two, come in here and sit down. I’m about to serve supper.” 

Nothing beats a home cooked meal, but when you’ve been fed nothing but indiscernible mush and questionable protein on a military base, the Grice boys can’t help but devour everything on the table like they’ve been starved. Too happy at having the whole family over for dinner, Mrs. Grice ignores the way they forgo table manners and instead encourages them to eat some more. Right when Colt’s plate is almost cleaned off, she’s forking over more meat and potatoes onto his plate. 

Colt tries to savor the taste of the meal, hopes and prays that his taste buds retain the memory of his mother’s cooking so he has something to substitute for the tasteless protein bars they serve all soldiers on the battlefield. He’s been trying to actively avoid thinking too much about it, but where he’s headed, there will be no pot roasts or mothers to serve it up on a nice plate for him. 

Later on in the night, Colt gets that funny feeling again. The one where he feels like time seems to quicken its pace when it comes to him. He blinks, and he’s suddenly not at the dinner table, laughing at what the neighbors have been up to. He’s no longer washing the dishes, either (he does it despite his mother protesting that he shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning when he needs to be up early tomorrow); Falco still finds it funny when Colt makes funny shapes out of the bubbles and suds from the dish soap, and their boyish laughter fills the house, makes it feel like a home once more. Time gives him some grace, though, when it comes to tucking in Falco. 

“A lot nicer than the bunk beds in the barracks, huh?” Colt teases. Falco’s sheets are still the same baby blue, but they smell fresh. His mother must have washed them while waiting for them to come home. 

“Smells a lot nicer, too.” Falco comments, and Colt laughs. He’s sitting on the edge of his little brother’s bed, and Falco’s all snuggled up in his blanket. With the sweat and grime washed off from his face, his pastel colored jammies fitting only a bit too snug, and the way he fits so perfectly in his childhood bedroom, Colt knows that this is what Falco’s nights should have still been looking like. Falco will take the later train back to base, but Colt’s happy that he’ll at least get to eat lunch with their parents; maybe even find some time to catch up with the other neighborhood kids. 

“If you think the barracks are bad, I don’t think you’ll want to be going where I’m going.” He’s trying to keep his voice light, teasing, but Falco immediately frowns. 

“I’ll always follow you anywhere! I don’t care how bad it gets! You told me that as long as we’re together, everything will be okay.” 

People aren’t supposed to go back on their word — especially not older brothers. Colt cringes as he thinks about how he’s going to have to make an addendum to that particular promise. 

“You know, Falco, war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s dirty, and disgusting, and the officers are all harsher than they usually are.” 

“I know that!” 

Not really, not yet. 

“Then why do you want to go with me so badly?” 

“Because you’re my brother. Because I don’t want you to go through that alone.” 

“You know that I love you, right?”

“Of course, I do. I’m not an idiot.” He mumbles, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, covering his chin. 

“And it’s because I love you that I’m telling you to not follow me to these places. I’m your big brother. I want to do all of this so you’re never obligated to.” 

“But—” 

“Do you know why I thought inheriting the Beast was such an honor? It wasn’t because I wanted to make Marley proud, or because I was finally giving our country reparations for what Uncle did. It was an honor for me to inherit it because it meant that our family would be safe. No one else would have to fight anymore. It’ll all be over, don’t you get it? You can live better lives now.” 

“But I don’t want to live a better life without you! It won’t be a better life without you!” Even in the dark, Colt can spot the familiar shine in his brother’s eyes as an indicator that he’s about to cry. 

“Falco—” Colt pats him on the head, feeling babysoft hair underneath his calloused palm. “Everything will be okay in the end. I promise.” 

That’s the first promise of the night that Colt makes. The next comes a few minutes later, when he heads downstairs and sees that the living room light is still on. His parents are seated next to each other on the couch, and they seem to be waiting for him.

If Colt was still a teenager, he would be feeling nervous. They’re seated almost as if they’re about to confront him about breaking curfew or a bad grade (neither scenarios have actually happened; the nickname of “Golden Boy Grice” didn’t spring out of nowhere). 

“Hi.” He sits on the armchair adjacent to them. 

“It’s still early in the evening, but you might as well go wash up and head to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you, sweetie.” His mother suggests this, but there’s a reason why she’s still up and waiting for him. It’s because she doesn’t want him to go to bed, not yet, not when she finally has her baby within reach. 

“Too early for me to be able to sleep.” Colt tells her, because he knows how she’s feeling. “Besides, I feel like there’s some stuff I didn’t get to share with you two during dinner.” 

Colt explains about how the paycheck he’ll receive while he’s actively on the battlefield will increase; not only has being a Warrior greatly increased his earnings, but being on the frontlines will leave plenty for his family. Half of his paycheck will go to them, of course, but he loses his confidence in his speech when he reveals his plan. 

“And a portion of my earnings will be going to someone else.” 

“Someone else?” His father raises an eyebrow; it’s not out of malice, but curiosity. He doesn’t care what his son does with his money, but throughout this entire day, Colt hasn’t given any indication of anyone important entering his life. 

“A girl.” Colt answers, suddenly quieter than he’s been all night. “I’ve made the proper arrangements so that you two won’t have to worry about manually divvying it up yourselves, especially if I… don’t return.”

(It had been an awkward affair. He knows that you don’t have a bank account, and his only choice was to turn to Willa, the redheaded woman running your brothel. 

“You want my bank account information so that a portion of your paycheck can be deposited into my account, and then you want me to cash it out and hand it over to her? Is that correct?” 

“I understand if it’s too much of a hassle. If necessary, I can pay you—”

“I’m not going to kick someone when they’re down.” Willa interrupts him, and he can’t help but feel like maybe she’s even insulting him. Does she think he’s poor? 

He kind of is, but he makes a far more decent living than many others in his neighborhood!

“Of course I can do it. Did you tell her about you sending her money?” 

“No.”

“Good. She would have refused it.”

He knows you would. That’s precisely why he didn’t tell you.

“I don’t meddle in the affairs of soldiers, and I certainly don’t micromanage my girls. I’m asking this because I care about her. What are your intentions, truly? Are you going to steal her away from this place? Are you going to keep on giving her your paychecks, even when you find yourself a wife and start a family? Are you going to leave her with nothing but a few memories of you?” Willa’s green eyes are too sharp; just like Zeke, she pokes and prods, but it’s her intense stare that seems to whittle away at his very soul. 

“I want to do whatever she wants.” 

Willa’s eyes soften, just the slightest bit, before she promises to hand over the money to you every week, and then she sends Colt on his merry way.)

“A girl?” His mother repeats, and his father only continues to look more concerned. 

“Did you do something with this girl to make her your responsibility?” Barnaby asks, scared of what answer he’ll receive. 

“No! It’s not like that!” Colt exclaims, nearly jumping out of his seat. “It’s different. It’s… A delicate situation.” He tries to avoid looking into his parents’ eyes when he says this. 

“Is she Eldian?” His father presses, leaning forward, practically holding his breath. 

“She’s from the refugee camp.” Colt explains, and he watches as his mother processes what he’s just told them, along with the relieved slump of his father’s shoulders. 

Refugees aren’t treated much better than Eldians; at least most Eldians have houses as opposed to tents. 

“Is she a nice girl?” Amelia enters her Mother Hen mode, knowing that it’ll do no good to worry over her son. She shifts her anxieties onto you instead. “Oh, that poor girl, she’s going to be freezing in the upcoming weeks! You know we have some of the harshest winters here. Maybe I should knit her some sweaters. Do you think she would like that? What’s her name? I’ll head down to the camp one of these days, and—” 

“Mom, it’s okay! She’s doing well.” 

She doesn’t seem to believe him, but she eases up on her questions. 

“She must mean a lot to you, though.” His father brings up. “Enough to mention her to your dear old parents. About time you bring a girl home to us, boy.” 

Colt looks down at his hands. “She does. I’ll bring her back home if I make it back.” 

The if stabs him in the throat, but he knows better than to make the promise of when.

“Well, we can’t wait to meet her then.” His mother is smiling at him, her hands clasped with his father’s. “I have a great feeling about her.” 

There’s a breach in the barbed wire surrounding the back outskirts of the internment zone. Legend has it that a Marleyan officer once fell in love with an Eldian girl, and he sneakily cut this discreet opening so that they could make an escape and run off into the woods to be together. 

Truthfully, Colt believes the other version of the origin story of the hole. It goes something along the lines of how a Marleyan officer once fought on the battlefield with an Eldian, and the Eldian saved his life by taking a bullet for him. Feeling bad, the officer returned, took his name off for active duty volunteer, and became a patrolman for the internment zone instead. When he heard that the Eldian’s brother was going to be shipped off next, the officer, not understanding that deserting his duty would lead to the Eldian’s death, decided to cut open this part of the fence and let him know that running away was an option. 

Colt’s not sure what to believe, but he does know that this opening in the fence has been used for the past decade or so, and will probably continue to be of use long after he’s gone. No one’s ever used it to desert their duties, and Colt thinks this is precisely why it’s never been fixed. You can loosen the leash on a dog to give them some semblance of freedom, and it’ll make it feel better when it heads back to its owner. 

He checks his watch. He’ll make it to you just short of ten at night; he has to be back on the train by five in the morning. He needs more time, but he knows he’ll never get it. Instead, he finds himself awkwardly sneaking through the poorly cut opening of the fence, glad that it’s an unspoken rule that the Marleyan officers don’t patrol the streets on deployment nights. 

If anyone was actually idiotic enough to escape, they’d find all the officers waiting for them at all the possible exits. 

Even entering the brothel starts to feel too familiar to Colt. The sparsely furnished entrance puts him at ease since the space is so narrow, he’s bound to bump into something or knock over a vase if they had it. The lightbulb burns brightly; one night, he stopped by and offered to change the bulb while he waited for you. Now, he even can recognize some of the girls photographed on the wall.

Even Willa doesn’t seem as intimidating as before — still intimidating, yes, but Colt can almost muster up the courage to look her in the eyes for prolonged periods of conversation. 

But there’s someone here that feels the most familiar to him, the one person who puts him at ease, the one person who makes time stand still for him.

You.

Just looking at you makes his anxieties momentarily freeze, and he resists the urge to scoop you in his arms and hold you close to his chest. 

“Why so serious, soldier?” You giggle, smoothing down the dress you put on just for him. When Willa went down your list of appointments, she didn’t miss the way your face lit up as she mentioned Colt’s name. You had some free time; you wanted to look pretty for him. 

He’s taking you in, eyes unsure of what to focus on, just knowing that he wants to focus on you. You’re wearing a pretty, colorful dress that reaches down to the floor and accentuates your figure. The fabric looks light, soft. He likes it when you wear your colorful clothing. It makes you stand out even more. You brighten up his life, and you don’t even know it. 

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes out, still standing there, a man stunned. 

“I knew you would appreciate all the time and effort I put into getting ready!” You give him a pleased hum, before looking up and gasping. “Your hair!”

“Huh, what’s wrong with it?” He runs his hand through his fresh buzz cut, worried that a branch or leaves had somehow created a nest on top of his head.

“Why is it so short now?” You look so concerned that he can’t help but laugh. You’re taking his hand, dragging him to bed, forcing him to sit down as you balance yourself atop his lap. He wonders if you’re as hyper aware of how intimate this position is. He wonders if he’s a bad person for having to restrain himself, trying his best to chase away any unchaste thoughts about you. Instead, he chooses to focus on you. 

Colt’s used to being scrutinized. Every move he makes is under the careful, unremitting surveillance of Marley. There’s probably a counter for every blink he’s ever done, just to ensure he isn’t communicating to his fellow brethren via morse code. He’s used to the watchful eyes of Marleyan soldiers and officers who eagerly wait for him to mess up; no matter how minor the infraction, there will be a punishment to serve for his mistake. He’s used to the feeling of eyes focused on him. The harsh glares, the fearful looks, the disgusted glances, the pitiful gazes. 

You’re looking at him intently, your eyes trailing over every centimeter of him. 

Curiosity. Wonder. Appreciation.

Your eyes are full of them, and so much more, and all of it is meant for him, because of him. 

Even from this position, with you straddling his lap, it’s still hard to peer over him. He has impossibly nice posture, always with his back straight and stiff. Still, you play with the hastily shaved hair, running the tips of your fingers against the incredibly short strands, so concentrated on your little exploration that you almost seem to have forgotten you even asked him a question.

Until you pause, let out a little gasp that has him looking up in worry, and now you’re asking him a question you couldn’t possibly be distracted from obtaining your answer to. 

“What’s this?” You ask him, fingers pausing at the two scars dangerously close to his forehead. You’ve never noticed them before; they’re too close to his hairline, easily hidden when his hair is grown out and covering it from the world. With the buzzcut, the twin scars stick out against his fine, blond strands. 

“My scars?” He meets your eyes, reaching up to gently place his hand over yours, the one that was tracing his scars with morbid fascination. 

You nod, not wanting to speak out of fear that the words are going to get tangled in your throat. He lets out a soft laugh, even though nothing seems very funny to you right now. He stops when he sees your frown, your sad eyes. 

He squeezes your hand. “They’re just scars. Nothing to worry about.” 

“How long have they been there?” 

“Since I was fourteen, I think.” Colt’s other hand finds its way to your waist, and he holds you, keeps you steady. “See, I can’t even remember all the details from how I got them. Not that serious, okay?” 

But it is serious, you want to tell him. Because it’s him. Because a scar indicates an injury. Because it’s Colt getting hurt.  

You swallow down those sentences, and instead let out a shaky, “How’d you get them?” 

Now he winces, almost like the memory is being played out in his mind. Colt doesn't think too much of how bad his luck is, but he is acutely aware of how lame his life sounds when he has to actually verbalize what he’s been through to you. “It was during one of my earlier sparring matches. They had all of us get dressed in full military uniform to simulate what combat as an active soldier would feel like, and you’ve seen it before, the helmets we wear. Bulletproof, so the material isn’t the softest.” He chuckles a bit, but it’s clear that he failed to lighten the mood. He clears his throat, continuing. 

“It’s not a very interesting story. A Marleyan soldier was just being extra aggressive that day, and I happened to be the one paired up with him.” Because that’s typically how Colt’s luck goes. “And he managed to take my helmet off and rammed it against my head. None of the officers noticed until after he got the second hit, which is why there’s only two. So, could be worse, huh?” He’s smiling, trying to make you feel more at ease, but the look you’re giving him makes his heart ache. 

Only two? Only?

“Did the officers not notice or did they just refuse to acknowledge it until it looked like you would bleed out to death on the training field?” Your voice is shaking, and Colt moves your hand from his hair to down on the bed. 

“Hey. Look at me, please.” Always gentle, always kind, always soft. You like that about him, maybe feel something even more for him because he’s like this, but where does that gentleness, that kindness, that unwavering softness, lead him to? Bloody wounds and lasting scars? Bad memories and story retellings that leave a bitter taste in his mouth? 

You comply, still frowning at him. 

“I’m okay now. I’ll always be okay.” 

He squeezes your hand as if to punctuate his promise. 

“I can’t believe I never noticed you had these scars.” You sound upset over this fact.

He laughs lightly. “Even the people watching the match probably don’t remember if it left me scarred or not. You shouldn’t feel bad. Besides, when my hair grows out, it’s hard to see.” 

“Why did you get a haircut?” You ask him again; the soldiers you’ve seen all grow their hair out. It’s not a bad look; you think Colt is so handsome he could pull off just about anything, but still — your soldier doesn’t strike you as someone who wants to venture out and try new haircuts.

You don’t miss the hard swallow and the tightness of his jaw. He’s stressed about something. He’s hiding something.

“Colt—” Despite the nervousness of what his answer could possibly be, you still say his name gently. 

He closes his eyes, memorizing the way you say his name. You always say his name gently. You even say your brother’s name, Ramzi, gently, too. You treat names with care, like they’re something precious, fragile. 

