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shreddedparchment · 4 years ago

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Pseudo Princess Pt.36 - End

A Chance Meeting

08/08/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 10,158

Warnings: language, angst, fluff, creepy dudes

A/N: The end. 😭 I hope you’ve enjoyed it. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other sites or blogs. REBLOGS are always welcome.

*pictures relay only style of clothing and not physical appearance/race

Silken sheets that are cool to the touch. A roaring fire. The heartbreaking smell of peony blossoms.

A wooden bucket—your wooden bucket—full of ice-cold water.

A chill warmed by a feverish heat wrapped around your back.

All of these thoughts-no. They’re more like memories.

All of them have come to you over the course of a year.

They grow more elusive as they come.

Before you thought you could almost see a garden with an ocean of pink peonies in varying shades of blush to wine.

Now, after months of having these strange visions, they have become condensed into single colors at random. The most frequent is a shade of gold. A circle of blue.

You think these memories might be important but you cannot grasp onto them long enough to make any sense of them.

There’s also the fact that you know they cannot possibly be memories.

You have never seen a garden of peonies.

You’ve had plenty of chill in your life but a warmth like the one you’d recalled at the beginning of the year when the winter cold had been at its worst is as unfamiliar to you as the looming manor on the hill above the village.

With a small groan, you stop and set the bucket down. Your arms are strong enough to carry it but after so harsh a winter, you’d be a fool not to take care.

You’d only just managed to make it out alive after devoting so much time to your little one.

You suppose the golden hue you keep remembering is similar to your baby’s hair. Just a shade or two off. Just as beautiful.

The estate sits looming at the peak of a hill that sits almost a mile away from the village.

The manor itself, you can see, has been expanded. It has the appearance of a small castle now with towers and battlements. The parapet walls that now surround the structure offer crenels to whatever guard the now small castle may need.

It had sat there abandoned for so long, the lord once given task to watch over it and Bright Rise as well as several other small villages in this part of the kingdom having left.t

With the primary building made of wood, the added masonry has really given the old place new life.

What magnificent furnishings must it have? Gilded and ornate probably. Chairs worth more than everything you own.

What type of person has taken residence there? Is it someone you’d know?

Someone beautiful probably. A handsome lord and his gorgeous lady. Both of them probably members of his Majesty King Anthony’s court.

Do they have children? A young little lord or lady running around causing mischief.

You find yourself smiling, made happy by the image you paint in your head.

It makes you only a little sad that you picture yourself there. Your baby in your arms. Your husband…

My husband?

Silly��You don’t have a husband.

But you yearn for something you very nearly miss. Something you know you should have. Something…precious.

“Hello there, little mouse.”

You gasp, startled out of your daydreams and turn on your heel in search of the horrible voice.

With a stuttering heart you spot Phin, standing with his grimy hands in his tattered pockets.

“What do you want?” You ask him, voice cold but wavering as you grow wary.

Already you’re searching with a quick glance for the nearest route of escape.

You hunch over, grabbing your bucket and attempt and fail to stifle your groan of effort.

Phin lunges forward, his hand thrown out towards you. It makes you flinch. You keep your eyes shut as you wait for the blow.

It never comes.

Slowly you peek, searching for Phin's extended hand and find it wrapped around the rope handle of your bucket.

“What are you doing?” You ask, confused and fearful. “Let go.”

“I can treat you right, little mouse. I can give you proper protection. I’ll even pretend that bastard brat of yours is mine.

“I’ve been patient. I may not be able to wait much longer.” His voice is like sludge, creeping down your spine raising chills of terror as it goes.

You yank on the handle, urging him to release it. You meet his gaze, matching his threat with your own angry stubbornness.

You will not give in to him. Not now. Not ever. Even with your little one…you can’t.

He keeps holding it, refusing to let go until you feel like you’d rather drop the water and come back for more later.

He drops the rope and you stumble back a step, not having realized how much you were actually pulling on the bucket.

Some water spills but you’re just thankful to be free of Phin and you rush away to be even further. A glance back when you’re close to your small home shows you Phin still standing where you left him.

He’s watching you.

You hate him.

Getting inside, you shut the rickety door tight, resting your forehead against the splintered wood as you wait for your heart to stop pounding.

From behind you a sudden “goo" chases the tension and fear from your body. Your shoulders relax.

With a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, you turn in search of the cooing source.

Nestled into a bed of hay, covered with a thick blanket of navy fabric, is your little one.

A hair of golden hair and eyes as blue as the deepest ocean have enraptured you. Stolen your heart and changed your world.

“Are you finally awake?” You gush, moving to place your bucket by the crumbling and unlit fireplace before you make your way to him.

His chubby little legs kick away his tunic. A plain brown piece of linen you’d stitched together to keep him clothed.

At six months, he’s nearly outgrown it.

When you offer your arms, he throws his weight to his left until he can roll onto his stomach and then reaches for pivots towards you.

Sliding your hands underneath his arms, he grabs you and you lift him up then place several kisses to his chubby baby cheeks.

He's gorgeous, your baby boy. His smile is sun bright and the gleam in his eyes is sharp and observant.

The expressions he wears on his little face are familiar. They pull and tug at something too but you can’t focus on it long enough to care.

Your boy is your world and that’s all you need to know.

“Is my sweet boy hungry?” You wonder while moving for the bucket of water you’d lugged into the hut.

You dip your hand in and for a moment relish in the feel of the water on your hand. A sudden desire to be submerged in steaming hot water that smells like a spring garden overcomes you, but it’s gone by the time you gently swipe across your little one's face.

He protests you cleaning his face. Whining a little and twisting in your arms until you’re done and wait with both arms supporting him for his sputtering to stop.

He looks at you and after taking another moment to overcome his displeasure, he smiles again.

You chuckle and move to grab the swaddling blanket you’ve set aside for his use alone and sit with it in your lap as you lean back a little to expose your breast to feed him.

A song you feel you almost dreamt slips from your lips in a soothing hum. With your eyes shut you can almost see a beautiful gown sweep around your feet.

Strong arms hold you close as they lead you around a crowded room.

The image is like a dream too, part of the song you’re humming. You’ve never been in so vast a hall, tables laden with food and the satin gown you wear is softer than any rag you’ve ever worn.

No. You’ve never been bathed in such luxury.

This hovel is your home with its mostly dirt floor, loose cobblestones shoved around in spots you’d set aside to keep dry.

No windows. A door that hangs off its hinges. A straw bed. A patched roof.

As your son feeds and you allow your mind to put away the dream of nice things, you assess the hut you’ve made your home.

You’re almost certain that you’d had it in better condition before. The door had hung straight, the rickety fireplace had been sturdy and homely.

The floor had been more even. Your straw bed had been less lumpy.

You’d had another small shelf with your plates and cups. Your sewing kit safely stored in the cupboard below.

Your home had not been grand but it had been comfortable. It had been yours and you’d cared for it delicately and made it a sanctuary.

When had it changed so much?

As you attempt to remember when this place fell apart your mind is forced to confront several other unanswered questions that you seem to think on often but always forget.

It’s almost as if the thoughts are pushed from your mind until they are brought to the surface once more.

The one question that started it all…the one that had made you pause. You still remember the miller’s wife, staring at you at the small grocer's shop while you waited to pay for your bushel of potatoes.

“Oi, orphan. How much longer ‘til you have the babe?” She'd asked, her eyes narrowed as she considered your swollen belly.

You'd stroked it, smiling fondly at the little life growing within you.

“A fortnight.” You’d answered, happy and content despite your poor living.

“Ah, and who's the father?” She'd asked, then waited as your smile slowly fell.

You’d stood there for a few minutes, waiting your turn but lost in thought at the question that had never once occurred to you in the seven months since your belly began to grow.

“I…I don’t know.” You’d admitted to her and her eyes filled with a solemn worry.

“Looks like they finally cornered you. Didn’t get a look at ‘is face?” She'd wondered and it was then that you realized what she thought.

Your precious baby, your little growing bean, was the product of one of the village men forcing himself on you.