He’s a soldier, yes, but there’s something nice in knowing that the person you adore the most believes that you are something precious, fragile, meant to be handled with care. 

“—why did you get your hair cut?”

He opens his eyes. Your pretty features are contorted into a look of confusion and concern. He wants to tell you not to worry about him, that he’ll be fine, that he has everything handled. Instead, he swallows hard and takes you in, commits the image of you to his memory. He’d forget his own name in favor of remembering the way you look when you smile, pure joy lighting up your usual melancholy expression. 

“Tonight is my last night seeing you before I get deployed.”

“You’re leaving?” He doesn’t like the way your question sounds, coming out raw and scratchy. Disappointed. Hurt. 

And he’s so close to you right now, your weight resting comfortably on top of him, that he can witness all the emotion flickering across your facial features, pooling around in your eyes.

“Yes.” 

Gone is your good mood. You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, his hand still holding yours. You’re looking at him like he’s going to disappear at any minute now, and he’s so scared that he’ll blink, and he’ll really be gone, already on the train off to war. 

Don’t look at me like I’m already a ghost. He wants to beg you. Stare at me for as long as you want, but trust that I’ll still be here.

“When will you be back?” You finally manage to find the strength to ask him.

“As soon as I can be.” It’s the most honest answer he can give you; the answer that will crush you the least. The truth? He’s not even sure if he’s going to make it back. War promises a lot of things: honor, glory, heroics. It never promised a safe return. 

“You’ll come back, though, right?” You’re staring at him so expectantly that Colt Grice knows he’ll do anything on the battlefield to ensure that he’s on the train back home, back to you. 

“If that’s what you want, I’ll find a way.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You scold him, and he can’t help but smile at a fond memory of you telling him the same exact thing just a few weeks prior. 

Before the kiss that he relives in his memories constantly, before deployment was even a thought on the forefront of his mind, just barely a fortnight before now, Colt’s sitting on the floor, back against the side of your bed, looking up at you from an angle that surely hurts his neck but he doesn’t protest. He never complains.

Sometimes you wish he would, just so you could know what to do to put him at ease, like how he always seems to be able to comfort you. 

In this moment, Colt’s finishing up telling you a story about the blind date mishaps that happen on base. The girls-to-boys ratio on base is absolutely abysmal, he says, and the girls hold all the cards. 

“The girls on base must find you handsome, don’t they?” You’re on the bed, but you’re sitting upright, knees up so you can rest your chin atop them.  

“Um, well, I don’t know—”

“They do.” You say, suddenly wanting to curl up and make yourself feel smaller. You know it’s silly to feel the way that you do; scared that one day Colt will just look at you and not see anything worth looking at. If Colt stops and thinks about the future, you wonder, where do you fit in it? You know that you don’t exactly resemble the beautiful Eldian girls that he’s grown up with, the same ones who are probably more than happy to pursue him. They’re connected to him by the same culture, the same background — surely whatever connection he feels with you couldn’t possibly be as strong as what he can share with them. 

“I don’t care that they do. I only care if you find me handsome.” 

The expression on his face is so earnest and honest that you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. You’re not good at being vulnerable, never as open with your feelings as he is, but it’s almost like he can tell when you’re on the brink of insanity. When you’re close to blurting out that you don’t want him anymore, even though that’s far from the truth. 

“Well, what happens if the most beautiful girl on base approaches you and says you’re the most attractive man she’s ever seen, and she wants to let you do all sorts of depraved, nasty things to her? What then?” 

Colt likes to think that he’s managed to get a good read on you. You don’t often say what’s exactly on your mind, but he thinks he can fill in the blanks most of the time. There is no beautiful girl on base for you to be concerned about, and just the hypothetical that you’re bringing up is so comical that he almost wants to laugh. Even if it seems silly, he holds back his smile. You’re not asking him because you think this scenario is likely going to happen; you’re asking him would you choose me over someone else?

The answer is you’re the only one for me. 

“I would scream for the authorities to take her away from my vicinity.” 

“Hmm.” You mull over his answer, secretly pleased that he’s playing along with your antics that stem from places of yourself that you don’t want to explore; the insecurity, the fear, the anxiety that comes with being someone who you’re so certain is too good for you. 

The more of himself he hands over to you, the more comfortable you feel with him. But the more you have of him, the more frightened you get at the prospect of losing him, because as the days go by, there’s more of him to lose. He’s not the stuttering boy who brought you socks one time. He’s the only man who knows your name and says it with such tender care that you start to believe that if you dare to fall, he’ll be there to catch you. 

“What if you go out drinking with your friends, and the bartender is a very pretty girl, and she offers you free drinks and flirts with you all night?” You know Colt can’t turn down a good drink. Him not turning down the opportunity to go to a bar practically led him to your room all those nights ago. 

Is your favorite vice more appealing than me? 

“I would pay off my tab immediately, and let her know that I took a vow of sobriety. I wouldn’t even finish my current drink. I would just run and get the hell out of there.” 

This makes you laugh. When his time is up, and he has to pass along the Beast to the next successor, he hopes they know how blessed they are to be able to hear your soft laughter in his passed-down memories. This is a melody that cannot be replicated by any trained orchestra. 

“A vow of sobriety? You would never!”

He pretends to be hurt at your comment. “If you asked me to give up drinking, I’d never let a single drop of liquor in my system ever again.” 

You mean more to me than any vice. There is no pleasure on this planet that can compare to the euphoria I feel when I’m with you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” But you’re still giggling, adjusting your position so that you’re laying on your belly now, looking at him like you believe him. 

(You should. He means every word he says to you.)

“You always tell me that.” He brings your hand close to his face before he’s pressing a kiss against your knuckles. Like heat hitting butter, you melt into him, suddenly finding yourself sinking against his chest, hiding your face from him in the space between his shoulder and jawline. The top of your hair tickles his chin; you breathe in deeply, catching the faint whiff of cologne and soap on his neck. 

“No I don't.” You mutter, knowing damn well that you do. 

You always ask him wild hypotheticals, usually out of the blue, too, as if you’re trying to catch him off guard. As if you’re waiting for him to slip up and admit that one day, he really will just run away with some other girl and drop you like a bad habit. 

“What if you find a girl who doesn’t bother you with her stupid questions?” Your hands grip the material of his uniform, fingers curled around the dry cleaned cotton blend. 

“There’s only one girl who keeps my attention, whether she’s asking me questions or not.” You feel the familiar touch of his hand pressed against the small of your back. Warm. Comforting. 

Refusing to give in to him too soon, you soldier on, picking your next set of questions. These are a bit more serious.

“What if the war never ends, and you’re stuck on your deployment forever?” 

“I’ll pretend to be insane and get sent to the mental facility back home, and then you’ll be the one who has to do all the running around to visit me.” 

You don’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling when he says this. You should chastise him for not taking this seriously, but then the warmth of his body pressed against yours keeps you grounded. Helps you to remember that no one else in the world would be taking this barrage of stupid questions as seriously as him. 

“Well, what if you’re fighting and get horribly injured, and then some cute nurse saves your life? I heard that’s how a lot of soldiers meet their wives.” 

You can feel him playing with the ends of your hair as he tries to decide on a proper answer. It feels nice, to have him twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, and it’s almost enough to get you to ditch all these hypotheticals, but you stand your ground. “Well?” 

“That won’t happen because I won’t let any nurse work on me, cute or not. If I get hurt, I’ll fix myself up.” 

You think about the scars permanently embedded on his skin. The casual violence inflicted on him. The indifference of every doctor he’s dealt with.

“Don’t say that.” You mumble, trying to sink yourself even deeper into him, curling up against his chest and almost shyly burying your whole face into the stiff material of his uniform jacket. “I don’t want you to not get medical attention.” 

Colt catches himself smiling. First, you’re worried about him running off with a nurse, next you’re telling him that he needs to get aid if he needs it. He doesn’t mind answering all your questions if it’ll put your mind at ease, but he does wonder why the terms of engagement keep switching. 

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell the nurse that just because she saves my life, it doesn’t mean I’ll run away with her.” Then, after really taking the time to consider a scenario in which he does need medical attention, he adds, “I don’t think I’ll look like someone worth marrying when I’m bleeding out and covered in dirt.” 

You let out a little huff of laughter at the idea of Colt ever looking unattractive. As if. Still fresh in your memories is the vision of him from months ago; even with his bruised face and body limping from exhaustion, he still looked handsome. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“That you would think anyone wouldn’t want to marry you.” Now you tilt your head to look up at him. He has an unreadable expression on his face, almost like he’s deep in thought, but you’re not sure what he could be considering. 

“I wouldn’t marry just anyone, though.” He finally says, looking down at you. One hand is still playing with your hair, constantly toying with the ends of it. This time, the action isn’t enough to distract you. 

He wouldn’t marry just anyone?

You’re aware of your heart beating and from this position, you’re certain that he can feel it, too. Hating this sudden overwhelming sensation of vulnerability, of being exposed, you feel yourself trying to edge away from him. You must have been easy to figure out, or maybe Colt just knows you too well already, because he’s prepared, gently pushing his hand against your back to keep you settled next to him. 

“Hey,” he says this softly; just when you think he reaches peak gentleness, it’s like he unlocks some hidden reserve of it. Like he has an unlimited amount of kindness stored in his battered body. Softer still, he’s telling you, “Ask me another question.”

“What if you find the one you want to marry?” You can’t look at him when you ask this. 

“I already did.” This is the quickest he’s ever answered you, and you know that he gives you outrageous responses for every silly hypothetical you throw his way. You want to tell him that out of all these questions, this is the most serious one. He needs to take this seriously. The implication drawn from his answer frightens you as much as it excites you. 

“But what if you don’t come back?” Your voice sounds so small that he can practically see the words shrinking in size as you speak. 

“I will.” You feel him tracing a shape against your back. He swallows hard. “I’ll come back to you. I always will. I promise.” 

Out of all the ridiculous statements exchanged this night, you think this one takes the cake. Even more unrealistic than him giving up drinking. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You don’t like the way your words come out when you’re with him, all coated in emotion. He makes you feel things to the point where all those feelings struggle to be contained ‘til they’re spilling out your lips and drowning the both of you in them. 

“Okay. I’ll promise not to make promises I can’t keep.” You wonder what he’s outlining on your back with the tip of his index finger. It could be letters, and you try to focus on following his movements, but you can’t. Something about it seems to calm you down, steadies your heartbeat. Makes it feel like you won’t drown from the overwhelming urge to beg Colt to run away with you, that you’ll survive this tidal wave of emotions and live to see the start of a new day.

And then he says something that pulls you under, drowning you, crushes you with the intensity of something indescribable. All you know is that you’re full of this foreign feeling when he tells you, “I promise to come back. Always.” 

He can tell you that he’ll try to come back, or that he wants you to forget all about him if he doesn’t make it. Those are more realistic. Those are promises that are easy to keep. 

But Colt can never seem to take the easy way in life. He’d rather take the roughest route there is, all the while, he’s fixing the road so that the others who follow have a smoother path to take. 

“I’ll come back to you.” He repeats, cradling the back of your head as you try to bury yourself into all the empty spaces of his body.

He catches a glance at the face of his watch; it’s nearly midnight now. He’ll have to head back soon, even though he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with you on top of him, his arms wrapped around you. 

He whispers your name, and you barely stir, but you let out a little hum to let him know you’re listening. 

“Do you want to know how to send me letters while I’m away? Just in case you ever need to reach me for anything, or just in case you want to hear from me?” He sounds almost afraid, like he thinks your answer is going to be a rejection. 

“Of course I want to! I didn’t know we could send letters to soldiers.” You actually sound excited, but then you pause. “Oh, you should let me know if there’s a limit to how many letters I can send. I don’t want you to get sick of seeing my name in the post. And, you’ll be busy, obviously, so I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

You’re used to your gentle, soft soldier. Colt, who always ends his sentences with a chuckle or a good natured jibe (usually self deprecating). This is one of the first times you’ve ever heard him sound so serious. The gentle ministrations of his finger tracing letters and shapes against your spine don’t cease, but his voice is hard. Full of conviction. It leaves no room for your insecurities to rent out. 

“You’re never a bother to me. Write to me as much as you would like. I always want to hear from you.”

It’s the truth. Always honest, always open, Colt is telling you the truth.

(He loses count of how many times he’s traced stars across your back, and in shaky, anxious letters — fearful that you’ll figure it out — I love you.) 

In 852, roughly four thousand Eldian soldiers and twenty-two Marleyan officers are sent to capture and restore Marleyan order in Fort Helena. Only nine hundred Eldians and twenty Marleyans will come home.

The train ride to Fort Helena is a rowdy one.

The train rides to all deployments usually are. 

Even if they want to believe (desperately) that they’ll come back, Eldian boys are raised to be practical. Despite their wishes for it to not be important, they all found themselves getting their affairs in order. Telling their families that they love them, what to do when they’re gone, how they want to be buried, where to spread their ashes. It’s hard to have a reunion with your family and reminisce on the good old days when they know that there’s a chance they’re about to become just another memory to share. 

But thinking about that would put a damper on things. They’re already on a speeding train to death and demise; there’s no point in acting like it. They’re not sure for who, most for most of them, this may be the last time they get to create cheerful, happy memories. Something to keep them warm when the rain is pouring on their battered bodies, hailstorms of bullets flying overhead, the thunderous booms of cannonfire. 

Someone is singing a song from their childhood; joyful chants butchering the melody and swapping the innocent lines for something dirty are filling the train, and nearly every compartment can hear the anthem, regardless of whether anyone in said compartment is singing or not. A bunch of soldiers managed to sneak in some liquor; half-full bottles of whiskey from their family’s liquor cabinets, cheap bottles of beer from bartenders pitying the deployed soldiers, homemade moonshine. 

They’re not allowed to bring too many personal items with them on deployment. As the officers like to remind them, this ain’t a vacation, ladies, so pack light and pack sharp. The alcohol should be fine; Colt knows that the officers are indulging in their own (the only difference being that theirs is top shelf). Some have snuck in baked goods from their mothers and sisters; photographs tucked away in jackets and pockets; handkerchiefs from girlfriends. Colt has a knitted blanket from his mother. It takes up more space in his pack than the thin military issued ones, the ones created in a lab and supposedly designed to retain body heat. 

While it’s Colt’s first time being the first group of soldiers on a deployment — meaning he’s the first to be on the frontlines — this is Michael’s first time ever being deployed. Colt wonders what type of soldier he is. You can tell a lot by a person based on what personal item they choose to bring with them.

The flash of a light hits Colt right in the face. 

“Aren’t you just a handsome fella?” Michael has a large grin on his face as he yanks out the rapidly developing photo from his camera.

An instant camera. Michael brought an instant camera to the deployment.

Most Eldians have only seen large, bulky cameras, and getting your photo taken was a big deal. It’s a pain to find time (or money) to get it developed, and most Eldian families can’t afford a personal camera. The instant camera is a shiny, brand-new technological feat, and expensive. Of course Lieutenant Sells would be the only one able to afford one — able to afford to bring it to an active warzone, too.  

He’s been going around, snapping photos of all the soldiers, even the Eldians. He’s not in the compartment designated for Marleyan officers only. He’s been roaming around, jumping from compartment to compartment, ignoring how every Eldian who doesn’t know him is on edge until he’s goading them to take a photo. 

Before they had gotten on the train, Michael made Colt pose for a picture with him. The only person nearby and readily available to take it for them was a displeased Porco who begrudgingly agreed but was frowning the whole time. Colt was sure Porco nearly burst a vein from annoyance when Michael requested he take two pictures; a copy for him, and a copy for Colt. 

Michael seems as cheerful as ever despite the fact that he’s being sent off to war. Perhaps it’s his good spirits and the fact that he interrupted Porco’s farewell to Colt that had Porco on edge. Truthfully, Colt’s glad for Michael’s interruption; the conversation they were sharing had reached very serious, very deep territory. 