But it wasn’t true!

As you sit with your son in your arms, rocking him back and forth as he eats, you know without a doubt in your mind that your son was made with love.

You can feel it within your very soul. There was passion and love and devotion in his making.

A golden aura, warm and encompassing that gave you your own little ray of sunshine. But even though you know this you cannot see his father.

There is no father. Only your Joseph.

He stirs in your arms. You find him smiling, finished with his meal. And just like that, your thoughts are lost to his special allure.

“All done?” You ask him and he yawns.

You begin to wrap him up in the blanket you’d made for him and bring a basket from the corner of your hut.

It’s a decent size with straps sewn into the wicker so that you may put it on your back.

You place it before you, balanced between your legs and gently lay Joseph within. You make certain he's wrapped up tight and kiss his cheek before you fit a domed lid on top.

The lid covers his head and keeps him safe from the summer heat.

“We'll check the traps and then come right back.” You promise him and lift the basket onto your shoulders, listening as he coos long baby words that say nothing.

It’s like he’s talking to you, the quiver of his voice moving up and down with inflection as if he knows what he’s doing.

He takes a breath and then starts again, “Oooh-awhhhh-wahhhhhh-ooooohhhhhhh…”

You can’t help but smile, your skin greeted by scorching sun as you start your trek into the trees behind your home.

“Let's check the traps by the pond first, then we'll check the bog by the road.” Joseph coos along with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The view is spectacular.

It’s downright scenic from up here so high on the hill. Even if the beautiful valley is slightly tarnished by the village below.

It’s part of the reason he decided to keep the purchase.

Several months ago, Steve had found the deed to the manor on Sunbright Hill.

He'd sat for nearly an hour while he'd considered the paperwork, trying to remember why he’d made the purchase of such a dilapidated plot.

The lord that had once resided here had apparently vacated when he'd married a lady of considerable wealth but she preferred the Capital city to Bright Rise below so, they’d left and never come back.

Slowly the manor began to rot and the village, without its caretaker, had also fallen into poverty and corruption.

The farms were all but dead. Only two were still in use and had the season failed once in the past few years, the village would have surely fallen.

“Steve?” Bucky sighs, moving into the renovated den.

Steve stands by the large arched windows behind his massive oak desk.

The chair is angled towards the glass, distracted as he's been lately, he can’t seem to get any work done.

“Steve?” Bucky says louder.

Steve blinks, pulled from his brooding to notice his friend. He turns and waits, saying nothing.

“She's here.” Bucky smiles.

Steve’s heart gives an eager stutter as his own bearded face breaks into a wide smile.

“Where?” He asks, moving towards his oldest friend.

“She’s with Nat in the dining room. She was hungry.”

Steve is already out the door, stomping with wide steps down the hallway, then another and another, down a staircase then to the east side of the manor towards the dining room.

It’s a long room, a table long enough to sit at least forty people takes up most of the center space.

Each wall has been adorned with tapestries and paintings, an iron chandelier with sixty candles hangs at the center of the room, currently unlit.

Instead, windows on both sides of the room sit open, a cool breeze blowing in to cool the manor from the summer heat.

As Steve thrusts the doors open, he spots a grouping of his closest friends. Sam, Wanda, Pietro, Peter who is actually squatting beside the chair they are all surrounding, and Natasha in the one beside it.

In the chair is a cherub. An angel. A literal princess dressed in pale pink. Her golden hair, a shade darker than Steve’s is pinned back on one side with clasp of small and ornate white peony blossoms.

“Maggie!” Steve calls, the honey in his deep voice soft and flowing as his heart swells in his chest.

The toddler turns her head, searching aimlessly as his voice echoes around the room. Her right hand full of jelly and toast as she’d sat munching, she now opens and holds her fingers wide as she isn’t coordinated enough to recognize when the food has fallen from her tiny grasp.

Everyone is watching her, despite the presence of their King and Steve cannot blame them. Her eyes find him and she releases a high squeal of excitement before she turns in her seat to take hold of the arm.

“Wait, Maggie, your hands are a mess.” Nat says, her voice full of amusement.

But little Maggie has no patience for cleanliness with her papa so close.

“Papa!” She screams, turning to look at him as she stands on the chair.

Her lips wrap around the name with a slur, her talking improving but still just beginning.

Nat continues to wipe her hands as Steve laughs and moves for her, arms extended.

Maggie bounces on her feet excitedly. Her pink dress swishing with every move.

As he reaches her, she allows herself to fall into his arms and he catches her, spinning her once as he presses a long kiss to her cheek.

Maggie laughs, her hands wrapped around Steve’s head so tightly that Steve wonders if her strength is increasing or it’s just his imagination.

“She has been asking about you all week.” Nat says, rising and then turning to Bucky as he approaches her to give her a kiss.

“We'll give you some space.” Wanda offers then moves around the chair towards the exit.

Steve stops his turning to watch her go, Pietro following.

“Will you be going back to Broklin?” He wonders, wondering if the twins only came to escort Maggie.

“No. We'll visit with Tony.” Pietro nods, then both of them stop at the door and bow before heading off at what must be Pietro’s run.

“How was the journey?” Steve worries, turning his eyes on Nat.

“It was fine. She was a little fussy last night but as soon as I explained that we were coming to see her papa, she converted her energy to enthusiastic impatience.” Nat chuckles. “She really has been asking for you. ‘Papa where?’, ‘Where Papa?’, ‘Papa, Papa, Papa…’. It’s almost as if it’s the only word she knows.”

“She’s never been away from him for so long.” Bucky observes, both he and Nat watching as Maggie places her little hands on Steve’s cheeks, her fingers exploring the edges of his beard while Steve admires her little face.

“I’m sorry, my treasure. I just wanted to make sure the manor would be ready when you arrived.” He tells her.

She seems to understand as she tilts her head to one side and throws her hand up, bent at the elbow as she babbles a string of words only she understands.

“Do you forgive me?” Steve begs.

Maggie giggles sleepily then leans forward to lay her head on his shoulder.

Steve strokes her tiny back, caressing her hair a bit as her eyes begin to close.

“How long will you stay, Nat?” Steve asks, his voice dropping a bit in volume to respect his sleeping toddler.

“Long enough for you and Sam to go and come back. Bucky and Peter will help me with Maggie.” She nods, looking for her faithful friend and Knight.

She spots him in another seat, head in hand, elbow on the table as he dozes lightly.

“He's been doting on her.” Nat explains. “Too much, perhaps?”

Sam huffs a laugh as he crosses his arms across his hard chest, tugging on the crimson tunic he’d quickly dressed himself in this morning.

“He’ll be angry we went to visit Morgana without him.” Sam observes and Steve can’t find it in him to deny it.

The romance that had bloomed between them had seemed to come out of nowhere for him.

In the back of his mind when he’s been laying in bed with Maggie beside him, he can almost remember a conversation about their eventual marriage. When he brought it up to Nat—he was fairly certain the topic had been discussed with a woman—she admitted to the thought never even crossing her mind.

She’d praised the match and teased Peter afterwards, but it has left Steve with another unanswered question.

So many…so many strings that he’s tried to pull on only to find the way blocked.

Maggie coos in his arm, another bout of baby babble in her sleep that pulls him from his pondering.

“We’ll head out in a few hours.” He tells Sam who straightens up and nods. “I would like to go now, but I want to spend a bit of time with Maggie before I leave her again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours with Maggie turned into thirty minutes.

The longer Steve sat with her in his arms, the more eager he was for her to wake.

He’s missed her but knows that she’s tired so in an effort to get the visit over with and return to his smiling princess, he tucks her into her crib in his bedroom then hands her care over to Nat who sits by the window while Bucky sees them out.

“How long will you be, your Majesty?” Bucky wonders, keeping pace with Steve’s quick and long stride.

“Not long. I’ve only to invite him to the ball in two weeks and we’ll return. I’m certain we’ll be back before dinner.” Steve assures him. “I hear you and Natasha are considering adopting a child?”