“You seeing me off?” Colt tries to tease Porco, but he doesn’t smile back. He’s got his hands shoved his pockets, army green bomber thrown over his clothes. 

“Why wouldn’t I? This is the first time you’re being deployed without me.” 

“I know. I grow up so fast, don’t I?” 

“You don’t need to joke around with me, dickhead. You can tell me you’re scared.” Porco’s not looking him in the eyes; he’s staring at the space above them. Colt wonders if he’s staring at his now-visible scars.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if I’m scared or not. It won’t change the fact that I’m about to be sent off.” 

“Just don’t be stupid out there, got it, Grice?”

“Gee, is this your idea of a proper farewell? It’s not my first time going to the battlefield, Galliard.” 

“Listen, things are different with this deployment. You’ll be the first person they think to send out in enemy territory. Zeke has a bad feeling about this assignment, and I do, too.” Porco is finally looking him in the eyes. “And I know you. You’re the type of idiot to take a bullet for someone, enemy or not.”

Porco isn’t a cold-blooded killer. He’s the type of soldier who learned to develop the mentality that when it comes down to his life or an enemy’s, he must do everything in his power to ensure that he’s the one who will be returning home — preferably in one piece as opposed to being shipped back in a box, a broken body for his mother to bury.

“You need to finish the job. Ghosts haunt you in your memories, but a soldier with a vendetta against you can haunt you in real time.” Porco claps Colt on the shoulder, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes. There���s no malice evident in the hazel color of Porco’s eyes, but there is worry. Genuine worry. 

Colt is nearly frozen in place at the fact that Porco would be affected deeply if he didn’t make it back. Another person he has to promise to come back to. 

“Do what it takes to get back home.” Porco tells him. “Don’t worry about anything else.” 

Colt is the type of guy who could be actively getting shot at, but he’d still find the time to be more concerned about the lives of other people. His parents, Falco, you. 

Trying to lighten the mood, Colt swallows and lets out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Well, if I wasn’t scared then, now I sure as hell am.” Knowing Porco’s status as the Jaw, Colt asks his comrade, his friend, for a favor. “Just don’t let Falco know I was scared, okay? Tell him his big brother had it all under control.” 

Porco scowls. “Tell him that yourself. When you come back.” And then, looking like he’s about to say something else, Michael comes around the corner to brush Porco’s hand off of Colt’s shoulder so he can swing his arm around Colt. 

Porco’s scowl only deepens as Michael waves his camera in his face. “Hey, Galliard, mind snapping a quick pic of me and Colt?”

The photos Porco takes of them have found their respective homes; Colt’s copy rests in his jacket pocket, and Michael’s will also be carried in his pocket, too. Right now, though, his copy is turned on the blank side, residing on the traincar’s table, and Michael’s got a pen out, scribbling something on the back. 

Colt leans over to see what he’s writing down on it. Probably something stupid and embarrassing. Michael doesn’t show it off like Colt expects him to; instead, he tries to discreetly slip it into his jacket, turning it over to its proper side, where the image of Colt and Michael standing side by side, Michael’s arm slung over his shoulder, can be seen.

But Colt catches a glimpse of Michael’s surprisingly neat handwriting.

Colt Grice & Michael Sells — brothers in arms

“The ladies are gonna loooove this.” Michael shows Colt the photo he’s just taken of him. Colt is staring out the train window, looking to be deep in thought. He’s glad that Michael didn’t catch him when he was staring stupidly at the flash, mouth open in shock. The only person who would loooove that would be Michael, because it’d be a new addition to his blackmail folder, probably.

There’s only one lady that Colt cares about whether she loves this image of him or not. He left instructions to you on how to send him mail while he’s deployed, and it’s not like it’s just letters he’s allowed to send. 

“Can I have it, please?” Colt finds himself asking, realizing that he really doesn't look half-bad in the photograph. 

Michael pretends to sigh. “I was really hoping to be able to hang onto this photo. Cuddle with it when the nights get cold, and I need a comforting presence. That, and I was gonna sell it off to one of the many lovely nurses back on our home base who are dying for a chance with you.” He gives him a cheeky grin before sliding it over to Colt. “Whatcha gonna do with the picture?” 

“I’m sending it to someone.” Colt goes back to staring out the train window as Michael slides into the seat opposite of his. 

“Oh? Is it a girl?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows mischievously, which makes Colt instantly regret looking at him. 

He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears turning pink gives Michael all he needs to know.

“So it is a girl!” Michael leans forward excitedly. “Tell me everything about her. Is she a stick in the mud like you are?” 

“She’s not a stick in the mud.” Colt makes a face. “Stop being so nosy. It’s not a good look, Michael.”

He pretends to have been shot, clutching his heart and making exaggerated, wounded noises. “Ah, you’re breaking my heart, Colt! Oh, it hurts so bad to be insulted by you. Please, make the pain go away. I’m in agony!” 

Michael’s antics make the corners of Colt’s mouth turn upwards. “You know, you’re the reason why I met her.” 

“Oh?” He immediately stops his dramatics. “How’d you meet a girl that I know? No offense, but we don’t necessarily live in the same neigh— Wait a minute!” Michael gapes at him. “Willa found you a girl who showed you a good time!” 

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Colt mutters, almost regretting letting Michael know about you. 

“You dirty dog! And here I was, sitting and thinking that you’re the most gentlemanly out of all of us.” Michael is smiling. “So, what’s her name? What’s she like? Don’t tell me any of the sordid details of what you two get up to, though. It’ll give me nightmares.” 

“Shut up, Michael. I told you it’s not like that.” Colt is blushing, but there’s something nice about being able to talk about you in public. He doesn’t want you to be a secret, to be the girl who he sneaks out to hold in his arms in a windowless room. He carries your name in the interior breast pocket of his uniform jacket, close to his heart. Ignoring Michael’s initial question, Colt smiles as he tells him, “She’s everything.”

Michael lets out a whistle that gets drowned out by the train’s own whistle. The brakes squeal and when the train comes to a full stop, the boys’ bodies are lurched forward.

Colt looks out the window and sees nothing but rolling hills; save for the mutters fluttering throughout the compartments, it’s completely silent.

They have reached their destination.

author's note: remember when the synopsis said that his life is about to get a hell of a lot worse? chapter three, part 2 is when we go full throttle into the war arc <3 but dw!!! reader's life ALSO gets worse too!!!! equality!

[disaster-lineage]

@usergif back to cool event: challenge #1 - blending

@pscentral event 06: favorite character

This is Anakin Skywalker: The most powerful Jedi of his generation. Perhaps of any generation. The fastest. The strongest. An unbeatable pilot. An unstoppable warrior. On the ground, in the air or sea or space, there is no one even close. He has not just power, not just skill, but dash: that rare, invaluable combination of boldness and grace.

―      Matthew Woodring Stover, Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith      

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (IV): Say Don’t Go.

Imagine you are a peasant who rescues Aemond after he fought his uncle Daemon Targaryen—but in this universe he didn’t die drowned, but suffered a wound that you, with your simple knowledge of medicine, actually manage to heal you. What shall happen then?

Warnings: fluff, violence, drama, angst.

***

• A Dance With Dragons

In between fire and ashes, blood has never been thicker. The one-eyed prince, on behalf of his infamous brother, is ready to take leave. Unbeknownst to him, as he mounts Vhagar, destiny sets a worse fate than the assumption of victory for all parties.

Here he goes, a path of blood behind this man—who tasted frustration and rejection all his life, lusting for what was never his by any right, tied in a very suffocating loyalty to his family.

Here he goes, moved by agony and pain, he who is hated by his enemies and despised by those who support the charismatic Aegon.

Here he goes… mounted in an ancient beast, prompted to finally write his name in the pages of history. Aemond, the kinslayer, the embodiment of fire and blood, flies in roaring skies.

And not too long after he meets his mirror, the one he wanted to be in life—a better version, certainly—, the kin who inspired him despicable sentiments—if perhaps in another occasion he would be this man’s favourite nephew.

This is not the moment for words to be spoken out. Warriors like them feel no need to exchange offenses. War is coming in thunderous storms. Higher than men, above divine heavens, uncommon relatives fight one another.

“DRACARYS, VHAGAR!”

His scream dies unheard, as the wind blows away the anger in his throat. Believing to possess such an ancient dragon, warlord like him, he doesn’t foresee that years and size are not by his side.

Daemon Targaryen and his Caraxes are faster and better equipped for this battle. Experience is also an advantaged tool played by the aforementioned prince towards his rascal nephew.

The skies shake and many are misled to think this is a thunder. But this is hardly a thunderstorm. Later the chroniclers would report it as a dance of the dragons, where this deadly combat between two great warlords and their gigantic beasts collided in such a way that as frightening as it was to watch, it seemed so as the involved were…dancing.

But Vhagar’s flesh and blood provide difficulty to Caraxes. Bites here and there, sounds that roared through the air, producing sparks of electrons and fire all the whilst their riders try to dismount the other.

The heights pose an inevitably invitation for prompt death. It’s only a matter of time until one of them falls, if not both of them do.

Skies grow darker and rain eventually drops. Caraxes, fighting better under this environment, twists the scene to his favor, surprising Vhagar. What happpens next is too fast to describe. Later, peasants would recall how a great beast like Vhagar fell upon the sea… without Lord Aemond on her back.

A question would haunt Aegon’s twilight reign: where has Lord Aemond Targaryen gone to?

To worse Aegon III’s rise to the throne, a shadow is casted. No body was found. Therefore… should it be presumed the rogue prince died? If so, not in his former mistress’s arms.

Where is Aemond Targaryen? What happened to the one-eyed lord, famed for his kinslayer epithet?

• Blue skies, fields painted green•

I’ve known it from the very start. We’re a shot in the darkest dark. Oh, no. I’m unarmed…

By the time you rescue him, you think he’s been dead and gone. But for a long while you, a simple curious being who, however, learned to study thanks to your older brother’s connection with literate beings, suspected not all was like appearances led to.

You managed to carry this strange man, aware he was in his worst conditions, to your household. It’s a very simple, typical peasant house. And this was a man you’ve never seen in these surroundings… especially because of his fancy robes, a positive indicator of his nobility.

Unaware of the details of this civil war, you took care of him. Ignoring his handsomeness, you dedicated day and night until he eventually opens his eyes.

And when he does… it’s a scandal. Most of all because he is still hurting in his chest and to breathe requires some energy. Then comes the revolt upon seeing he’s nowhere he’s familiar with.

Before he starts to rage out his frustration, the prince is prevented from doing so at the sight of you. A peasant, certainly a damsel despite being closer to him in age, shows up.

“L-L-Lord, please”, you know you’ve been bold in keeping him with you, in weaving illusions to escape your life, all of which makes you blush and sink into his feet. “I only tried to help you.”

Something about your smooth voice eases him. When looking better at you, Aemond’s chest hurts for being reminded of his sweet sister Helaena. He knows he could never do any harm to you.

“Rise, creature who saved my life”, and when you do, the silver haired man looks enchanted at your y/c soft skin, the mystery behind your y/c eyes… “I demand to know your name.”

“Y/N Y/LN, lord”, you whisper, still avoiding his gaze.

But it’s for no effort you do so as he looks for yours, holding your chin as he lifts it up. You see danger right before you, posing threat as he stands in front of you. Nevertheless, he is so alluring that to resist is just… pointless.

“Don’t call me lord. I’m Aemond”, he softens to you, his hand slipping to your throat gently before letting go of you, leaving behind a sensation of void and cold where there had been warmth. “It appears that if I fell here, my uncle took the best of me.”

You nod your head partly.

“You need to be careful, lo… Aemond. Your wounds are still fresh”, you bring him to outside for the very first time since you rescued him.

The prince, shirtless and dressing an old pair of pants, follows you, reluctant somewhat as what to find. He is, however, surprised when seeing there is nothing but a careful mix of colors. Deep blue that paints these cloudless skies and a shade of green that colors the hills and the grasses nearby.

The air is clean and the prince finds peace. However, when spotting, from that distance, the sea, this peace is replaced by angst.

“Vhagar”, he remembers painfully. “Where is she?”

When seeing a puzzled look on your face, Aemond has to remember himself you are a peasant, who probably judged dragons as mythical creatures. But he underestimates you.

“Ser, I may be poor and obscure, but I am not illiterate”, you speak impatiently. “I know who Vhagar is. I must say, though, that you were already dismounted by the time I found you. If you fell from such a height, this only means you are lucky that you are still alive.”

Aemond’s good eye transmits such a depth of sadness that you feel remorse for speaking like that to him. The prince doesn’t notice it, though, so he decides to walk outdoors and there sit amidst the high grass as a way to cope with his loss.

At first, all you do is watch him. This tall, paled prince with long silver hair, involved in a bandage around his waist with a skin painted in deep scars, is now the embodiment of melancholy.

Your reason tells you to leave him there, the moon is too high to grasp it, but your feet don’t obey your sense. It doesn’t take too long before you sit next to him.

“I’m sorry for your loss”, you break the silence hesitantly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

He doesn’t respond you ar first, and you wonder whether he heard you or are ignoring you. But he turns his face at you eventually, still plagued by that shade of sadness few can be gladly dissociated from.

“You’ve done all you could, mistress Y/N. Thank you. You shall be rewarded.”

“My reward is your well being, lor… Aemond”, you offer him an understanding small smile.

These words prove to be the balsam he needs.

“I appreciate it, truly. In due time…” Aemond sighs, not willing to admit how lost he feels. “Do you have any news of what’s going on?”

By the looks of your face, the prince understands that what might come from you are not what he wants to hear. Even so, he must hear it. In this silent communication, though, there is little need to further comprehension.

Therefore you tell him about Lord Daemon’s victory. A short victory, however, as the common folk said that due to the gravity of his wounds eventually culminated in the said prince’s death.

What happened next was confused. You didn’t understand politics very well and you were too busy minding your own business to do so. Nevertheless, it’s common knowledge that the Seven Kingdoms have a new king.

“A new king?”, Aemond exclaims frustrated. “But Jaehaerys is just a boy!”

The embarrassment in your face only worsens his disappointment.

What, in seven hells, has happened in this short time I was unconscious?

“This is not his name, Ser. Our king is Aegon, Third of His Name.”

Aemond pales and for a moment you step back, fearful of his fury. But all the silver prince does is clench his jaw and turn his back on you for a moment. And you let him be all the time he needs.

***

• Healing…

I'm standin' on a tightrope alone. I hold my breath a little bit longer. Halfway out the door, but it won't close. I'm holdin' out hope for you…

A strange process it is to watch events unfold from the support ground. Witnessing from darkness the arrival of the Starks and then all the gathering leading to Aegon III’s ascension next to Rhaenyra, who, apparently, had transmitted her claim to the Iron Throne to her eldest son and heir, was too much for him to bear… especially now aware of the passing of every one he’d known and fought for.

But in due time, his silence and mourning become too much a burden for him to carry alone.

“I’m surprised you are still out here”, you tell him in one of these evenings you come home and find the prince there.

“Where else I’d go?”, Aemond shrugs his shoulders.

His eyes are glued in you, finding new expressions in your introspective features. You are different, a thought occurs him. What had happened outside to bring you more serious today? A question he does not dare to pose.

“To your mistress, perhaps”, a response that, albeit reluctant, transmits some grumpiness on your part.

For the first time in many moons, Aemond Targaryen smiles.

“Mistress?”, he repeats and you miss the amusement out of his voice.

“Mistress Rivers. Perhaps this is a name very familiar to you”, you don’t know why rolling the name of his former paramour sounds poisonous to your ears, inspiring a hearty agony and an inner despair.