Bucky smiles. “There is another option, one that Natasha is most eager to try but I think I’ve convinced her to reconsider.”

Steve regards his friend skeptically.

“Truly, I think I have. She met with a witch a few weeks ago and apparently there is a way for Natasha to regain her ability to have a child.” Bucky explains, his expression a little darker.

Steve’s confusion is evident in the narrow of his brow. Despite his curiosity, he keeps his eyes fixed ahead as they move along the south hall to the stables.

The fall of their shoes echoes along the empty corridor, still only half decorated as it was only finished a few days ago. Steve can still smell the fresh clay between the stones underneath their feet.

He’ll have carpets put in to quell the sound.

“Isn’t that what you both want?” He wonders.

Bucky shakes his head. “I want her to be happy. She thinks I want a child of my own. Naturally my own. But I don’t care if the child is mine by blood. I just want to love her.”

“Magic like that of which she speaks comes with a hefty price.”

“That’s why I refuse to accept it.” Bucky sighs, the worries of his world evident on his shoulders.

“The price is too high?” Steve wonders, finally looking to his friend.

“We would be granted the ability to have our own child, but the mother would have to relinquish years of her own life. Five is what the witch told her. So, if it were Nat’s fate to die at the age of sixty, five years would be taken from that and she would die that much sooner.” Bucky laments, shaking his head in denial. “I cannot condone it.”

Steve sees his friend thinking things through, biting his lip as he wonders if he should speak what has consumed his mind aloud.

He gives in, “I know that it’s her choice. If she should want to do it, I only have some say in it. If having a child truly born of us both is what would make her happy then I would have no choice but to comply, but I would rather adopt a child who we will both love as our own anyway and have my wife for five years longer.”

Steve’s heart gives a painful ache.

Something in Bucky’s words makes him sad and breaks his heart.

My wife…Steve repeats in his head, the memory of feeling proud at that very thought overtaking his senses.

“Is it Margaret again?” Bucky wonders, stopping as they reach the end of the hall. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

Steve reaches up to stroke the spot on his chest where he can feel his heart beating. Every thump it gives sends more agony into the pit of his stomach making his head hurt.

Is it Margaret? Steve doesn’t think so.

The first time someone had asked him if it was Margaret he was mourning he admitted it was because it was easier than to tell his friends that no, it wasn’t his dead wife he was thinking of. In fact, he wasn’t sure who it was he was thinking of.

He shuts his eyes now, overcome with the sweet scent of oils. Lilac and juniper. Peonies. Fields of them. A garden full, just like back home.

A smile flitters past his sense. The image nearly chokes him. A laugh. A pout. A tear stained face made blurry as he can’t recall its beauty.

Maggie in womanly arms, pressed gently to her breast.

These elusive images that skim his mind are not Margaret. Everyone seems to ignore that Maggie is too young to be Margaret’s or perhaps they simply don’t care?

It’s almost a silent agreement that Maggie’s mother is not Margaret but who exactly she is, no one cares. No one will think on the possibility long enough for it to matter.

Even Steve loses focus after a few second of torment.

Even now, as his heart breaks painfully, Bucky puts his hand on his shoulder and gives him a shake.

Just like that, the images that pained him only moments ago are gone.

Steve smiles, breathing in deep before exhaling in a huff.

“I’ll be quick. I want to be back before it’s too dark.” With a nod from Bucky, Steve hastens his way into the stable.

Sam already has his horse saddled and waiting.

He hops on, adjusting his posture as he takes the reigns then turns to give Bucky one final wave.

“Keep my daughter happy until I return.” He orders.

Bucky waves them off and watches until they clear the large gate.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hands are shaking with rage. Yet another night with nothing caught.

All of your snares are in fact, broken. A deliberate cut made to the wire you’d spent so much money on.

You think you know exactly who it was that came out to ruin your work. There’s only one person who would benefit from sabotaging your efforts to feed yourself and your boy.

The image of Phin standing across the field from your home, staring at you is burned into your mind.

If it weren’t for Joseph, you would happily starve before you accept Phin’s hand in marriage.

As it is, it isn’t only you. In order to feed your son, you must eat. With no one coming to you for mending—which you are also sure is thanks to Phin’s interference as it has only been happening the past few weeks—you have no money to buy anything. No grain. No bread. No meat.

If you do not eat, your son will starve.

You clutch the broken snare in your hand, squeezing so tight you can feel the wire dig into the palms of your hand.

Were they not so rough, you may have cut yourself.

You take a quick peek at the basket carefully nestled between the rough trunk of tree and large berry bush. Your little one still dozing peacefully and safely covered by the basket’s lid.

While he sleeps, you know you must be quick with the snares by the bog. It isn’t too far so you decide to let him sleep in the shade and make your way through the trees to the road’s edge.

It’s a very short walk. Should he cry you’ll hear him perfectly and be able to run back to him in less than ten seconds.

The sun beats down on the road here and the bog is nearly dried over from the heat of the summer sun.

Normally the mud within is a thick sticky paste that one can easily be caked in. You even remember fetching a purse for the old woman who used to care for you when you were little.

As you stop by its edge, you wonder where the old woman has gone. You attempt to recall the last time you’d seen her but the last memory you have is fetching her purse from the mud pit.

Forcing her from your mind, you look to the two snares you’d set up between two trees and right at the edge of the bog.

The one at the edge has also been cut. You kick it angrily before you move to the other and find that it has also been tampered with.

“Fuck!” You mutter, hating Phin with every fiber of your being.

You try to picture him beside you, laying claim over you as his wife. You think on the life you will live, trapped in your home, and expected to fulfill his every whim, wish, and desire. He will rule you with a heavy hand, command you to obey, and take what he wants from you with violence if need be.

Terror roots you to that spot between the trees, hunched over as your hands shake with anger at the lack of options for you and Joseph.

There is the other choice, the one you’ve refused to make because where might you go? Here in Bright Rise you at least have a roof over your head.

Soon fall will come, then winter after that. If you choose to leave, you might be condemning yourself and your son to a death by freeze and you can’t do that. You can’t make such a reckless choice with him so little still.

You gather as much of the wire as you can, carefully wrapping it around an empty spool you’d kept just in case, hoping to keep your anger from shifting into sorrow.

As you work, you can hear the sound of hooves behind you. Two horses at most. Perhaps three? The sound of shifting gravel too close.

There’s the clearing of a throat before a steady voice speaks. “Excuse me, might I trouble you, miss for some directions? My guard and I seem to have become lost in these backroads by the village.”

You sigh, still consumed with rage with Phin, but rise and turn to face the man who addresses you.

He’s godly, this man with golden hair and a beard to match. His eyes are piercing. Storm blue as they stare you down and you fidget with the spool in your hand as your heart does a sudden and unexpected dip into your belly where it explodes into a flurry of butterflies.

Voice choked in your throat, you look away from the beautiful man and tried to clear your head.

“His Majesty, King Steven has asked you a question, miss.” His guard says, shocking your system into an automatic curtsy as you intentionally avoid their gaze now.

“I’m sorry!” You gasp, worried you might have given offense.

“Sam, it’s alright.” King Steven says, his voice soft and coaxing.

You take a quick peek at his guard, another handsome man with deep umber skin and a soft bronze glow. His gaze is a little sterner but kind all the same.

“We did not mean to startle you.” King Steven says, the gentility in his voice luring you into taking another look at him.

When your eyes meet, you find that you can’t look away.

“I-I was checking my traps.” You relay, feeling stupid suddenly for giving him information that he has not asked for.

“I can see that.” King Steven nods, a small smile tugging up half of his full pink lips.

He’s exquisite. His dress is fine, luxurious satin and silk. His tunic is a royal blue, a silver stitching along every seam in what looks to be a small wavy pattern.

It looks familiar and your hand absentmindedly moves with the pattern of the stitch as if it remembers how to make it though you’ve never sewn on anything so fine in your life.

King Steven’s eyes notice the movement and he watches your hand before you remember yourself and speak again.

“Forgive me, your Majesty, you asked me a question.” You gasp, dropping the spool at your feet and moving around the mud pit to stand at the edge of the road, much closer to where he and his guard tarry.