As Aemond studies you, every piece comes to make sense when glued together. At first he says nothing, finding adorable how a creature so introspective like you, kept innocent and wild at the same time from mundane’s ill intentions, discovers new sentiments, obscured as jealousy and attachment might sound.

He could take the opportunity to write a new story, but even now… Aemond struggles to disassociate from the past.

“She was once attributed to many meanings, some of which had linkings to my personal affections”, Aemond admits, taking the opportunity to sip his ale. “But once we parted ways, I do not believe we are meant to mend it back.”

You cast him a long distrustful look, opting for the silence, even though there is so much being said in your body language. Aemond rises up and moves to where you stand, gently but firmly taking grip of your arm.

“Y/N, look at me”, he demands you gently. “Why have you brought her name out of the blue?”

You hesitate and Aemond can only be led to think there’s some bad news ahead. You take some breath and then look at him, as if struggling for courage.

“I cannot keep you here any longer, lord. I’ve been selfish, I see that now. But looking after my lord has given me purpose. All of this to say that people have been looking for you.”

“Looking for me”, he repeats. “Do not believe in what people say, my darling. My enemies are in power, the best we can do is hide for the moment. This means I must shave my head to keep the identity in secrecy.”

He surprises you, and even himself, with this new sense of resignation. But this is a wise move, considering no one had found his body, therefore the mystery must remain for his sake.

Nonetheless, he likes this life with you. Aemond smiles before holding you against him.

“I got used to you, dear one. Looks like I’m staying longer this time.”

That being said, he admires how wide you smile. No one had ever made him feel this sentiment before. He realizes now that what you two have is too sacred to let it be profaned.

• Pain & Blood

Why'd you have to lead me on? Why'd you have to twist the knife? Walk away and leave me bleedin', bleedin'? Why'd you whisper in the dark? Just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screamin', screamin'…

When he kisses you under moonlight in between the shadowy green fields, your mind goes blank and your heart races loud. When his tongue moves the way to your neck, your legs automatically spread to welcome his strong body; his arms now moving upper your back, caressing you slowly, aching in slow burn as you call out his name in sweet whispers.

“Mine lady”, his lips pursuit yours once more.

It’s past twilight. Silenced by the night, nature welcomes you in this wilderness out of the fancy troubles and the troublesome webs woven by the Black party.

You provide him home and security, the sweet taste of genuine love he’s been looking for. With him, likewise.

It’s free, intense and healing.

“We should better head inside”, he grumbles under his breath, struggling not to give free path for his desires.

You giggle softly, giving him a long look. As you straighten yourself, you hear him say:

“My lady, you bring the best of a beast like me.”

You spin around him, looking like a fairy with your simple white gown and y/c hair loose in your back.

“Is this you accusing me of witchcraft, lord? For I shall not tolerate such an accusation”, you put your hands around his neck.

“Nay. You are too pure for it”, and Aemond knows this must not be the result of bewitching, since the purity of your care and love inspires the same of a man like him.

Beneath the mask of a bad prince, there lies a wounded man who’s known neglect all his life. The concept of love Alys brought to him was more lustful, fleshy attachment than sentimental one.

But when the shadow of those three words comes behind your eyes, mirroring his own, Aemond fears to hear them. Kissing your lips once more, he prays to forget what he saw… for a recent, deep wound has come to open in surface.

As you lead him into your household again, precisely to what you call being your quarters—the result of the inheritance of your father—you give in your heart at every touch, every embrace this man provides you.

When you begin to picture the two of you actually living this life together, when you start to think possible that you could marry and be content in being a simple peasant… every dream dies when a knock on the door is heard urgently.

“Who on earth…”, you sigh impatiently, making him chuckle.

Aemond snakes his arms behind your waist, resting his chin over your shoulder.

“We should better see who’d be this unwanted visitor”, he laughs quietly, admiring the blush painting your cheeks.

As you reluctantly part of his arms, you move to open the door. Aemond leans against the wall, partly hidden under the shadows, waiting to see who’s the one behind the bloody door.

But when you open and see a dark-haired lady with a skin smooth as milk, your heart stops.

“Oh. So here’s the witch who captured my Aemond”, she speaks in a soft accusing voice, though in the lady’s eyes there is nothing but arrogance.

Aemond reluctantly comes to the scene.

“Alys?”

“My prince”, her voice and smile are as sweet as poison, inspiring in you nothing but disgust. “Your son and I have been waiting for you, believing to be dead and gone. But you have been kept a prisoner by this…”, and here comes the despise poorly masked.”…woman.”

You turn your head quickly to stare at Aemond. He sees pain in your y/c eyes, and the sound of heartbreaking reaches his ears when you say:

“You have a child with her, Aemond?”

“It’s Lord Aemond to you”, she corrects you, but is promptly ignored by all parts.

“She was… pregnant when I went to war”, Aemond admits, embarrassed. “I… Considering the recent events, I thought them to be gone like the rest of my family.”

“No. Your son waits for you. I’ve been looking for you”, insists Alys, much to your consternation. “Let me break this spell she’s casted on you, my prince. You shall be free and live with us as it’s your right.”

Part of you waits for his denial, hopes for it even. Despite the evident struggle in having yourself composed before such accusations, you expect he’d take your side.

You hope…

And I'm yours, but you're not mine. Oh no, oh no, you're not there. I'm standin' on the sidewalk alone. I wait for you to drive by. I'm tryna see the cards that you won't show. I'm about to fold unless you…

But Aemond knows not where his strength lies. This cannot be judged simply following his heart desires. When remembering everything his mother sacrificed for… and then he has a child.

A child of his own that should be on the throne. The mere idea awakes the flames of old vengeance.

Much to her annoyance, on the other hand, Alys watches as the events unfold in an impasse. She presses again the matter of their child, aware this is how she’ll take him away from your claws—or so she judges.

“Aemond?”, your voice comes out suffocated.

He sees those words in your eyes, but they fade out of his grasp like a star losing the shine, swallowed in a black hole.

Night comes and steals your bright, much to his atonement. Aemond wishes he could say something more, but no speech is enough to bring you back to life.

Your innocence is now agony and all he can say is:

“I must go. For my child.”

“I understand”, you speak cooly, surprising him for your reasonable behavior. “I pray you forgive me for any mistakes. I am but a peasant who knows nothing of life.”

That being said you curtsy and leave the way open. You watch as Alys smirks deviously at you, like a winner who takes it all. Aemond hesitates, but you don’t look at him.

Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) make me want you (make me want you)? Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) give me nothin' back? Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) make me love you (make me love you)? I said, "I love you" (I said, "I love you"). You say nothin' back.

And there your heart lies in open bleeding…

***

You occupy yourself delivering the rest of planting to the lord you owe fealty after spending months in working with the land. It’s easier to forget about the past when one occupies one’s mind with daily tasks.

This doesn’t mean the nights are easier, though. You are haunted by his face, by scenes where he laughs joyfully with Lady Rivers. She tells you that, as a lowborn woman, you could never be with a highborn man as Lord Aemond.

A truth sharp as knife that wakes you up in the breaking dawn, bleeding you again and again… It hurts and though you swallow salt in your mouth, no other sign is there that you have been in suffering.

In the meantime you carry on with your life, or try to, Aemond is rediscovering his life amongst nobility. The boy his former mistress claimed to be his son is not, by all means, a Targaryen. He could tell she painted his hair and by calculating his age, he was far more likely being a Strong boy than else his. Specially because by the time he took Alys Rivers as his mistress, she was already a Strong’s concubine.

With this disappointment ahead and collecting the testimonies of her witchcraft, Aemond is no fool to realize he’s been stuck in a trap and that he could be sent to the new government’s hand anytime.

I shall not have a death by treason.

The only reasonable solution is escaping. He is no coward, in fact the prince was once too prideful to embrace defeat. However, Aemond’s mind recollects your innocence, your simple ways of living and how you taught him so many good things.

The teachings that promised to make him a rightful man despite his wrongs. Is he too late to be redeemed, though?

Why'd you whisper in the dark just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screamin', screamin'…

I should have not let you go, Y/N.

In silence, like always, the prince leaves all that has profaned his soul to search after the only sacred path someone put him in.

And this someone is you.

• ‘I would stay forever if you say don’t go…’

You have cleaned your body in the river and now choose to sit right there over a towel, partly fearful of being seen in your nude state, partly pleased to be able to feel some degree of liberty.

Sun is ready to set and it’s last rays are set on your y/c skin, drying the last drops of the cold water you dived in. As you stand, you are ready to dress yourself when a noise scares you.

Quickly you put your white gown with black strips, unable to tie your long y/c hair when you spot him.

Head shaved still, pained eyes, dressed not like a nobleman but like a random, common peasant lad. So would he look like had he not been blessed with such deep purple eyes that are staring into your y/c ones.

“A-Aemond”, you gasp. Your body begins to tremble and you wish you could run away, but you are frozen.

“Y/Nickname”, he comes after you, hesitantly at first, confidently then. “Apologies are not enough for what I did to you, to us. I humble before my lady and come to ask you not to go.”

He is on his knees before you. He, the prideful prince.

“You are the one who left”, your voice betrays you.

“I had to”, Aemond dares to raise his chin as his hands grip tight your thighs. “I had to. I was misled to think the boy she had was my child.”

“And if he was”, you mutter, the echo of pain rolling out through your words, much like a sharpened blade. “Would you be embarrassed of my station to keep me in ignorance?”

“Fuck, Y/N, no!” He realizes no words are enough to make up for his poor doings. Nevertheless, he tries. Aemond is no quitter. “I am not embarrassed of my lady. I learned to love you out of my heart and soul, despising mundane affairs in order to pursuit the divine one. I was raised from the seven hells to taste the sweet flavor of your divine lips. I want you. Only you can redeem me.”

It’s the way his fingers dig into the cloth of the skirt of your gown that makes you feel fragile. The way he breaks before you, how his words are whispered in despair. Remorse is sincere, pain is evident in the two of you.

Why delaying it?

But then you hear a sound so strange to you. To both of you. When your hearts cry out, you slip, losing your strength.

“You are my weakness”, he says, exposing himself to you.

No sapphire. No embellishment. No pride. The prince the way he is, with his scars. And you expose yours.

Darkness rises by the time you are engulfed in his embrace.

“I’m sorry”, Aemond whispers, fearful of losing you. “I won’t leave you ever again. This I vow over my dead family.”

You are still sobbing when he vows this to you. And when his lips are colliding against yours, every angst dies at long last. And what is cold now is warm, and suddenly the weight of the clothes begins to be unbearable.

With only the moon as witness, vows are exchanged, consumed in one kind of fire that burns each part, prompted to spread in a strange kind of fever so unknown to you.

As tongue dances, bodies intertwine and pain is at long last overcome. The consequence of this redemption is to fruit nine moons later.

In the end, in between wars and peacemakings, two different lives found in each other what they needed. The destiny of Aemond Targaryen became a great “what if” in the history, a name so powerful to haunt crowned men but humbled before the kindest lady of the Seven Kingdoms.

Turned into a love song many years later, bards would give Aemond another name, calling you Jenny of the Oldstones.

Perhaps a truth hints behind it, is it not? But only your descendants would know it and smile often at such beautiful song.

[silentium-symphony]

Now Watch Me Whip III (Link x Reader)

(a/n) ya'll have no idea how many drafts i had to burn through to get here dear god--

it's finally done! it felt kinda all over the place, but it was made w lots of love & effort ♡ if you're curious, the dance is loosely based on Azura's Nohrian dance from Fire Emblem Fates! Please start at 0:51.

i hope you enjoy! :)

Part I \\ Part II

cw: afab!reader, link rediscovering joy :D, he also lowkey horny as HELL, him just getting flustered lol, violence (somewhat explicit), dancing in the forest, gentle kisses

wc: 4.3k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

"And... There!" You firmly pinched the metal clasps together, fastening the end of a small rod to the end of a dark green strip of silk. You twirled it in the air and watched the gleam of the setting sun glow through the ribbon and bounce off the golden handle. It was perfect!

The door cracked open and the familiar scent of a hearty homecooked meal wafted to your nose. With a snap of your wrist, the ribbon chased the rod hurriedly tucked under your pillow. Seafoam eyes popped in and crinkled at you happily.

"Link!" You waved the man over and patted the edge of your bed. He gave a curt nod and the rest of his body spilled in, hands occupied with a tray of two steamy bowls of stew. In a few short steps, his body had sunk into the edge of your bed and he handed you the tray.

"How're you feeling?" He muttered, wariness directed at your bandaged shoulder.

"So much better! And I have you to thank for that." You smiled in between spoonfuls, lightly "mm-ing" at the mildly seasoned creme stew. Its delicate flavors reminisced of simpler times, of bygone eras of innocence.

"It's nothing, really." He returned your appreciative look with an abashed one, feeling a heat rise to his cheeks. "Have you been moving it?"

"I'm trying, but it's been... hard." A swell of panic arose in your chest at his crestfallen features. "But! I've made some good progress! Look."

You carefully maneuvered your hot bowl onto your bedside table, mindful to keep its scalding contents within the clay's confines, and slowly outstretched your bad hand towards the sky. Unused ligaments pulled and contracted and protested the simple action, but you kept at it and lowered it back down into your lap with care. Bliss and relief wrought the man's expressions.

"That's amazing! You're recovering so well."

"Yeah! And it's all thanks to you. You've taken such good care of me these past several days..." You motioned to your dinner and the dozens of empty potion bottles lined up neatly on a nearby table. "You've saved my life, Link. Thank you--from the bottom of my heart, thank you."

The Hero gulped, feeling that familiar warmth kiss his cheeks and flutter his stomach. Knighthood was often a thankless job and Link had fully accepted that his heroic deeds would be overcast by the normality of idyllicity most Hylians took for granted--one that he had worked so hard to protect. Seeing you look at him with nothing but pure gratefulness in your eyes... Truthfully, it was something he could get used to.

"You're welcome."

Your heart punched a quickening tempo in your chest, happy that he had finally accepted your thanks instead of brushing it off like what he was doing for you wasn't the most considerate, sweetest thing in the world.

"Are you this chivalrous to everyone?" You laughed, half-jokingly. "Surely I'm not the only injured traveler you've come across. Do you also draft potions, cook their meals, and grant them free lodging at your expense?"

You hadn't realized your little quip would get the battle-hardened warrior flabbergasted, but here you were. Link's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water as his ears adopted a pretty crimson.

"T-Truthfully..." He stammered. "... No..."

"Oh? Then what makes me so different than your average traveler?" You mused, hoping to rile up the stoic swordsman like a little schoolboy. Sure it was a question that's been burning in the back of your mind, but frankly, you were enjoying the scene in front of you far more than gaining the satisfaction of solving your biggest mystery since day one.

"Well--... I don't... know."

That was a lie. He did know.

The thought crossed so clearly in both of your heads, but you decided to drop it before the man in front of you dropped dead from embarrassment. You laughed at his dumbfounded expression and caught his gaze with a softer look.

"I'm... really gonna miss this time we had together. So that's why..." Your good hand sneaked behind you and pinched the thin rod, yanking it out like some sort of magic trick. "Ta-daaah! I fashioned you your very own twirler!"

Oh Hylia, this man was gonna cry.

There was an undeniable twinkle in Link's usually terse look--one that screamed with childlike wonder and innocent joy.

"This... You made this for me?" He reached up, fingers ghosting along the rod's golden sheen. He handled it almost frightened—as if it were to disappear from his grasp.

"Of course! I know I can never repay you for what you've done, but I hope this can be a start." You wedged it into his fingers. "Take it! It's yours now."

The ribbon trailed after his hand as he pulled it to his chest, inspecting and handling the twirler like it was something sacred. He suddenly whipped his hand to the left; unadulterated joy flamed his pupils at the sight of the dark green trail. He snapped his arm to the right and watched the silk flit after his movements. With a mighty downward stroke, the fabric whisped past his ears and sang a gentle chortle.