King Steven smiles again, sending your heart into a pitter patter.

“If you head down this road, you will reach a fork with three smaller roads. You’ll want to take the Eastern most road for nearly four miles before you reach a second fork of two roads. Take the left and follow that road and do not stray. You will reach the Capital before noon.” You say, pointing as you give instruction.

As you finish you drop your arm and bring your hand to tug at the worn leather of your belt.

King Steven stares at you, smiling for so long that you look down at your feet and are suddenly aghast by the state of your shoes and skirts.

You’re so dirty that you’re ashamed to be seen by them. With a bite to your lip, you turn and hurry back around the mud pit to pick up your spool.

“Thank you.” King Steve says, his wide shoulders relaxed. “Might I pay you for your assistance? What is the customary amount? Five silver pieces?”

You throw out your hand to stop him, embarrassed to take payment for so small a favor. “No!”

Gasping you watch as the spool flies out of your hand. It hits the front of his horse then topples onto the road where it rolls along further down the rocky path.

King Steven dismounts as you rush forward in chase of the wire.

Both of you reach it at the same time but King Steven is first to bend over and take it.

“Oh, please…” You gasp, worried about the dirt and muck that must be caked on the tool. “You’ll dirty your hands.”

As King Steven stands upright, he dusts it off then offers it to you. “A little dirt never killed anyone.”

Your senses are assaulted by him and for a moment all you can do is stare at his hand as he waits for you to take your wire.

He smells like evergreen woods and oranges. No…limes…You’re not sure! It’s a citrus of some sort and it overwhelms your mind. His voice is deep and smooth. It works its way into your bones and nearly turns them into jelly.

“Will you not take it?” He asks, shaking the spool a little.

You look up to meet his gaze but find that his smile has disappeared. In its place is a look of severe concentration.

Is he angry with you? Have you insulted him by waiting so long to take your property?

The look in his eyes is intense. He looks almost as if he’s trying to recall an elusive memory.

You know the feeling…

Quickly you take the spool, ignoring the moment your hand brushes his. He must notice how rough your hands are. He must mix with ladies whose hands had never once known the strife of physical labor.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” You curtsy quickly, avoiding his gaze and move around him.

A hot, vice-like grip takes hold around your wrist.

You stop, turning to look at his hand then up to meet his gaze.

Gone is the look of confusion, replaced by a furrowed brow and what can only be hopeful searching within his storm blue eyes.

“Steve?” His guard warns, confused by the moment almost as much as you are.

“What are-” You whisper, voice so weak you’re surprised you can manage to speak at all.

You clear your throat and search for the courage to say your piece.

You don’t like this. The way his presence almost consumes you. His touch is burning, and you’re not sure why you feel as if you’ve also been waiting a lifetime for it.

“Unhand me.” You plead, twisting your wrist in his hand but refusing to look away from his slowly shifting expression.

He smiles and your heart stutters, fear of what it might mean making you yank a little harder, but King Steven uses the momentum of your pull to step towards you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, dipping his head down as he presses fevered lips against your own.

You’re frozen in his arms, wide eyes staring at his own now shut. His lips are fierce, his kiss is hard. It hurts a little and it takes you a moment to feel the warmth of their touch.

He drops your wrist and wraps his other arm around you, hand pressed to the back of your head as he tilts his own to one side and coaxes your lips open with a gentle swipe of his tongue.

The taste of him stuns you, your body freezing as your mind is assaulted with images all blurred together into one precious life that you’d most assuredly lost and now found again.

Your eyes grow blurry, tears flooding from the corners as your lips finally respond to Steve’s kiss.

With a gasp you pull away, sobbing once as you gobble up the sight of him.

Steve’s hands caress the sides of your face, stroking your hair and cheeks as he also devours your visage.

“I found you.” He whispers, throat tick with emotion.

You sob once more, arms pulling him towards you as you give in to the shocking relief you feel to be in his arms once more.

Your heart breaks as you clutch him close. Over a year of lost time with not only him but…

“Maggie!” You exclaim, voice barely above a whisper.

“She’s perfect,” Steve assures you, pulling back to meet your gaze once more. “She’s growing bigger every day. She has your sweetness, your love of jams and jellies.”

Steve laughs, so happy that his own tears fall too. “She calls me Papa, and she calls Sam birb.”

You laugh, shaking your head already knowing that Bucky’s to blame for that.

“I don’t think it’s that funny.” Sam suddenly says, pulling both your gazes towards him.

“Sam…” You smile.

“I’ve kept watch over her, just as I promised.” The recognition in his eyes is heavenly.

“How did this happen?” Steve asks, continuing the caress of your cheeks. “How did we lose each other.”

You sigh, licking your lips as you prepare to explain when your heart suddenly drops, and you remember another pair of storm blue waiting in a basket. “Steve…”

Without warning you turn and race into the trees, running as fast as you can to make sure that he wasn’t a dream.

You find the basket where you left it and pull it away from its hiding spot before you remove the lid, happy to find your little boy still fast asleep.

“Y/N!” Steve calls, racing up behind you where he skids to a stop. “What is it, my flower? What’s the matter?”

He sighs heavily when he finds you, moving to place his hands on your shoulders, needing to feel you it seems.

“Don’t run away from me like that…” He pleads, and your heart aches for him but this is much more important.

“Steve,” You begin, and turn to reveal the six-month-old baby in your arms. “You have a son.”

The step back he takes you attribute to shock. The heartbreak and confusion on his face you have only yourself to blame for.

“How-?” He asks, shaking his head as he stares at the tiny prince in your arms.

“Steve…” You begin, suddenly fearful of what he might say when you confess the deal you’d made with grandmother.

“No.” Steve cuts you off, reaching out to trace the shape of your arms through the dingy dress you wear. “Not here. Let’s go home.”

“To Broklin?” You wonder, relieved that he’s eager to resume your lives together.

“No, I-do you remember when I asked you if I should purchase your little hut?” Despite speaking to you, his eyes are still trained on your son.

Slowly, as he speaks, his hand skates across your arms until he can stroke Joseph’s little cheek with one tentative finger.

“Yes.” You frown, disapproving of the purchase as it isn’t your land to begin with.

“Well, when you forbade me from buying it, I bought the manor on the hill instead.” He confesses, finally meeting your gaze.

“Oh.” You’re stunned.

“I thought that it would be nice to have somewhere in Malibia to call our own. Visiting your family is something that I wanted you to feel free to do. I wanted to give you a space you could come to, somewhere near your home.” He explains sweetly sending your heart into a tizzy.

“Steve…” You reach up, pressing your palm to his warm bearded cheek while keeping a firm hold of your little one with the other.

“Come on.” Steve urges you, leaning down quickly to kiss you then pulls away slowly almost as if he doesn’t want to. “Our princess is waiting.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She’s as beautiful as the night you’d held her close, memorizing the little wheeze in her breath as she’d drifted to sleep.

She’s bigger. She’s walking, unsteadily but moving. She’s talking, indeed saying ‘Papa’ but she says other things that you’ve already picked up on.

Her little chubby limbs have stretched a bit and you can’t believe you’ve lost so much time with her.

Tears are still streaming down your cheeks while you sit here, staring at her sleeping face.

Steve’s hands support her little back as he holds her to his chest, his back resting against the ornate wooden headboard of your bed.

“She’ll know you soon enough.” Steve assures you as you nod and quickly wipe the tears from your eyes. “She was so little.”

“I know.” You reach out, caressing her little head before you look down at the even smaller boy between you both. He’s chewing on his fist, little legs up in the air as he quietly plays by himself.

He’s so good at just being alone, you feel terrible about it because you know that it’s your fault. You’ve needed him to be independent as you worked hard to earn money for both of you.

When he meets your eyes, he coos those long wordless streams of vowel. He’s talking to you, probably relishing in the plush mattress all four of you lay on.

“Shh, my sweet boy. Your sister is sleeping.” You stroke his little chest and he takes hold of your hand as he kicks his legs in excitement.

“Y/N…” Steve begins, and you know it’s finally time.

“I’m ready now.” You sniffle, meeting his look of somber confusion. “I’ll tell you what happened.”

It takes you less than five minutes to explain. Grandmother’s vision. Her actions to see it in greater detail. The truth of his imminent death. You tell him that you begged for his life and that night when Grandmother had interrupted your sleep, she’d come to tell you that she’d found a solution.

“She said the magic would ask for payment. Something that only I could give.” You hope that he doesn’t hate you, his expression unreadable as he watches you with his brooding brow all scrunched and focused. “I thought that it would be my ability to see or walk. My hearing perhaps? Or being able to speak…I never thought that it would take you and Maggie from me.

“My life perhaps? But not my memories of you. Not knowing you.” You sigh, waiting for his rage to show.

What you get instead, is a calm conversation and a gentle pout.

“But it wasn’t only your memories. It was everyone’s. The magic wiped your existence as my wife and Queen completely.” He observes.

“Yes.” You agree. “Even the villagers in Bright Rise acted as if I’d never gone anywhere. How can magic be so powerful as to erase me completely from so many minds?”

Steve shakes his head, his hand still absentmindedly stroking Maggie’s back.

“It was such a risk for you to take.” Steve frowns, his gaze piercing, and the guilt you’d felt building since you’d stepped foot in the manor crests. “How could you make such a choice without consulting with me? I’m your husband.”

“I know.” Your lip trembles. “I’m sorry. It all happened so quickly, and I had so little time to consider the consequences of my choice. All I knew was that your future was certain. You would die protecting the world and I could not give you up to it. If I had the power to save you, of course I would use it. So long as I knew that Maggie would have you, I could stand any future I had to live.”

“Even this one? Both of us separated forever?” Steve counters, holding a mirror to the past year of your life.

You shake your head, new tears springing forth as you look down at your boy who has fallen asleep once again.

“I thought I would have to marry Phin.” You admit, voice quiet so as not to disturb your little ones.

“Why?”

“I’m fairly certain he was orchestrating it. No one in the village were taking work from me to mend their clothing and today, you found me checking my snares for small game, but someone has been breaking them. Cutting the wire or simply tearing it down.

“He wanted me to be hungry enough to marry him and the bastard knew that I would do it, for Joseph if not for myself.” Your anger taints your vision red, Phin’s detestable face a memory you wish you could forget.

Mentioning your son brings Steve’s eyes back down to him. He takes one hand and reaches down, placing his finger into Joseph’s tiny open hand. He grasps his papa’s finger, a tiny fist full of surprisingly sturdy strength.

“Now that we’ve remembered, I’m panicked by the idea that you might have found a new Queen in my absence.” You confess, chewing nervously on your lip.

“Bucky and Sam suggested it. They brought Sharon around me often to try and convince to take her on, but something prevented me from doing so.” His words send your heart into your feet, your head is suddenly splitting.

Glad as you are that he doesn’t seem to have found a new wife, the possibility of it make you feel almost sick to your stomach with anxiety.

“I think perhaps I knew in some way, deep down, that I was already married. The very thought of sharing my bed with someone else drove my skin to crawl. I felt guilty, as if I were committing some grave sin.” He admits, unrelenting in his stare.

“I would not have blamed you…” You whisper, almost fearful to speak the words. “…if you had taken a new wife. If you’d had another child with someone else. I would have had no one to blame but myself.”

“No one could ever take your place.” He assures you. “Even though I didn’t remember you, your presence was greatly missed. I may not have known what it was I was yearning for, but I was wishing for you every moment of every day.”

You shut your eyes, allowing the pleasure his words give you to soak deep down into your bones.

Even though he doesn’t ask, you’d also felt the exact same way. Something had always told you that somewhere was a home waiting for you to take your place. Never would you have guessed that it was a castle in the next Kingdom over.

“Were you frightened?” Steve wonders, drawing your gaze once more.

You find him watching Joseph once again, his thumb stroking the little one’s hand.

“Expecting him all on your own?” He clarifies.

“I was afraid of how I’d take care of him.” You smile, reaching to stroke the length of his little nose. “I knew I would be alright birthing him. It was long and taxing. But he was with me so suddenly. It was over before I even knew what was happening. The miller’s wife came to check on me and she helped me for a few days after, but I had no other choice than to push on. I was up and caring for him and myself before the week was out. That’s when my fear came.

“I knew that I had to feed myself in order to keep him fed and healthy and I wasn’t sure exactly how to do it with the village set so resolutely against me. An unwed mother with a bastard child?”

“I’ll have it burned to the ground.” Steve declares suddenly.

You smile wide, your heart melting as you watch the intensity in his gaze as new love blooms for his son.

“I wish you had spoken with me about Agatha’s vision before you made any decisions.” Steve laments, an anger growing in contrast with the new love.

It effectively wipes aware the happiness his love gives you as you regret having kept him in the dark.

“If I’d told you,” You begin, voice breaking and weak as emotion gets the better of you. The sound of it brings his gaze back to you and he seems to soften with it. “You would have kept me from doing what needed to be done. There was no question of saving you, Steve. I had only just found you. Our baby girl only just born. I could not lose you.”

Shutting your eyes, you let your head fall, burying your face into your pillow.

“Imsuhsawree.” You sob, muffled against the fluff of the bed.

The silence feels endless until you’ve just about made up your mind to look at him again when a sudden snort of laughter cuts the tension with ease.

You whip your head to face him, searching for the source of the laugh only to find Steve with his hand over his mouth as his body shakes with silent laughter.

“You’re laughing?” You gasp in disbelief; certain you must be seeing things.

Your husband cannot possibly be amused in this moment while your heart and soul are drowning in guilt and grief.

“I’m sorry.” Steve chortles, a whisper of giggles as he tries his best not to wake Maggie. “Forgive me, I…”

You frown at him, displeased with his humor but he reaches for you with his hand and hooks it behind your head in a soft caress.

“It’s not funny.” You insist.

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “It isn’t. I’m sorry, my flower. I’m just…so happy you’ve returned. I’ve missed you so much.”

And just like that, he’s forgiven.

The four of you lay there in bed for hours. Though your stomach is empty, you refuse to bring your hunger to Steve’s attention. Even though you know very well just how much he will be upset with you for it, you can’t bring yourself to tear your little family apart so very soon.

The sun is only just setting when Joseph decides it’s time to eat. He whimpers, a soft murmuring of whiney breaths until the air takes shape and his cries begin to grow louder.

Beside him Maggie also stirs, staring around with wide eyes as the crying rises in volume and she’s brought out of her blissful slumber.

Steve wakes last, while you are already scooping your little boy into your arms and propping yourself up against the headboard to feed him, he rubs his face and glances at the window.

“It’s already so late.” He realizes, turning back to you and Joseph while Maggie twists her body until she can lay on her stomach and then throw herself back to sit on her bottom.

Her eyes are glued to Joseph as he latches to your breast and begins to suckle. Your breasts are sore, and the pain is worse than you remember it being with Maggie, but you have no time to focus on the pain.

You make sure he can eat easily, watching him for any signs of distress.

“Did you get her a wet nurse?” You wonder, letting your eyes drift to Maggie who still sits watching you feed her brother.

“I did.” Steve nods, lifting the girl back up onto his lap. “She was so little.”

You look away, a quiver in your bottom lip as you try to push past the heartbreak that you hadn’t been there for your daughter like you’d wanted to be. “Yeah.”

Steve is familiar with you enough that he knows you don’t want to dwell on it and changes the topic quickly.

“Shall we have dinner in here? I don’t want to share either of you yet.” He confesses, stroking the back of Maggie’s little head.

“Yes.” You nod, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically at the mention of food because Steve frowns.

“Damn it, Y/N.” He gripes and gently places Maggie back on the bed before he marches towards the doors. “If you were hungry, you should have said something. After your meal, I’ll have Natasha draw you a bath.”