His sword-swinging techniques mettled under the most ferocious battles felt... beautiful, for once.

"This is..." He said at last, eyes never leaving the ribbon. "The best gift I've ever gotten."

"R-... Really?" A strange twinge of melancholic joy pricked your heart, touched by his sentiment.

Link turned to you with a gaze overflowing with thanks.

"Thank you."

"You're..." You stammered, choking under his affectionate eyes. "You're welcome."

Both pairs of eyes drifted downward, finding respite in the way your blankets folded in on themselves, the gnarled patterns carved into the wooden floor's grain, and the shadows of trees shaking in the setting sun.

"Oh, right!" Your voice boomed with excitement. "Let me teach you the basics!"

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

As Link settled into the log, he gazed up at the dome of stars that would lull him to sleep for the night. The crackle-pop of the fire filled the empty gaps between his thoughts with a vague sense of comfort as he recounted the memory from weeks ago; if he listened past the flames, he swore he could hear that lyrical melody imparting your lips. You had since recovered from your injury and left the inn, a promise of seeing each other again carrying itself on the winds.

Hylia only knew how deeply he wanted to see you again.

To talk to you, to share meals with you, to come home to you. But a domestic life was not a lifestyle he could so easily achieve, with him being Hyrule's sword and shield against every iteration of evil. A life with you would have to remain a pipe dream, just like the promise of seeing you again.

As he rolled out his bed cot and wrapped his shield with a worn cloak, he kicked off his boats and tucked under the thin blanket, resting his head on the shield-pillow. Staying at the inn was a treat he had divulged in for too long--his neck had grown soft from its feathery pillows and downy sheets. He rolled this way and that, feeling every vertebra in his spine whine at him to find something more comfortable. In the end, he opted to count the residents that dotted the night sky with glimmers of white and yellow.

Were you warm, well-fed, and under a roof? Or were you under the cloak of wilderness, looking at the stars like him? Were you fast asleep, happy and content? Or were your thoughts consumed with him, like he were of you?

The bright glow of the stars began to dull as his conscience finally caught the elusive Sleep, dangling the quick-footed thing in victory. But before his mind faded to softer worlds, he noted how the stars could not compare to the twinkle your eyes once held for him.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

A crack in the air and a crazed whinny tore his thoughts asunder and he shot up, grabbing the hilt of sharpened iron with him. A chorus of raspy croaks assaulted his ears and sent his senses into a flurry. He scrounged for his boots and drew his shield; another snap in the air, right behind him, and he whorled around to greet that familiar noise.

"(F/N)--?!"

"Link! Are you all right?!"

He saw the beginnings of a horn prick just behind you, and a blink later he found himself in the heat of battle, repelling an attack that would have otherwise spelled your doom. Your backs pressed against each other as the horde of Lizalfos began to circle you, shrill yips and grunts seeping your senses.

"I-It's good to see you again," you panted. "Though I was hoping it would’ve been under... better circumstances."

Link hummed, effortlessly twirling the readied blade as he waited for the first sign of movement. He felt your shoulders squeeze into his, anticipation baiting your breath.

The Lizalfos to your left was the first to move. With almost telepathic synchronicity, the body of your whip dealt a welt to the fiend's scaly skin while cold steel dug into its flesh, warmed at the blood that spilled forth. The monster faltered slightly, giving Link enough room for a mighty swing at its torso.

Your eyes caught a glint of brandishing metal and you found your thick cord already reaching for it, snapping at the brutish digits with a bitter hiss. A shocked cry left the monster as it dropped the weapon, bending over just in time for the body of Link's sword to puncture through its stretched neck. A wet gurgle popped from its throat as it keeled over and stained the ground it once stood.

The remaining Lizalfos, in a frenzy of bloodlust and rage, threw coordination to the winds and pounced on you all at once. You had barely managed to dodge the swing of a Lizalfos tail before you felt something hard and metallic hit the backside of your head. You felt your knees buckle and saw the ground propel towards you at alarming speeds; you sucked in a breath and gritted your teeth as you spun around and dealt a marring blow to the offender's face (which quickly met its brutal end). A rough arm looped under your armpit and hoisted you up.

"You okay?!"

"Y-Yeah!" A streak of metal graced your periphery. "Watch out!"

You latched onto the man's shoulder and pulled him down, the chill of metal and what could have been sending shivers down your spine. Link promptly retaliated with a swing of his sword and a stab for the chest. Yet another Lizalfos crumpled to the ground, and the remaining monsters fled in a panic.

Your sweaty body pressed into Link's comparatively cooler skin, your haggard pants filling the silence. Cautious (E/C)s lilted about you before finally meeting a pair of blues (that had been resting on your heaving form the whole time, but you didn't need to know that).

"G-Good morning, by the way." You laughed out tiredly.

"Morning." He huffed.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" You were facing him fully now, eyes and fingers scanning his face for injuries.

The rush of battle meshed with the surge of heat your gentle grazes left pulsed his core with butterflies. His eyes naturally fell on your previously debilitated shoulder.

"I should be asking you that. How's your shoulder? And your head? That Lizalfos got you good earlier."

"I'll be all right. I can move my shoulder just fine too. " Your fingerpads tingled with his warmth and you worriedly pressed the back of your hand to his forehead. "You're awfully warm... You haven't caught a fever, have you?"

Link cleared his throat, his brain scouring for a new topic.

"What are you doing here? How did... How did you find me?"

"I stopped by a stable to find out where the next town would be and I was on my way there. Then I… saw a body on the ground and a couple of Lizalfos nearby. I feared the worst." You laughed, drawing your hands away and standing up. "I never thought it would be you."

Link nodded, still starstruck from seeing you dazed from his rudely awakened sleep and the sudden onset of battle. You extended a hand, which was promptly clasped and pulled.

"Well regardless, thank you. If it weren't for you... I would have feared the worst."

"No problem. It was by sheer luck we ran into each other again… Actually..." You hummed thoughtfully. "If you're up for it, would you like to head to town together? We need all the help we can get out here, and I personally think we make a great team."

Link graciously took you up on your offer and you helped him pack his things (which consisted of a bed cot and a beaten pot). As you handed him his tightly rolled mat and his bag, a familiar golden sheen caught the morning sun. Your next exhale lodged in your throat and your heart swelled.

"Is that...?"

Link followed your gaze; his heart performed theatricals against the confines of his ribcage as his brain sputtered an answer.

"Y-Yes. I keep it with me at all times--it’s like a good luck charm, of sorts."

"Didn't really do its job this morning." You chuckled, slinging your own pouch over your shoulder.

"I wouldn't say so. After all, it brought you back to me."

...

...

I want to go die in a hole now

Link mentally pounded his head against a tree as his still-groggy brain worked overtime to make up for his social ineptness. You both looked at each other, dazed and dumbfounded, and all the swordsman could muster was a steady, silent gaze into your eyes.

"That..." You finally coughed out, breaking the spell between you. "was incredibly smooth. Good job, Hero."

You looked away in time to hide the blush on your cheeks and you busied your hands with swatting the imaginary dirt from your tunic. A gentle stream of clops thankfully filled the void between you and Link; Epona had returned!

You both exclaimed a shout of surprise and glee and bounded your way over to her, you hugging and nuzzling your friend's loyal companion and Link checking her for injuries. Once it was made clear she was in tip-top shape, Link mounted first and you handed your bags to him. With some help from Link, you managed to lug yourself onto her back and sit in a mostly upright position. You snaked your arms around his torso and pressed your bodies flush against each other; the hero's grip noticeably tightened as he felt your body meld wondrously with his own. Your hot breath fanned across his neck and your chest caressed his back--

"Um... Link?"

Link clicked his tongue and you were off.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

"Why do we keep meeting at the worst possible times?"

A laugh bounced off the silent man as he slowly drank a bottle of milk. He glanced at you with a hopeless look, a faint shimmer of amusement streaking his irises.

Your guess is as good as mine.

You swirled the cup in your hand and watched its watery contents lap at some cracks while your ears passively tuned into the hums of the inn's dining hall. Clinks of glass mugs meeting wood choired from the bar and a childish laugh or two left the young family holding out in the corner. Link politely patted his mouth with one of the barkeep's rags and resumed his dinner in peace.

"So how've you been? It's been a couple weeks since we saw each other."

He shrugged, motioning to the constellation of fresh wounds marring his exposed skin. They were minor enough to not be life-threatening, but concern still tensed your gut.

"Do you need some potions? I think I got a couple extras--"

A calloused hand clasped onto your wrist before it could retreat into the recesses of your pouch. He shook his head widely, his long locks whipping to and fro.

"I'm okay."

You most certainly weren't as your hands and cheeks flushed with a warmth you hadn't felt in weeks. You drew an inconspicuous breath and redirected your focus away from your hand to Link's steady gaze.

"I just worry for you, 's all."

"I know," stormy blues softened to clear skies, "but I'm okay."

A slight squeeze pressed into your wrist, skyrocketing your heart rate to unhealthy levels. Gods, it was almost shameful how such a simple, platonic act could spur you so. With great effort, you managed to still your inner fangirl and flashed him a charming smile.

"Whatever you say, Hero. But if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

He nodded. "You too."

You worked on the plate in front of you (which had regrettably gone cold) and a comfortable silence filled the space between you two. You were once again enveloped in the hearty, homey atmosphere of the inn as patrons percolated in and out of the dining hall, having had their fill or venturing to lift their spirits (in more ways than one).

"Have you been practicing the routines I showed you?"

When you turned to him, your countenance joking and side glance light-hearted, you were not expecting to see a dutiful glint and a firm nod.

"Wait what."

"I wanted to be ready for the off-chance we saw each other again, so I've been practicing in my free time."

He said it so matter-of-factly (he was—in fact—panicking), your heart couldn't take it. The energy to scream and flail your arms about you hysterically took hold of you, and you funneled all of that chaos into a toothy grin.

"That's really great! I'm glad you're enjoying it."

His face flushed a deep ruby and his eyes swam this way and that, his brain fishing for an answer.

"I-It's not good by any means, but... I think I'm getting the hang of it."

"I'm sure you're doing just fine." You patted him on his shoulder. "You're a pretty fast learner!"

Well, he had to be given his... unique position. You couldn't fight the uncomfortable squeeze in your chest when you thought about how he quickly he had to forego life's simple pleasures to keep the world safe.

"Can you..." Link's barely-there voice was just loud enough to pull you out of your reflection. "... help me with some parts?"

His pretty eyes glowed something soft, something pleading. Behind his puppy-dog eyes, there was an unmistakable flash of excitement pooling underneath the surface.

"I'd be happy to!"

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

After paying for dinner, you agreed to meet each other at the entrance of the inn and went to drop your stuff off in your room, noting to grab your twirler before you headed out. Heart soaring and feet light, you skipped down the hall and over to your waiting companion (who looked quite heavenly in the moonlight).

"Hey! You got everything you need?"

His shoulders barely rose at your voice and he turned to you carefully, features blank but eyes sparked with enthusiasm. He nodded and held out his hand to you, his pink cheeks mixing with the pale blue moonbeam.

"If it's all right with you, I would like to practice somewhere more... private."

"Of course! I know these routines need a lot of space to be done well." You slipped your fingers into his outstretched ones, heart fluttering at the near-imperceptible squeeze. "Heck, I taught you in a wide, open clearing."

Link hummed a confirmation, turned on his heels, and marched onward. You, a mere traveler, weren't used to his solder-like gait and trailed helplessly behind him as he dragged you a little ways past the inn. However, Link wasn't blind or cruel--he slowed his pace so he comfortably fell at your side; it was a small, wordless gesture, but something about matching a steady, even pace with him tugged your chest with the most pleasant feeling.

A tall statue hung in the middle of the square, lanterns stringing from its highest point to the stores and houses that circled it. The whole vicinity was abuzzed with quaint leisure as the giggles of children faux-sleeping under their sheets coddled the air while passing couples clasped their hands in tender closeness--not unlike you and a certain blonde.

"This town sure is beautiful... What do you think, Link?"

"Indeed, it's all very..." He paused, eyes shifting slowly to his distracted companion. "Beautiful."

You dipped back into darkness, the sights and sounds of the gently lit square coalescing into a symphony of the night. The shrill chirps of crickets rounded the body of the choir while the baritone 'hoo-hoots' of owls balanced the insect's biting trill. It wasn't long until you found a nice, secluded pocket of forest away from the prying eyes of an uninvited audience.

"All right, anything specific you need help with?"

You both ran through parts of the routine he struggled with, with you going first, him copying your movements, and you correcting what needed to be fixed.

"Relax your shoulders, you're so tense!"

He just about melted under your soft ministrations, enjoying how amazing it felt for your fingers to lightly pat and rub into his shoulders. His tight sores mixed indistinctly with his toned arms and muscly shoulders; you pressed into a particularly sore spot just between his shoulder blades and he had to bite back a pleased groan.

"Relaxing your shoulders helps you loosen your arms, which will help you look more like you're dancing and less like you're fighting a Moblin." The way your hands curled about his biceps paralleled how you had him wrapped around your little finger.

"Oh, and twist your hips like this--if you snap your hips too fast, you might lose count of the song." A soft pair of hands rested on his hips, rocking him in a gentler sway. "Do you feel the difference? It doesn't feel so tight anymore, right?"

His pants disagree Link swallowed thickly, trying so hard to focus on your words and not the fire your fingers flamed across his skin--or the way you beheld him with such tenderness in gaze and touch, or the sugary, flowery scent emanating from the crook of your neck oh Hylia help him

"--and just like that! Ready to go again?"

Wait what.

Oh, he was screwed.

He didn't process any of that.

"... Can you show me one more time please?"

"Oh, sure!" You spun around and he mentally slapped himself at how quickly his eyes went to your hips.

"Why don't you take a break and watch me?"

With PLEASURE The blanket of moss on the stump beckoned him to sit.

"I'm gonna run through the whole routine and emphasize the parts you struggled on, okay?"

Link's chin dipped and you took a deep breath, shifting your focus to your expanding diaphragm. The words you had known so well belted out of you, and for a moment the forest seemed to have silenced themselves to hear your honeyed voice. The very air about you changed into something mystic as your hands snapped in front of you. The silken strip arced below your waist, before snapping up into a tight vortex above your head. A foot darted out and your hips shook to the imaginary beat, your body rolling as you bore a heavy, hooded gaze into the hero's soul.

His blown-out pupils followed your every movement, spellbound as your alluring eyes pulled him further and further into the depths. His mind blanked, his feet finding a mind of its own as he barely processed your quickly approaching figure. Your head bolted to look behind you; a loud gasp slipped your lips at the man's sudden proximity and a pair of arms circling your lower back.

"L-Link...?"

His face was mere inches away from yours, your doe-like eyes curiously peering at him through trembling lashes. His arms tightened, pulling you close enough to pick up traces of his earthy scent. The heat emanating from his body made you squeak and your eyes flew shut, heart racing and breath slowing.

The bright light of realization dispelled the desire that darkened his irises and alarm bells of every sort rang through his head in a demonic chorus.

"(F/N), I'm..."

Sorry.

Except it never left his lips.

As it became enveloped by the taste of you.

The clatter of twirlers hitting the ground was lost to you as you cloaked your arms about his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Your waist was beckoned by a gentle tug until your bodies were flushed together; a soft sigh fanned across your cheeks as Link's muscled frame nestled perfectly into your softer one.

A hand found residence in your hair and softly combed through it, jogging memories of him soothing you on your deathbed. Knees quivering, you leaned into him as happy tears dared to leak from your eyes. He moved his lips away from yours to kiss away the hot tears before landing a soft kiss on your temple. The middle of your foreheads pressed into each other as weathered hands cupped your cheeks, thumbing away the faint trail of tears.

"...sof..." He breathed.

"Hm...?"