The prospect of a full belly and a luxuriously hot bath which you hadn’t realized you’d grown so fond of is so dreamy that your heart gives a clench and once more you feel so very happy you just might cry again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How’s your bath, my petal?” Steve checks, moving to the edge of the bed once more as the children sleep on.

After their dinner they’d quickly begun to play. They’d explored each other’s boundaries and Maggie had made Joseph cry only once for a few minutes before they were sharing Maggie’s soft cloth dolls.

They each sleep with one in their hands, huddled close together at the center of the bed.

“Is the water too hot?” Steve pulls over a small yellow footstool, sitting upon the soft cushion.

He doesn’t wait for your answer and dips his left hand into the water, testing the temperature as you lay yourself back against the large copper tub.

“Your hand is going to smell like peonies and rose oils.” You tease him, bringing your hand up above the fragrant water.

You take a peony petal and carefully tuck it behind his ear, gentle drops of water skirting down into his beard as the pink stands in pleasant contrast to the gold of his hair.

Biting your lip, you comb it back, tracing the shape of his jaw with damp fingers.

“Even though I didn’t know you, my heart and soul yearned for you.” You whisper, sliding your hand down to rest upon his shoulders.

“And I you.” He smiles, eyes shut as you lean in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I wonder,” You begin, pulling back to examine and rememorize every inch of his face. “Now that we are together again, whether this will negate in some way the effect of the spell?”

This thought raises a new worry in you. A fear that by meeting again you have somehow doomed Steve to die.

“Even if it has, I will not part with you again. I won’t die either.” Steve promises, but how can you take him at his word.

Magic is wicked and it will take its price one way or another.

“I have to speak to grandmother.” You counter, your gentle caress of his shoulders turned into a desperate cling.

“She’s gone.” Steve says, sending your heart into a pit within your belly. “No one has seen her since all of this started. However, there is something that I found in my office back home.”

Steve rises, moving towards his cloak left to rest on the back of a chair at the opposite end of the room.

When he returns, he holds in his hand a sealed piece of parchment, folded twice to keep its contents secure. The wax seal is a deep purple, her insignia that of a cat, back arched and head tilted up as if to yowl towards the moon.

You reach for your towel nearby and dry your hands then take the letter as Steve holds it out.

“I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere I go, hoping it would yield some explanation as to why I have been feeling so…empty.” He tells you, picking up his stool and moving to place it a bit more near the head of the tub where you sit. “Scoot forward.”

You do as he asks, staring at the letter and consider what its contents might be.

Steve’s hands disappear beneath the surface of your bathwater and emerge with a small porous sponge. It’s rough at first but with water and under Steve’s heavy hand, it becomes malleable and he begins to stroke your back, cleaning the peasant grime from your body.

“Why haven’t you opened it?” You wonder, turning it over almost expecting it to billow with glittering smoke.

“I attempted to many times. I couldn’t. The seal would not break. See there at the bottom of the fold?” He instructs.

You turn it over to look at the side with the seal and spot the small loopy writing at the bottom. The penmanship is so exquisite, you’re almost certain now that grandmother had indeed once been of noble blood.

For the Queen of Broklin.

“For me?” You gasp.

“I think it will only open for you, petal.” Steve explains as he leans closer to get the tops of your arms and then following the flow of muscle over your shoulders and down along your sides slowly.

Eager now, knowing this letter is meant for you, you tear it open and the seal breaks without fuss.

“Can you read it?” Steve wonders, no note of teasing in his voice.

Like you, he must be wondering whether so long a time away from life at the castle has made you forget everything you’d learned.

“I think so.” And with bated breath, you read, glad that you’d tried so hard to learn and only slightly surprised that you understand every single word she’s written.

If you are reading this note, it means that I was right.

First, believe me when I tell you that every word I spoke of King Rogers’s death was true. There is indeed a threat that would take his life and that of your father’s and King Thor’s as well.

I thought that perhaps King Rogers’s death would be enough to convince you that what we needed to do would be necessary and I am glad to say I was right.

What I did not tell you is that I knew the price to be asked would be the life you’d built within the castle in Broklin. I could not bear to tell you that you’d spent all that time suffering and building a family with him only to have it ripped from you.

Somehow, I don’t think you would have changed your mind even if I had.

After you spoke to me of your connection with the Asgardian king, I was wary of what it might mean for your future as Queen in the kingdom. There was only one chance to break the curse dealt by the spell to save your husband’s life and that was if you and he were always meant to be together.

Soulmates, I believe they call it. Two halves of one whole, set at opposite ends of the world to meet each other in just the right way to create what we know as destiny. In this case, the opposite ends you were placed in were poverty and wealth.

Your husband had every advantage in life while you had none. You were given no loves in life and King Rogers was given one big enough to eclipse the pull you would have for him when and if you met.

At the time, I worried that King Thor might be your true mate. The two of you were so well suited and perhaps I’m right? But if you’re reading this, it means that you and King Rogers found each other once again.

By some miracle, he or you have lifted the curse, and you can once more be together to live your lives and King and Queen of Broklin.

A fate you might not have found had I not thrown my purse into that bog by the road. I hope you appreciate my efforts, girl. I have worked very hard to walk you through this life but must now leave you to shape it on your own.

Don’t worry. I might not be with you every day, but should you need me, I will come. You don’t need to send for me. I’ll know. And rest assured, your husband’s life is safe.

There will always be evil in the world and he will always rise to fight it but be content to know that his life you most certainly have saved. Take care.

-Grandmother

You read the letter at least three times before Steve’s chin finds your shoulder, the scruff of his beard pleasantly rough against your skin.

“What does it say?” He wonders, tilting his head to kiss your neck.

You fold the letter and toss it away so that it won’t get wet, then lean back until you’re relaxed and can turn to look and admire your husband’s storm blue eyes.

“It says that no matter what might come to tear us apart, you will always find me.” You smile, reaching up to scratch underneath his chin.

Steve’s lips curl up on one side, a dashing smirk if you ever saw one.

“Always.”

#king!steve x reader #medieval fantasy au #royal au #arranged marriage au #steve rogers x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel au #steve x reader fanfiction #steve rogers x reader fanfiction #king!steve x reader fanfiction #king!steve x you #steve rogers x you #pseudo princess #avengers x reader #pseudo princess pt36 #shreddedparchment

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prettywordsyouleft · 4 years ago

Text

The Devil in Red and White

Pairing: Im Jaebum x female reader

World: King Of Demons

Genre: fluff / demon au / christmas-ish au (I know it’s January, don’t come for me)

Warnings: none, aside from if you’re not familiar with this world, then nicknames won’t make much sense.

A/N: I had this idea immediately when I started thinking about what to write for Jaebum’s birthday. Then I cursed it out for not coming to me earlier in December so it would make more sense to use it. But hey, Sheol and Earth never really line up with the same time and date, now do they XD (I also need to write this now before the next story for Princess and Jaebum in this world and since I plan to do that before Christmas 2021, please just humour me a little longer!)

Word count: 1321

King of Demons series: Havoc // King of Demons // Unfathomable // Sacrifice // King of Demons: The Return // In The Night // Identity // Prophecy // Someone // The Devil Contained // The Monsters Witch

Jaebum was more than ready to see you again.

It had been far too long, so he thought, since you had returned to Sheol, and this time apart especially had been harder to endure, knowing you were with child.

His child.

Still, to anyone who wasn’t close to the Devil himself, they would merely think of him as curiously awaiting the elevator from the Gatekeeper’s lair. The smirk on Mark’s face beside him, however, gifted Jaebum with the knowledge that his closest friend was amused by him.

“Now is not the time to taunt me, Mark.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” the demon mentioned too airily and Jaebum eyed his friend carefully. “You might combust into flames if I were to try.”

“Am I that noticeable?”

“Only to me,” Mark answered with a wicked grin that gave Jaebum little assurance. “No doubt the servants of this area merely think you’re awaiting a new supply of mint chocolate chip ice-cream.”

“Perhaps Y/N will bring some,” he murmured, clasping his hands together, only to let them go a moment later. Jaebum sighed heavily, looking at Mark once more. “Do you think she’ll be much different?”

“Physically, or…?”

“I suppose there could be mental changes,” Jaebum replied, pacing the area until one of his workers looked his way. Silencing the attention with a glare, the Devil frowned. “I’ve read some on the topic.”

“Of how to become a father?” Mark openly questioned, and Jaebum’s eyes widen immediately. Mark and Jinyoung were the only two to truly not fear him in these parts, and for once, it irked Jaebum. He wished Mark’s easiness would damper down.

Then again, he was an experienced demon. Mark had spent far longer up on Earth than he had.

And Jaebum needed the advice. “You’ve seen pregnancy up there, have you not?”

“Can’t say I took it on as an interest. Perhaps you should have done more research before ending in such a predicament?”

“We all know my brother is hardly one to study,” Jinyoung stated upon arrival, and Jaebum glowered at the Prince of Sheol. It was not effective. “Come, brother. I’ve outgrown your glares, have I not?”

“Why is she taking so long?!” Jaebum exclaimed impatiently, throwing his hands up into the air. Flames sparked at the ends of his fingers, and he groaned.

He was evidently too worked up.

Just then, he heard the cranking of the brakes to the elevator down below, his hands reaching for his hair before smoothing down his silk shirt. Ignoring the sniggers from those awaiting your arrival too, Jaebum’s gaze grew earnest.

Just what was he to expect?

When the ancient elevator reached its destination, and the doors opened, all the nerves he felt evaporated when he saw your face. Your eyes connected with his and he rushed forward to your side, pulling you into a much-awaited embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into your ear, now uncaring of how much affection he showered you in within the company of others. Whenever you were present in his world, Jaebum could hardly care for normalities and ranks.

You turned him into a vulnerable man, every time.

However, when he pulled away to inspect you properly, Jaebum was immediately concerned. You had bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and your skin looked pallid. The size of your stomach was smaller than he expected, and yet, it seemed to be sucking the life out of you.

Whilst your death would end the constant separation whenever you were obligated to return to Earth, he wasn’t quite prepared to accept your heart stopping anytime soon either.

“My love…”

“First, allow me to get my things before you fuss, Jaebum.”

He blindly allowed you to turn back for the elevator, where a large suitcase waited for retrieval.

“What’s that, Princess?” Mark enquired for the three men watching on, Jinyoung stepping forward to help you when you struggled to get it over the lip of the door.

“Supplies.”

“For?”

“You’ll see,” you announced with a bright smile, returning to Jaebum’s side and taking his hand. “Will you take me to our quarters now? I think I need a rest before I begin.”

You had only rested until the evening when suddenly you had enough energy and wished to use it for whatever you had planned. Jaebum whined, hoping you could stay in bed with him just a little longer.

However, you were far too animated to contain.

Unlatching the suitcase, you started pulling out sparkly strings of tinsel and random ornaments, dashing around the room with them. It confused Jaebum greatly. “My Queen?”

“Yes, my King?” you hummed happily, dressing up the grand fireplace with something far too festive for his liking.

“Wasn’t it Christmas time last month up there for you humans?”

You turned to give him a pointed look, and Jaebum was ashamed that the accusing expression he held softened immediately. “Yes, it was.”

“Then why are you bringing such ghastly things into our home?”

“Ghastly?!” you echoed, your efforts doubling. You placed a plaid cushion on the armchair by the fireplace. “You have no regards for my feelings at all!”

“Your feelings are ones I regard above all,” he shot back, and you rolled your eyes.

“Once again, I spent my holidays without you, without our family down here. Whilst I understand the agreement made with the Gods for my travelling back and forth, it’s different now.”

“Why?”

“Because we have traditions to start!”

“In January?”

“As parents,” you corrected, and Jaebum frowned.

“I’m going to need more information.”

“Christmas is a joyous occasion, and our daughter will grow up knowing of it,” you insisted, and Jaebum nodded.

“That I agree with, but isn’t it a December thing? It’s a new year now.”

“So you suggest that we don’t celebrate it as a family?”

“No, I-”

“I grew up believing in the magic of Christmas, of Santa,” you explained, placing a red and white hat upon Jaebum’s head in the process.

He glanced at the pompom hanging off the end with some bewilderment.

You giggled then, and that eased the tension within the room. “You’ll make a fine Santa Claus one day.”

“Me?! Can’t we make BamBam do it?”

“So you’ll accept me kissing your Gatekeeper? I haven’t ever thought about doing that before but-”

“I love you,” Jaebum intervened, kissing you to compliment his statement. Rubbing your shoulders gently, he then sighed. “But I have no intentions of letting you kiss another, nor any understanding of what you talk of.”

“I know. Christmas is a human thing,” you mentioned, and Jaebum nodded softly.

“And one that is more in alignment with those in the heavens above, don’t you think?”

“Still, can’t you come on board with me about this? I’ll explain it to you more so you understand.”

“I’m already trying to comprehend parenting, which is a novel concept for someone like me. Surely, this Christmas thing can wait. And have you forgotten, much like what Christmas celebrations were started upon, I too have a birthday worth rejoicing over.”

“When is that again?” you teased, and Jaebum went to object when you popped a candy cane into his mouth. His eyes widened once the peppermint taste hit his senses.

The sweets of the human world never failed to impress him.

You smiled knowingly. “I want to have a belated Christmas party tonight.”

“Tonight? With everyone else?”

You nodded, and Jaebum grew glum.

“Were you hoping to keep me to yourself for days on end again?” Jaebum’s lack of immediate answer drew a soft chuckle from you once more. “Who knew the Devil could be this adorable?”

You cupped his face and eyed the hat still upon his head before smiling. “Let me tell you the story about Mummy kissing Santa Claus first. I think then you might be more willing to dress as the jolly man himself next Christmas.”

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captains-writing-desk · 4 years ago

Text

Bothersome Pt. 2

Universe: Harry Potter

Character: Severus Snape

Type: F!Reader insert (You, yours)

Words: 2,649

Prompt: For my dear anon asking for part 2 of Bothersome! This be the fluffy and angsty part.

Note: Sorry it took me a while I went home to visit my parents for a while. Hope you like it!

Gimme feedback and requests guys!

Part 1

True to his word, Severus didn’t leave you anything, not even the script he seemed to have spent all day writing. No matter, you could do some really fun things and make the students love you far more than him, though in all honesty most students would already have placed you higher in the ranks of favourites before you even set foot in the room for the first time. What if he despised you for it though? Hang on, since when had that ever crossed your mind in your decisions? Never. You would do it.

Your lessons went down without a hitch and were received very well since you’d ask at the end of each lesson how the students found it. Most responses were along the lines of ‘Much nicer than Snape’s lessons’, Which you assumed would happen but was still good feedback nonetheless.

When fourth period came, Albus caught up with you after sitting on the last ten minutes of the lesson, taking in the students feedback before coming to see you.

“I see they’ve taken quite fondly to you. Not just because Severus isn’t here.” He chuckled softly and you mirrored.

“I hope so. I look forwards to rubbing it in his face. Not that he would care much but still, I’ll say they learned more.” Would that be suspicious to the headmaster? Would he catch on to what happened between the two of you.

“He is easy to tease, especially in the nature of your relationship. Perhaps you’ve outgrown being an assistant. ” He caught you off guard with that one and you stared incredulously at him for a moment.

“Our relationship?” You pressed but tried to remain casual.

“You’ve a relationship based on insults no?” He smirked and you knew then that you’d put your foot in it by merely questioning the word relationship. Forgetting it can be any sort of bond. Bollocks.

“Oh yes. We do I suppose.” You laughed nervously, “Though I suppose it’s more that I just irritate him relentlessly.” You added in an attempt to make the situation a little less awkward for yourself.

“I doubt that very much.” He chuckled and excused himself as the students for the last class of the day started filtering in. You mentally kicked yourself over the whole interaction then greeted the students.

It was a nice easy lesson to end on, some fifth years that required little supervision, just answers to some of their questions when they needed for their OWLs preparation essays which they were able to finish outside of the lesson anyway.