"You're soft..." He muttered a little louder this time, the deep rumble in his chest tickling you slightly. He captured your lips in another faint peck and hummed.

"And warm..."

Another.

"And sweet..."

And another.

"Your lips are so addicting." He concluded, pressing one final kiss onto your forehead. You giggled at the buzzy tingling on your lips and he dipped into the crook of your neck.

"Come with me," he muttered into the flushed skin, "let's travel Hyrule together."

"Of course I'm coming with you." You carded your fingers through his hair, laughing at how he slinked into you. "We make a pretty great team, after all."

[avatarl0v3r]

The Cave Navi Its the only way Chapter III| NeteyamxFem!Na’viReader

Summery: Jake finds out the kids went into the caves and met the cave na’vi and that they are welcomed into the clan as friends and the sky people attack again and the Cave clan disappears off the sky peoples maps to protect their clan.

Warnings/Notes: Blood, gore, language, deaths, mentions of kidnapping, almost being kidnapped

Previous ☽ Next

Tag list🏷️: @lil-iva @spatterpus @ssc7514 @mashiromochi @dakotali @itsnotme02 @btsiguess-kpop @laylasbunbunny @fanfics-welcome @jkiminpark @brookesbizzareadvendture @tinkerbelle05 @sully-stick-together @arminsgfloll @spqce-bun @never--mind @aonungs-tsahik @liyahsocorro @classicpinkfairie @nao-cchi @minkyungseokie @loquatious-josephi-krakousky @junnniiieee07 @koakintrz @im-in-a-pansexual-panik

"You did what!" Neteyam looked down "We went to the Cave Na'vi's village" Jake walked around so he didn't do something stupid his hand on his forehead "Even after i said no?" "Jake" Neytiri cut in "Yes sir" Jake sighed "Did they do anything?" Neteyam looked down "No-" "The leaders daughter welcomed us in and let us stay for their celebration it was sooo cool she said e can visit anytime and her dad said were welcomed as guests whenever we need it but since we were there we were welcomed as friends" Tuk said smiling thinking about how much fun she had only prior.

Jake sighed and ended the conversation they all laid down for bed.

Gun shots fired through the air screams of many of the Na'vi echoed through the forest. Neteyam was the first to wake up out of all the Sullys he quickly shook his dad to wake him up which when his ears finally adjusted, he heard all the noise and quickly woke up his family and hurried and got them to safety.

—

The animal’s in the caves were running around making many loud nosies.

You father understood what they were doing and readied everyone for battle women who had children were to stay in Underwent, women which were warriors were to help with the attack, your mother Tsahik stayed in the village to help the mothers with the children, while you, Weap, and Ne’yah got prepared for battle.

As you were getting ready to walk out Lilo tried to follow but you stopped her “I know Lilo, i know but you must stay here where it’s safe i’ll be back i promise” and with that you grab your Ikran and hop onto his back, flying through the air being about to see everything from above wasn’t something you do often.

As you and your Ikran soared through the air, Weap and Ne’yah were right next to you you all smiled to each other knowing this would be fun.

You turned and seen a helicopter “dive, i got this one” you said as weap and ne’yah dived, you turned your ikran around and dived down under the helicopter and turned your head to the sky along with you now that was already loaded you aimed for the blades doing the same to the other side hitting them perfectly swiftly flying high into the air to dodge the falling debris from the explosion.

You regrouped with weap and ne’yah still flying forward when you heard war cries from other na’vi that were just a bit ahead. you, weap, and ne’yah all followed suit allowing your war cries to come out of hiding.

—

When you three arrived to the battle field you split ways to get things done faster you ended up leaving your ikran behind and moving on foot for it would be easier to land a hit.

Though you skin was far more pale and you’re markings were pale blue you didn’t have a hard time blending in the forest around you.

you climbed up a tree to hit from higher ground you aimed your arrow at a man’s head, you breathed in and out and released your arrow, landing a perfect hit.

It went like for awhile until you seen Neteyam fighting people and he just happened to be fighting someone much stronger than him, you snuck up from behind and grabbed the man’s hair rolling him off neteyam and had no mercy when you knife sliced deeply crossed his throat, the man’s screams were heard and he started to choke on his own blood it was an instant kill you didn’t bother to look at the man dead on the ground and walked to Neteyam who was not staring at you in shock from what he just watched.

You held your hand out which he still took the look in your eyes now gone for when you looked at Neteyam the look you gave the man had now dissolved.

“scan the person your fighting style, then think of a way you could kick their ass or they’ll kick yours with no mercy, these people aren’t your friends, show them no mercy, only those loyal to the Na’vi deserve mercy” you said while looking him in his eyes.

He scanned your face, you meant what you said.

every word.

“understood” he said smiling at you causing a small smile to place itself on your face, your ears twitched hearing your brothers scream of pain.

you quickly turned and ran towards his voice seeing a man holding him with a knife to his throat, your eyes zoned in on the blood trickling down his neck, weap hissed at the man who only pressed the knife deeper into his neck causing weaps hissing to stop.

ears pinned to your head you grabbed the man and threw him to the ground, causing weap to fall to the ground as well, you claimed on top of the man stabbed him over and over again his blood landed on your body, only until you knew he was dead did you stop.

You stood and ran to weap “weap,” you bent down picking him up with his arm around your shoulder helping him support his weight “you okay?” he catch his breath “i’m fine thanks to you” you walked him far into the forest and sat him down.

“will you be okay here?” he nodded at you, you looked at the cut it wasn’t deep but just deep enough to draw blood “you’ll be fine it’s not deep,” you said standing up “i’ll be back”.

you walked back to the battle field and called your ikran and instantly took to the sky looking for your father.

when you found him he turned to you concern in his eyes “where’s your brother?” “he’s in the forest his neck it cut, it’s not deep though he should be fine but it’s best for mother to take care of him when we get back” he nodded at your words.

-

awhile later you fighting another person only for you to be grabbed from behind “This is the Cave Na’vis future clan leader, think we could get a good deal on her?” a man said smiling at you as you hissed in his face “oh yeah definitely” he said smiling smugly as he started to tie you

your father seen you from above being dragged away and dived down on his ikran and landed in front of the men holding you.

he shot a arrow at one of the men’s mask, the arrow breaking through the mask and stabbing him in his eye causing the man to shout in pain your father showed no mercy landing another arrow in his chest.

the other man dropped you and started backing away your father started lowering his arrow allowing the man to run, until another arrow hit the man in the back of the head, making him drop dead, your father untied you and hugged you close “are you alright” he started checking you for any wounds you smiled at him “i’m fine father”.

an explosion was heard and you and your father ran behind a tree that was knocked over taking shelter from the blow, once it was over you could smell fire and the air was full of smoke you father looked at you “let’s go get your brother”.

-

as you were in the sky you looked at the ground from above many Na’vi lost their lives, it pained you to see this must destruction at once, but you forced yourself to look forward and continue flying to your brother.

once you found him he was standing and smiled when he seen you, you held your hand out and he took it and hopped on the back of your ikran and made your way towards home.

-

upon returning your father had to tell everyone about the lives lost, many Na’vi fell to the ground sobbing in their hands because of there mates who didn’t survive the battle, their younger children confused and just holding them in comfort, the sobs could be heard through the caves, the sounds of the sobs could cause anyone who heard them pain, and heart break.

your father told the clan that you were going to disappear off the sky people’s maps and limit leaving the cave until it’s safer, everyone agreed it would be best.

-

the next morning neteyam and his siblings came to see you, you smiled at them sadly “what’s wrong?” neteyam was the first to ask “since i almost was taken and my dad barely managed to get to me on time, he decided it would be best for us to disappear off the sky people’s maps completely to protect us, until it gets a little safer for us” neteyam looked at you in shock “what do you mean? i won’t be able to see you again?” you looked away at his statement.

“not at this time, but i will find away to see you i promise, no matter what, just give it time,” you said hugging him

“it’s the only way”.

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸

this isn’t my favorite writing piece, but the future chapters will be better (i pray they will)

[anjelicawrites]

The winner takes it all

Chapter III (I, II)

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Synopsis: inspired by the Æthelflæd and Erik's storyline in The Last Kingdom. Might be spoilerish if you haven't seen it (go watch it!!!), even though I've just stolen the inspiration and went on with the story my way.

Warnings: mention of marital violence, mention of rape.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns are used (they are called “lady” and “daughter of the North”). The only descriptor is that they have long hair.

A/N 1: this is an AU. Look at me taking the canon story of Westeros and yell “Parkhour!” as I jump out of the window clutching it in my hands.

18+ only, tank you!

It takes Prince Aemond two days to fulfill the first part of his promise. He arrives with a bunch of his men and a sturdy woman carrying a big piece of soap and fresh clothing for you. His men flank you and him as you walk outside the city walls, the woman walks in front of your group, head up, staring at the horde of white haired people as if challenging them.

You don't really care about the people trying to ogle you, you are too busy breathing in the fresh air and feeling the anemic sun of the North on your skin.

“Was this really necessary?” You ask, pointing at the warriors around you

“You are precious to us, I can’t risk anything happening to you.” He answers stiffly and you wonder if he’s not that used to talk to people

“You can’t risk having your bounty taken away, you mean.” It still hurts when your worth as a person is reduced to that, a pawn in someone else game.

“It would be a great loss for our new reign to lose someone like you. Bounty or not”.

He is even more stiff now that you are forcing him to talk to you.

Having a conversation with you was not part of his plan; he was supposed to keep guard as you washed yourself; he had envisioned just greeting you and now you are staring at him with sadness in your eyes and he knows he has fucked up. Gods he is so not good at interacting with people.

“I’ve heard tales of your beauty and courage. Not many would have tried to defend themselves against me the way you did. The North needs you and New Valyria will need your presence even more”.

You stop walking to stare into his lilac eye, he has to bend his head a bit to look at your face. His men form a protective circle around you two.

“What will happen to me if my husband does not pay the ransom?”

“He will pay”

“What if he doesn’t?” You don’t want to show him, but you are scared of the possibility.

You hope your voice is strong and doesn’t betray how insecure you feel, he just stares at you again as if he is scrutinizing you, trying to stare into your very soul.

“You are our prisoner, but you are under my protection. No harm shall befall you”.

He is, if that’s even possible, even more stiff when he answers you. His arms are behind his back, his whole body in a protective stance, legs firmly planted on the ground; his eye is soft though, his stare warm like the flames of fire during a long, brittle winter.

“Thank you.” You say and you have to stop staring at him but you can’t, he has mesmerized you

"Your bath awaits you or has the cold changed your mind?"

You don't openly laugh, but a short smile appears on your lips

"This is not cold, Prince Aemond. You have no idea of what true cold feels like"

"It's good then, than we are approaching spring"

"Yes we do, but winter always comes." You say proudly

"It will be a different kind of winter Issa riñnykeā." A smirk curling his lips.

You desperately want to ask him what those foreign words mean, your pride stopping you; your situation is already precarious the way it is, why add another layer of weakness?

With extreme difficulty you stop staring at his lonely eye and start walking again. When you all leave the heavily guarded gates, you are reminded that you have no chance at running away, not with the way the area is, offering you no hideout and with your people's army so far away. Even the small stream is of no use to you: here the ice has already melted, you have no idea of what you might find down the course. Not that you have a boat to sail, by the way.

You are a prisoner in your own home.

Prince Aemond and his men turn around when you all reach the small river to form a human wall and leave you with your dignity intact; the Valyrian woman helps you with your clothes and with your hair. The two of you are so engrossed in your work, that neither of you notice Prince Aemond sneakily turning around, his curiosity winning over his manners as he steals glances at your naked form in the cold water. His whole body stiffens when he sees the lashing scars on your back: they are healed over completely, but don't look awfully old. Also, why would a lady of your standing be the recipient of lashing? His analytical mind starts putting all he knows about you together and the result doesn't sit right with him: already he's had to chop his subordinate's hand for his disrespect, now he has to kill your husband. His death in battle has always been a possibility, now he has to hunt him down and kill him. What a Gods damned bother the man is and Aemond doesn’t even know him.

He whips his head around quickly when he notices you have started turning. It is embarrassing enough to have these murderous feelings towards a man he doesn't know, but Aemond has never taken kindly to men beating their spouses, to have you discover his lack of manners would be horrendous beyond repair; he is no Aegon, he’s always been better than that. Talking about Aegon, he hadn’t been happy with Aemond's punishment, even after being explained repeatedly that letting that one violation slide, would have meant weakness on their part: either you are untouchable or you are not. When you go home, you might survive the war or die, there’s too many variables to count, here he can offer you his and his brother’s protection, even though you are a prisoner.

When you have dried yourself, the woman offers you a red and black dress, simple and in a Valyrian fashion; you’d rather not wear Targaryen’s colors, but you are not checking the horse’s mouth when your clothes are muddy and ruined beyond repair. The woman, then, makes you sit on a big rock and starts combing your hair and styling it into Valyrian braids

“I don’t know if you understand me. Do you know what happened to my handmaid?”

The woman never stops her ministrations and answers in broken Common Tongue

“Dead or taken. - You shudder at what she implies. - I am sorry.” She adds, her rough hand on your shoulder as a modicum of support.

You let her work the braids in silence as you try to control your tears. You had hoped she had managed to escape; in retrospect you were the target, the other people in the camp only unfortunate enough to be where you were. You can only hope that the men pursuing you ignored her as you ran into the thick woods.

You are in no talking mood as you walk towards your prison. Prince Aemond seems to sense this and he doesn't force you to speak, he even tries to keep his distance physically, even when his men have to close ranks around you two as you re- enter the city.

Hearing all these people talk High Valyrian makes you want to scream in rage, but you are stronger than that, your shoulders stiff and square, your strides even more confident: you want to show these people that the North might be small, compared to New Valyria, but that you all don’t go down without a good fight.

Once you are again in your cell Prince Aemond waits until it’s only the two of you

“I haven’t forgotten. - He says and looks even more constipated than ever. - The other half of my promise”.

You can’t help but stare into his eye, the hypnotic quality of the lilac forcing you to keep looking, incapable of stopping

“Thank you Prince Aemond”.

You curtsy and he doesn’t go away, he stays rooted into the spot, his eye unnerving on your face, taking you in. You look even lovelier dressed as a Valyrian: he wants to engrave this memory in his brain until he knows his good manners have deserted him once again.

He has to force himself to leave you alone into your cell, he doesn’t want to go and strategise with Aegon, he wants to stay with you, admiring your beauty, so foreign to him. With a great effort he kisses your hand again, having to stop himself from keeping it in his for longer than necessary and goes away, closing the oak door softly, the skin that has touched yours burning like dragon flames. He is not questioning his behavior.

Everythig taglist: @hightowhxre

Aemond taglist: @phantoms-main-blog

[fauna-a]

III The Hanged Man

¡Norse AU! Inspired by American Gods and also by Heroes of the Valley. Let’s say that I’ve interpreted this prompt quite literally.

Caith looked at him, upright and pliable like an ash branch, but in here eyes could be read the doubt. Fear, maybe.

Njall had never seen her frightened, not when their village was burning and they were just five or six years, not when the warrior chief had struck her with a backhanded slap because she had stolen a blade and not, when he, Njall, had shown her what he could do with a handful of signs scribbled in the dust. Caith had not been frightened even when the creatures had appeared the first time and had started to kill. She was never frightened.

«It’s madness» she pontificated, her knuckles holding on the rope. «You are not Odin. You’ll die».

«We are all going to die» Njall retorted tersely. «You know it. If we stay here and do nothing, they’ll kill us all. We don’t know what they are, your arrows don’t hurt them, nor the fire».

«And your suicide will solve this, oh sure!»

«I am not killing myself» Njall stressed those words with all the confidence he had. «It’s a ritual, and you know it very well. A way to gain knowledge. And I am not the first one: that ancient mage tried and-»

«And he died!»

«Not because of the ritual!» Njall exhaled. «Look, if you are here it means you want to help me. Don’t you?»

Caith stared at him harshly. Just above her eye there was a little scar that cut vertically her eyebrow; it came from a shove by Njall when they were children. Caith had fallen with her face on the ground and had hit a rock hidden in the grass. They both had cried, that time, Caith because of the pain and Njall because of the fear.

«Fine» Caith straightened her shoulders. «Take off the tunic and let’s start».

The worst part, Njall presumed, was the beginning, as it was for all the things: getting used to the position, the blood running to the head, the air coming more and more laboriously, the rope sawing his skin. Caith, of course, had made perfect knots and had not left him any escape. In that position, Njall could only see her legs, moving nervously back and forth. Then they stopped and suddenly Caith’s face appeared near to his.

«Well, hung you’re hung. I’ll come and check-»

«No! You can’t come here during the ritual, Caith! I must be alone».

Even upside down, Njall saw perfectly the terrible scowl appear on Caith’s forehead.

«And you’re asking me to leave you like this… and alone for nine days? Do you realize what you’re asking to me?»

«I do. It’s a necessary sacrifice to gain knowledge. And the gods’ grace». Njall hesitated. «If you are my friend… If you are my friend, you’ll understand».

Caith’s eyes tightened, then her face disappeared abruptly from Njall’s vision.

«Goodbye, then. I’ll be back in nine days».

During the following hours, Njall tried to focus on something else, for example all the spells and chants he knew, the runes, the symbols; then he tried to not take offense for Caith’s coldness and to not regret sending her away: she was like this, and the ritual had to be done like this too, there wasn’t much to do about it.

The tree Njall had chosen had grown under a cavern, all twisted up to find the few rays of sunlight that filtered from above; so, Njall was quite protected, but it was impossible to know how long had passed. Maybe he fell asleep (or better, lost consciousness) despite the pain, because at some point it was pitch black and cold. He felt like someone had set fire to every single tendon and he gasped like a fish outside water.

He tried to convince himself that this was the hardest part.

After immeasurable time spent trying to cut himself from his own body, wondering why he had decided to do it, Njall gave up: he started to think about Caith.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his village and the people; but he couldn’t deny that she was the first reason. Caith was a warrior: she had already fought with those creatures, using blade and arrows and it was just a matter of time before a night ended bad. They were monsters emerged by their nightmares, unstoppable. And hungry for human flesh.

He wondered if Caith knew.

He had his lips completely dry and split, and it seemed like he had no more blood in his veins. He wondered how he could still be lucid.

Any pain was gone, his body was in peace. Maybe he didn’t have a body anymore. It was a relief, anyway.

So Caith was right: he was dead.

«Well, I wouldn’t say» said a voice.

Njall said naked feet drawing near him. Funny, he didn’t feel his body anymore and yet his downturned vision was the same as before.

«You’re not dead at all» went on the voice. «But the nine days are gone, little mage».

«Who are you?» Njall was amazed to hear his voice firm: he would have expected it to be broken, weakened by pain, hunger, thirst.

«Who am I? Haven’t you sacrificed yourself for something? For the gods? I am here. I have seen your sacrifice and I’ve accepted it».

A face appeared above his: it was the same colour as terracotta, all resolute dark eyebrows and sharp features.

«Are you ready?»

Njall didn’t have time to ask for what: suddenly he was on the ground, free from the ropes, and it was as if every pain, every sorrow came back all together.

He started to shiver uncontrollably, coughed, tried to get up and collapsed again.

«Now stay calm» said the voice. «Your friend is coming».

Hesitant steps. «Njall? It’s not possible…»

In a moment, Caith was beside him, putting on his shoulder a cloak, wetting his lips, holding him to warm him. Njall tried to croak out something.

«Very sweet, nothing to say».

Caith turned suddenly, still holding Njall. He tried to figure out who the third person was. He saw that he was young, and grinning. Sunlight shone on the jewels his hair was braided with, tied at his ankles and wrists.

«It has been a long time since I saw someone so pig-headed, you know» his grin widened even more and Njall, even if he was exhausted, worn out, thirsty, felt a vague surge of danger.

«What did you do?» whispered Caith, and, addressing the naked-feet youth «Who are you?»

«The one who accepted his sacrifice» squatted down like this, he seemed a young wolf ready to attack. «I have many names. You call me Loki».

[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

izzy when she bump into magnus outside of the institute

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

“You really have some audacity, don’t you?” Isabelle snarls the second she bumps into him outside the institute, where Magnus has been lurking for the past ten minutes, scared to enter the premises.

“Isabelle—“

“Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. My. Brother.”

Magnus let’s out a tired groan, “I didn’t mean to hurt Alexa—Alec like that. I made a mistake.”

Isabelle’s eyes turn darker at the words. She looks the kind of undefeatable warrior for which Raziel created their race for.

Magnus knows right this second that if he were to fight Isabelle—he wouldn’t be the one who’d come out of it winning.

There are some things more dangerous than power in the world—like love.

And Isabelle always overflows with her love for her brother.

“No. You know what a mistake was? Alec meeting Camille behind your back. That was a fucking mistake. What you’ve been doing these past months is just plain cruel,” she accuses and Magnus let the words pierce his heart like daggers.

Are you done, Magnus?

You win.

He remembers the devastation on Alec’s face.

But there’s this thing.

Magnus doesn’t like being cornered—being blamed for things where he’s not the only responsible party.

Doesn’t like hypocrites at all.

“You knew.”

Isabelle looks into his eyes with confusion.

“You knew what I was doing since the beginning. If what I was doing was so cruel then why did you stop me?” Magnus asks because he’s never seem to get why the Lightwood sister didn’t.

Her eyes dim at that, a sadness taking over her face.

“Because I had faith in you, Magnus. I thought your methods were a little misguided but your heart was in the right place,” Isabelle all but whispers. “I do not carry any regrets with me in my life, Magnus. But, trusting you with my brother’s heart is something I will never forgive myself for.”

Something cracks inside him at the words.

“Isabelle, I will fix this. I promise you.”

Isabelle huffs lightly.

“The best thing you can do right now is leave Alec alone.”

“And if I don’t.”

There’s a loud noise of her whip slapping the floor.

“Then you have to go through Isabelle Lightwood first.”

She announces the last words and then disappears into thin air.

It’s barely a minute before another voice speaks.

“She’s really something, isn’t she?

Magnus groans, turning towards the person, “What? You’re going to give me the third degree, now?”

Jace let out a small chuckle.

“Not really, no.”

“Then why are you here?”

The blonde shadowhunter gestures across the area, “I live here.”

Oh.

He’s at the institute.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Hmmm.”

Jace continues to stay there, not leaving, just peering at Magnus with those eyes.

“I’m sure you have heard what happened.”

“Yes,” Jace nods, “You really fucked up, Bane.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, “If you’re here to threaten me on my life, Isabelle got it covered.”

“I know she does. I’m not here to threaten you. I’m just here to understand,” Jace mutters.

Magnus raises an eyebrow, “Why?”

Jace’s lips turn upward at that, into a small grin.

“You would think that a 400-year old man would be so much better at dealing with love, wouldn’t you?”

[datcloudboi]

List of video games turning 20 years old in 2023:

Advance Wars 2: Black Hole Rising

Alien Versus Predator: Extinction

Amplitude (an early rhythm game from Harmonix, the creators of Rock Band)

Ape Escape 2

Aquaman: Battle for Atlantis (the Superman 64 for Aquaman)

Arc the Lad: Twilight of the Spirits

Banjo-Kazooie: Grunty's Revenge

Batman: Dark Tomorrow (the Superman 64 for Batman)

Beyond Good and Evil

Bloody Roar 4 (the last game in the series to release)

Boktai: The Sun is in Your Hand (a very unique action RPG from Metal Gear creator Hideo Kojima)

Brute Force

Call of Duty (the very first one)

Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow

Crimson Skies: High Road to Revenge

Dark Cloud 2

Deus Ex: Invisible War

Devil May Cry 2

Dino Crisis 3 (C'mon, Capcom, do another one)

Disaster Report

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness

Dragon Ball Z: The Legacy of Goku II

Drake of the 99 Dragons

Dynasty Warriors 4

Enter the Matrix

Eve Online

Fatal Frame II: Crimson Butterfly

Final Fantasy Tactics Advance (my personal favorite TRPG)

Final Fantasy X-2

Final Fantasy XI Online (in the States. Also the first MMO in the series)

Fire Emblem: The Blazing Blade (the first Fire Emblem game to release in the States)

Freedom Fighters

Freelancer

F-Zero GX

The Getaway

Golden Sun: The Lost Age

Grabbed by the Ghoulies (the first game developed by Rare after being acquired by Xbox)

.hack//Infection

.hack//Mutation

.hack//Outbreak (yep, three .hack games were released in a single year)

Homeworld 2

Ikaruga (the most video game-ass video game that ever video game'd)

Jak II

Jurassic Park: Operation Genesis

Kirby: Air Ride

Legacy of Kain: Defiance (the last game in the series to release)

The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker

Lost Kingdoms II

Manhunt

Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga

Mario Golf: Toadstool Tour

Mario Kart: Double Dash!!

Mario Party 5

Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne

Medal of Honor: Rising Sun

Mega Man & Bass (was originally a Sega Saturn exclusive that only released in Japan. It released over in the States on the GBA.)

Mega Man Battle Network 3

Mega Man X7

Mega Man Zero 2

Metal Arms: Glitch in the System

Midnight Club II

Need for Speed: Underground

Otogi: Myth of Demons (an early SoulsBorne-like game from From Software)

Panzer Dragoon Orta

P.N.03

Pokémon Ruby/Sapphire (in the States)

Postal 2

Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time

Ratchet & Clank: Going Commando

Rayman 3: Hoodlum Havoc

Rise of Nations

Robocop (the Superman 64 for Robocop)

Silent Hill 3

The Simpsons: Hit & Run

Sonic Advance 2

SoulCalibur II (the console versions)

Sphinx and the Cursed Mummy

Spongebob Squarepants: Battle for Bikini Bottom

Star Wars: Galaxies

Star Wars: Jedi Knight - Jedi Academy

Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic

Super Mario Advance 4: Super Mario Bros. 3 (a remake of Super Mario Bros. 3 for the GBA)

Tak and the Power of Juju

1080° Avalanche

Tenchu: Wrath of Heaven

Tomb Raider: The Angel of Darkness

Tony Hawk’s Underground

Toontown Online

True Crime: Streets of LA (Activision's attempt at a GTA clone)

Unlimited SaGa

Unreal II: The Awakening

Viewtiful Joe

Virtua Fighter 4: Evolution

Warcraft III: The Frozen Throne (the last Warcraft game before WoW)

Wario World

WarioWare, Inc.: Mega MicroGame$!

Xenosaga Episode I: Der Wille zur Macht (The Will to Power)

XIII

Zone of the Enders: The 2nd Runner

[phykios]

If I Were A Blackbird, part 12 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

His Majesty King Frederick III of Sweden, dispensing entirely with etiquette, noisily slurped up a noodle, and then picked out a bit of chicken with his fork, before grasping it between his fingers and popping it in his mouth. “Mm,” he hummed. “Delicious. Nothing like a classic American alfredo.” 

Annabeth, Crown Princess and Duchess of Södermanland, pushed her pasta around the plate, stomach too tight to eat. 

Over the last few years, dinner with her father had become less and less of a frightening affair. Which was ironic, because in that time he’d gone from being a regular old prince, to the King. With all the divine power and magical rituals that went along with it. 

It helped that the Princess Consort rarely joined them anymore, a decision Annabeth was pretty sure traced to the fact that she was the Princess Consort, and not the Queen. And dinners that had once felt like they took place between Princess Annabeth and Prince Frederick now feel more like they are just between Annabeth and her dad. 

She liked that. 

But it didn’t stop her from stress-knitting a sweater for Percie on her flight all morning and afternoon after being informed via calendar notification that she had been invited to dinner with the king upon her arrival back home. 

The sweater was dark blue and had the Olympic rings, matching the one she had knitted for her dog’s namesake. And also the one she was making for herself. 

“Guido really outdid himself with dinner tonight,” he said, dabbing at his face with a napkin, “but it still isn’t as good as the donut you brought me from New York.” He grinned at her. “We really do need to get them to build a Dunkin here.”

She couldn’t help but grin back. “Maybe that will be my first act as queen.”

He laughed. “A good use of your divine rights, but I am not sure I want to wait that long. Do you think I would be able to get a Dunkaccino in Fólkvangr?”

“Well you certainly seem sure of your future.”

“One must be prepared to dream big,” he said, “particularly when one is a king.” 

“An iced coffee and a warrior's death,” she laughed. “What more could a king ask for?”

His smile dropped, face hardening, and the very air seemed to grow… uncomfortable. He considered her, and carefully put down his fork. “Perhaps nothing more a king could want. But… as a father…” 

A chill went down her spine. Oh gods. Oh no. Anything but this. 

And neither, apparently, was her dad, who was suddenly very interested in the embroidery on his napkin. “...Is Percy ready for Athens?” 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. This was what he was playing at? “Yeah, just a few more weeks. He’s excited.” 

“Any chance he’s going to stop by here, on his way?”

“Um, no, he’s got his normal ritual at home, and then he’s heading over with team USA.” She frowned. “Why?”

“Well,” he said, with a significant look, “it will have been four years, at the Olympics, won’t it? And I was wondering when we were going to be seeing him on a more… permanent basis.” 

That brought her up a little short. Percy was around for almost all major holidays now, unless it conflicted with a race. And even then, sometimes he skipped them. What could he possibly want Percy to come back to Sweden for? He’d been here a month for National Day and Midsummer, and the two of them seemed to be getting on fine. 

And as for permanent… he’d more or less abandoned Luke’s apartment in New York City as anything more than a pretense. It was still on his driver's license, but she was pretty sure none of his stuff was there anymore. Two weeks ago, when he’d been in New York for a Good Morning America appearance, he’d stayed over at hers, despite her still being in Sweden at the time. And that wasn’t a rare occurrence. He’d been calling it their apartment for about a year now, and he didn’t even look sheepish about it anymore. 

Percy was a permanent fixture in her life. She was determined to make it so. “It feels pretty permanent to me,” she said, quietly. 

He looked at her, and she looked back, for several long, long seconds, before he sighed and looked away. “Are you really going to demand I say it, dear?”

She sucked in a breath. And here it was. The other shoe, come to drop in between her and Percy. And he had seemed so perfect on paper: he loved her, he was getting good enough at Swedish that he didn’t ask her to translate anything at official dinners anymore, he looked great in a suit by her side, he could smile and wave with the best of them, and he seemed okay with the prospect of that being the rest of his life. So, what problem had been dug up? What was going to prevent Princess Annabeth from being with her prince charming?

“Say what?” If he had a problem with her choice of partner, if he had spent years getting buddy buddy with her, only to crush her dreams worse than before, then he had damn well better spell it out to her face. 

He had to know that Percy was it for her. He wasn’t that oblivious. So, it was all coming back around. He’d asked her, four of five years ago, if she intended to abdicate for true love. He was calling that marker in now. 

He was going to make her choose between Percy and her crown. 

No, worse, he was going to make her choose between Percy and letting her stepmother win. 

“When are you and Percy getting married?” 

And there it was. The ultimatum.

“Well…” Wait. “What?” 

He shrugged again, a touch self-conscious. “Well, dear, you are almost thirty, and while you are certainly young, I know you’ve talked about your plans for your future. And your… desire to secure succession for your descendants.” She felt herself go red at that statement. Though it wasn’t untrue, clearly. “I was just wondering if… now might be the proper time.” 

Well, that wasn’t the other shoe, that was a whole damn Louboutin store. “You want me to make Percy my consort?”

He frowned. “I thought you wanted to make Percy your consort.” 

“I do,” she said, “I do.” By all the gods, Greek and Norse and whatever the hell else there might be out there, did she want to.

“Well then, of course I want you to marry him. I like Percy. You know that.” Which she did. It wasn’t like he had hidden it. “And more than that, I know you love him. And he loves you, and what’s more, accepts you. Accepts all the wonderful parts of you.”

Oh, so that was the other shoe. She couldn’t even properly appreciate her father’s explicit and enthusiastic support of Percy, of her choices, of what she wanted to happen more than anything in the world. 

She groaned and put her head in her hands. 

“Dear, what’s wrong?”

“He hasn’t,” she mumbled into her palms. 

“What?”

“He hasn’t accepted all the parts of me.”

“Oh.” It was silent for a long moment, save for her father fiddling with his napkin. “That’s… Are you sure, dear?”

She looked up. “Huh?”

“Well, I only ask because he’s been such a good sport at dinners. And he was absolutely wonderful during the funeral and the coronation and with everything. I… is he really not on board with royal life?”

“No, no, he’s–we’ve talked about that. Quite a lot. He’s a better sport about,” she waved a hand, “all of that than I deserve.” 

That part was fine. It was just everything else that was the problem. 

“You deserve everything, dear,” her father said without a second's hesitation. “He is, as you say, a good sport, but I do not for a second think that he would be if it wasn’t for you. Trust me when I say, I know the difference between someone who loves the prince versus someone who loves the man. Percy loves you. I promise you dear. I promise you he does.” He took her hand across the table. “Nearly as much as I do.”  

And wasn’t that something. She could stop the feel of tears pooling in her eyes. Her father was staring at her, earnestness plain on his face. She had thought, not two minutes ago, that he meant to separate her from Percy, and he was proclaiming Percy’s love for her. 

Her father, her dad, the King of Sweden, wanted her to be happy and loved and the Queen. And he wanted her to marry Percy Jackson to make it happen. She blinked back the tears as best she could. 

It was not a totally successful endeavor. 

“I haven’t told Percy,” she said, finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. And, she realized a second later, not in Swedish. Or English. Nor her grade school French. She was speaking in ancient Greek. Wasn’t she lucky that Perseus’ name fit so well in this cursed language. “I haven’t told him about my mother, or about our ancestry, or any of it.” 

“I see,” her father said, his Greek not as natural as her, but clear and precise from many years of practice. “Well, do you think that will be a problem?”

“Of course it will be a problem. I have to tell him the gods are real. Like, the Greek gods. And the Norse gods!” 

He waved a hand. “He’s a classicist, I am sure he’s got passing familiarity with it. It isn’t as though you’ll need to worry about him not having paid attention to that lesson in school. I’m sure it will go fine.” 

“You really think so?” she asked, and for a split second, it was like she was back in that diner in California. Trusting her father to soothe her fears, and make it all better. 

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, squeezing her hand. “I think… I think he loves you, and that, to be honest, a royal life is a much bigger burden for him to have to deal with than marrying a demigod. It isn’t as though hydras will be attacking him during his calc finals. I do believe your mother to be far more formidable than the Riksdag, and significantly more beautiful,” he couldn’t help but add, and Annabeth chuckled. “But she could have no objection to Percy, nor your marriage, compared to any other mortal man. But the Riksdag will always want to butt in. He has put up with much worse than your mother. Or our Frey ancestors. And I believe he has shown he will continue to do so. This, all of this, is just a matter of belief. Nothing Percy has said has suggested to me that he’s particularly religious, anyway.” 

“No,” Annabeth conceded, “No, he’s not.” 

“So, I am sure–I am positive–that all will be well.” 

She swallowed a few times, just a little afraid to speak the hope in her chest. To give life to the little hearth in her heart. “I… I think he’ll be alright with it. If I can get him to believe. I think he’ll be able to accept it. To accept me.” 

Her father beamed at her. “And when are you going to tell him?”

“Soon,” she said. “I was thinking maybe in Athens, since we’ll be there together.” 

Her father let out a laugh. “Has this always been your plan?”

“Maybe not always,” she chuckled, “but… I have been thinking about it for a while. A couple of months, at least.” Or maybe a couple of years. “He really wants to get a gold in the Olympics. And this year, he’s the favorite.” 

“There is a long history of royalty competing in the Olympics, all over Europe. I think he could continue, if he doesn’t manage it this time. Though I am told his odds are very good.” 

She smiled at him. It was such a thoughtful thing to say. “He wants to win for team USA,” she said, “and I can’t really begrudge him that if he turns around and immediately devotes his life to Sweden, now can?” 

Her father laughed again. “I suppose not.” 

Her eyes still a little blurry, in her mind she conjured up the wonderful image of him and her in her–their–New York apartment, Percy smiling at her over their kitchen table, and her entire body was seized with a sudden, painful need. “I really, really want to marry him, Dad,” she whispered. 

“I know, dear.” 

“And after we get married, he’s going to be part of this–this machine. So I just have to be honest with him. And let him accomplish as many of his goals as I can.”

“So,” he said. “Athens, then.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you think he’ll propose after that?” 

That would be nice. “I don’t know if he’ll think it's alright, though.”

“Well,” he grinned, a little sheepish, “I may have, ah… cornered him a few months ago and informed him that it would be, so I don’t see why he wouldn’t.” 

“Dad!” She felt the blush coat her cheeks. 

“Honestly, you’ve given me some insight into what was taking him so long. But I do understand his desire to go for gold,” he said, stroking his chin. “If my father, or even Randolph, had prevented me from getting my PhD, or from pursuing some scholarship for a bit, well… I would be very cross indeed.” 

“He deserves it.” 

“He does,” he agreed. “Just as you deserve all those buildings in New York with your name on them.” 

And that’s what did it. She felt the tears fall out of her eyes. 

“I’m going to tell him,” she said, voice thick. “After he wins a gold medal, I’m going to tell him all about it.” 

“Or perhaps,” her father replied, with a sparkle in his eye, “you should tell him before, go up to the Parthenon, tell him about it, and help him pray to Athena and Nike for victory.” 

That… was not a bad idea. Perhaps the ritual nature of it would ease him into the idea. And he was, like her dad said, a classicist. He’d want to see the Parthenon. And she could get him VIP access. Maybe even private access, if she asked the right person. “And Poseidon, too, I think. He is sailing, after all.” Hopefully the lord of the ocean hadn’t heard all the shade Percy had been throwing his way recently. Of if he had, hopefully a sacrifice would soothe his ego.  

“And then, we can finally get through all the paperwork.” 

Annabeth blinked. “What paperwork?”

“All the paperwork I had drawn up to get your marriage approved,” he said. 

“Oh,” she grimaced.

“Sadly, other people will want to hear of it, too. But I promise, it is all just a formality. Just tell me when, and I’ll turn the crown Princess into the Crown Princess couple.” 

“You really think it will be alright?”

“I’m the king,” said her father, taking a sip of his beer. “Haven’t you heard? What I say, goes.” 

***

Luke whistled. “Dang.”

“So, you approve?”

“Dude, I don’t think anyone wouldn’t approve.” Luke said, holding the ring up for a better look. The large diamond at the center, square cut and aquamarine blue, perfectly reflected the light, casting glittering refractions all over his fingers. It was surrounded by diamonds so old that they’d been cut before that technology existed. They were framed by pearls, all natural, all saltwater, all perfect, and the shining platinum band which held them all was fit for a princess. Percy hoped.

“Great,” Percy said, “because I need you to create a paper trail that makes it look like I got this ring legally.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, clearly suppressing a grin that Percy knew would only be one of approval. “Did you not?”

“The diamonds came from wrecks that I scavenged. I had to take Hazel with me to make sure I’d gotten the right ones. It's basically looting.” He’d spent the last three years collecting these pearls. It was grueling work, but it was worth it. It was so worth it. 

“Hazel didn’t do the actual jewelry work, did she?” Luke asked, concerned. 

Percy shook his head. She normally wasn’t super comfortable with that, what with her propensity for accidental curses, and Percy would never have made her do that if she didn’t want to. “No, she wouldn’t even call the stuff in the ocean, she'd point it out, and then I’d have to go through rotting wood and rusted metal to get them. Tyson made it for me. And sourced the platinum.” And also designed it for him, with a little help from his harpy girlfriend. Tyson had blushed when he told Percy about it. “But she’s a princess. Some magazine or newspaper–not to mention all of the Internet–is going to want details about where they came from, and I need to explain it without using words like ‘magic’ and ‘Poseidon.’”

Luke turned the ring over, inspecting the underside of the gems. “I thought you were going to tell Annabeth before your proposal.”

He nodded. “I am, in Athens. But I’m not planning on announcing it to the world.”

“I don’t know, that might be kind of funny.”

“I feel like they’d take away my medals if I tell them I can control my boat with my mind. And the ocean, too.” Percy said, “And I would always take you down with me in that situation.”

Luke let his grin out, savage and unrepentant. “Fair. So, you need a place for it to have come from. I can make it look above board. Any other requests?”

“Could you not make it a blood diamond thing? I would love not to imply that.”

“Just looting, then?” he asked, handing the ring back.

Percy made a face, even as he carefully placed it back inside the velvet box. “Look, looting from ships that sank centuries ago for a few gems that would otherwise be lost, so my princess girlfriend can have an engagement ring worthy of her, is reasonable, I think. Over a century of controlling diamond markets, and using it to exploit colonialist populations is not. Having said that, though… Please don’t say I looted anything.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” he sighed, with relief. And more than a little excitement. After months–years–of planning, it was almost time. He knew he wanted to marry her one normal Tuesday afternoon, as they sat together at Annabeth’s–their–kitchen table, laughing over something silly. Whenever he got cold feet, or felt like the royal life might be too much to handle, he cast his mind back to that beautiful, quiet moment, and reminded himself: no matter how weird and fucky it got, it was worth it. She was worth it all. 

“Anything for you cuz. And that princess.” He smiled, crooked and pleased. “Have you decided how you’re going to do it yet?”

“Not sure yet,” Percy admitted. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“Your race?” 

“Oh, yeah, with that too.” 

Luke frowned. “That’s not what’s been preoccupying you?”

“I mean… it hasn’t… not been preoccupying me,” he said. “But… I’ve been distracted.” 

“With what?”

Percy sighed, sinking into the couch. “You said it. I have to tell her before I can propose to her.” 

Frowning with sympathy, Luke settled down next to him, crossing his arms. “You really think it's going to be a big deal?”

“Of course it's going to be a big deal. You think it won’t be a big deal?”

“No, just go up to her and say ‘the gods are real, like the greek gods, like the ones you learned about but weren't paying attention to.” 

“She likes mythology, she was probably paying attention.” 

“Well, it will be like when I explained things to your mom.” 

Percy snorted. “My mom was hired by Hermes. She knew about my dad. She knew all about everything. She didn’t need some nine year old loser giving her a Greek mythology tutorial.”

“Yeah, well this nine year old loser saved your life.” 

“Tell that to the snakes I strangled at age two.” 

Luke reached over and ruffled Percy’s hair. “Big three braggart.” 

“And proud of it.” 

It was weird being over here. He hadn’t stayed with Luke in New York for a year. Without meaning to, Annabeth’s apartment became home base. The doorman and housekeeper recognized him. He’d had to pack a bag to come over this weekend. But Luke had just short of begged him, saying that it was probably the last time they could do it. 

And frankly, Percy kind of hoped he was right.

“I wasn’t talking about the snakes,” Luke said. 

“No?”

“No, I was talking about our quest.”

Technically speaking, he and Luke had been on half a dozen little quests. But he could only be talking about one. “You did save me from Ladon,” said Percy, probably a little too nostalgic for a near-death experience. 

“I did,” Luke agreed, “on a quest you weren’t even supposed to be on.”

“Come on, you know you wanted me there.”

“Oh yeah, a ten year old hanger on was exactly what I wanted on my deadly quest.”

‘Stowaway’ might have been a more appropriate term, since Percy had hidden in the back seat of Luke’s car and only revealed himself once they had gotten past the George Washington Bridge. Luke, surprised, angry, and having missed the turn to detour North to the Tappan Zee bridge to take Percy back, begrudgingly decided that Percy could stay. Though he did make Percy call his mom and explain where he had gone.  

“What’s gotten you so nostalgic?” Percy asked. 

Pursing his lips, Luke was silent for a little while, determinedly staring up at the ceiling. “Can I be honest?” he said, eventually. 

“I don’t know, big ask for a son of Hermes.” He was expecting the throw pillow to the face, and he caught it.

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway. So for real, what’s up?”

“I think it’s the whole Athens thing,” said Luke, quietly. 

“The Olympics?”

“No. It’s more the where than the what. We’re going to the motherland.”

Percy paused and considered him. “I think it’s more the fatherland, for us.”

“Be serious.”

“I can‘t. If I am serious, I have to think about it. And then I get freaked out.” 

Luke frowned at him. “What are you freaked out about?”

“Take your pick: the ancient sea, deadly monsters, Zeus being upset at me on the way, not getting gold, Annabeth realizing that she’s too good for a crazy moron like me. I can go on.”

But Luke was undeterred. “Hey–you can kill a lousy monster and control the lousy ocean. Zeus knows the Olympics are for him, and we’re gonna burn a sacrifice and everything, I already have the AirBNB with the fire pit and grill booked.” He paused, took a deep breath, and clapped Percy in the shoulder, but he didn’t move his hand when he was done. “You could win this race with your eyes closed and hands tied behind your back. But that isn’t what you want. And so, you’re going to put your whole heart into it. And also your body. And it will probably go great, but–”

“It didn’t last time.” 

Luke narrowed his eyes, and then used the hand resting on Percy’s shoulder, brought it up and cuffed the side of his head.

“Ow!” 

“Dude, you know the world is full of Olympians who lost at the last second. And settled for silver. Or bronze. You also know that you have the power to make it so that doesn’t happen to you. You chose not to use that power last time.”

Rubbing his head, Percy pouted. “You think I should have cheated.” 

“I think that, given that you only failed to win last time because of supernatural interference, it isn’t really cheating.”

“No?”

“No! Look,” he said, the fire in his eyes blazing with the same kind of righteous indignation he had at sixteen, but without the sickly poison of almost giving himself over to a Titan, “our parents fuck us over. It’s like, their whole thing. They fuck over our mothers, then they fuck over us. But at the very least, they try to make up for it. It isn’t like some stupid fantasy movie where we aren’t allowed to use our powers for ourselves, or let mortals catch on. Mortals don’t notice, and we get to use our powers to balance the scales.” 

Percy raised an eyebrow. “You really think that’s how it works?”

“Sure. What, do you think that a child of Athena is cheating on a test by being really smart?” 

“...Probably not.” 

“Well, it's basically the same thing.”

“So you want me to cheat.” 

Luke shook his head. “No. I want you to forgive yourself if something goes wrong, if another monster attacks. And you choose to intervene, like I know you will, and you choose not to bring your full powers to bear. If you choose not to go for gold, know it is a choice you’re making. And it's okay.” 

That… helped. Something in Percy’s chest unwound a little. “There's always next time, is that it?”

“Not at all,” Luke said with a grin, “because come Tartarus or high water, you’re marrying your princess when this is over.” 

And that brought everything crashing back. “But what if she’s not okay about the demigod stuff?”

“The whole point of monarchy is ‘my bloodline is super special.’ Of course she’ll be cool about it.” 

“And if she is cool with the demigod shit, but says no when I propose?”

Luke stared at him, dumbfounded. “Are you serious?” 

“What?”

“That might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said in your life.”

“Hey!”

“She is obsessed with you. And in love with you. She has brought you to state dinners. You’ve waved at coronations. Of course she’ll say yes.” 

“Only the one coronation.” Percy felt the need to point out. 

Luke kicked him in the shin. He did not hold back.