You found yourself staring at the pillar where everything began the night before and got yourself lost in your thoughts. You started overthinking and getting anxious about seeing the man again and you would have started panicking had a voice not pulled you back to the room you were in.

“Professor?” They had repeated this a few times as you tried to shake yourself out of your daze.

“Sorry..” You finally looked at the student, “I’m not your professor you know. Yet.” You smiled and some students chuckled.

“Soon. I hope.” The student joked then proceeded with their question.

Soon enough practically all of the students had gotten bored of writing and were starting to get distracted.

“Alright I can see you’re all very bored. You’ll have plenty of time to be bored in the examinations so you can do what you like with last ten minutes of the lesson.” In all honesty you were pretty tired yourself and your mind kept wandering in the silence, so some mindless noise would be helpful. The class were definitely happy with their free reign and gave their thanks before turning to make conversation in amongst eachother as you went and sat at the desk.

“Professor?” You had not expected any of the students to talk to you but it was another welcome distraction.

“Yes?” You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand.

“How much longer will you be here? You seem far more advanced to be an assistant now.” Everyone today was out to surprise you with their questions that you barely knew the answers to. You had been an assistant for some time now and you really had caught up to Severus’ level now. What would happen now?

“You know what. I’m really not sure.” You answered after a moment of thought, thinking about it, what had Albus meant earlier about outgrowing being an assistant? Was it time for you to leave and find an actual professors position? “Not very long, I fear.” You added quite blankly and the students made their jokes about how they wished you would replace Severus. The last few minutes went by with you sat in silence, wondering what your future held.

You meandered to the great hall for dinner and slowly picked at your food.

“Are you alright?” Minerva interrupted your blank but racing thoughts, “You seem to be off in the clouds.” She added with a terse smile, seeming quite concerned.

“Yes. Yes, I’m alright.” You cleared your throat and leaned closer to her, “Though I think it’s dawned on me it’ll be time to move on soon to find a permanent position.” You whispered softly and she smiled endearingly at you.

“You’ve grown fond of things here haven’t you? Yes, I think it is high time you found something more suited to your level now. You can’t stay an assistant forever you know?” She reassured you and mentioned you should have a word with Albus later.

“I suppose I should. He did mention it briefly earlier but I didn’t really think..” You trailed off as your heart rose into your throat, watching Severus walking through the students and you quickly averted your eyes to meet the gaze of Minerva, and Albus behind her. Minerva furrowed her brows and Albus had a look of masked amusement.

“You don’t look so well.” Minerva reached for your shoulder and pressed her other hand to your flushed cheeks.

“I’m quite alright.” You reassured with a weak smile and fidgeted your hands. Everything suddenly felt like too much and your body was telling you to run or perhaps to die in a hole in the ground, or both. Minerva went to speak again but Albus appeared between the two of you with his arm held out to you.

“Come. Let’s get you some air. I insist.” He added as you started to protest, taking your hand and urging you to stand. You let him help you to your feet as you felt your legs might give way. Severus had now sat in the empty chair that was next to you, brushing against your arm ever so gently but you stayed focussed on Albus’ arm and trying to look as normal as you could.

“You’re not in trouble.” He nudged you playfully as you stepped down from the plinth of the table you’d been sat at. You let yourself laugh to calm your nerves and it helped you at least look well as not to draw too much attention. You let go of his arm as you walked through the rows of students but he put his palm between your shoulder blades to keep you steady, as if he was afraid you’d fall.

After walking half of the grounds in s somewhat comfortable silence, you felt you needed to bring peace to your thoughts finally.

“Professor?” You caught his attention as he strolled casually next to you.

“Yes?” Be turned his head curiously to meet your gaze.

“You mentioned earlier it was time I should move on from being an assistant. What am I moving on to? How soon?” He chuckled at how desperate your voice seemed to get at the end.

“It is entirely up to you what you choose to do. You are welcome to stay here a bit longer if you like, however I feel like you’re getting nothing from assisting Professor Snape any more.” He was right, you hadn’t learned anything new for god knows how long.

“Where can I go?” You whispered, unsure of what else to say.

“I believe the ministry has some options for you but nothing practical for you. I am able to write to other schools and ask if they have anything for you. However, should you choose you want to stay here, I have a small proposition for you.” He smiled expectantly and you stared back.

“What is it?” You finally asked.

“Well, I noticed how much the students enjoy your approach to teaching, not just because Severus wasn’t there. You have a way of engaging with them and a good balance in your teaching style which is refreshing I must say. Now, I’ve only seen you a few times in one day but the students are all very keen to see you teaching them and I would have to give you a few weeks as a trial to see how you’re doing.” He started to excite you but you pushed that feeling down just in case.

“Doing what?” You pressed.

“I’d like you to revive Alchemy. If I recall, you had a great passion in it once but it is not a well taught subject I must say but I think you could bring it back into light. What do you think?” You had come to a stop in your walk back to the castle and he turned to stand in front of you.

“I haven’t done Alchemy in a fair few years, I’d be a little rusty but I’m sure I could do it.” A grin started spreading across your face which you could barely contain.

“Take some time to think about it and let me know what you think.”

“I’ll do it!” You barely let him finish his sentence and he laughed.

“I thought you might. Though as you said, you’re going to be rusty, so come see me tomorrow morning and we will go over what you remember and go from there, alright?” He put his hand on your shoulder.

“Absolutely. I’ll be there.” You nodded your head vigorously making him laugh once more as he turned towards the castle.

“I’ll see you in the morning, you should let Severus know you won’t be with him tomorrow.” He bid you a goodnight and disappeared inside.

“Right. Yes. Severus.” You muttered as your grin faded and your stomach flipped. Why were you worrying so much, nothing ended badly, he even kissed you goodnight but you knew, this changed the nature of everything. You took a deep breath and went back inside, following the corridor to the dungeons and pausing outside your own room, staring further down at the door to Severus’ classroom where you saw a faint light and the door slightly ajar.

“Bollocks.” You whispered and let your back softly thud against your door with your head thrown back then a long sigh.

“Long day?” You jumped out of your skin and turned your head to see Severus stood directly next to you, leaning against the frame of the doorway.

“Merlin!” You held your chest to calm yourself but that would not happen around Severus. How the hell did he get out of his room and here so quickly and quietly.

��Are you alright?” He asked after a moment of silence.

“Well I’ll probably die of a heart attack now. So thank you.” Finally regaining some sort of composure.

“What happened to you earlier?” He pressed with his brows furrowed and you looked to the floor.

“Nothing really. I just needed some air.” You sighed and looked up at him finally, watching his pupils dilate.

“Hmm. A likely story. How did you find today?” He folded his arms and pressed his lips into a firm line.

“It went great. The students love me. I wish I could see their faces in the morning when they realise it’s you teaching and not me.” You felt yourself relaxing as he seemed to be the same Severus you had known, it felt natural.

“Will you not be there to see the sheer excitement?” He raised his brow and you laughed at his sarcastic remark.

“Actually I’m spending the day with the headmaster tomorrow.” You folded your arms to mirror him.

“And why would you do that?” He tilted his head slightly and you felt your last little worry leave your head, why had you even worried in the first place.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you. Very top secret and they haven’t written your letter of termination yet.” Your body had slowly turned so that your shoulder was against the door instead and you faced him.

“Surely it’s a letter of commendation for putting up with you this long.” His lips formed a small smirk and you had yet another evil idea. One that would perhaps even put your mind at rest a little more regarding your situation with him.

“You should come inside for a moment.” You said softly with a sigh and led him inside your quarters where you sat him next to you on a sofa.

“The Headmaster spoke to me today about my position here. I’ve outgrown being your assistant, he said I was far too accomplished to stay.” You had to add some sort of zinger of course but remained serious in your expression. He searched your eyes for a moment and settled for you being truthful.

“Where will you go?” He forced himself to speak.

“Well he said he has found a potential position for me which is why I’m going to see him tomorrow.” You weren’t exactly lying, just withholding certain bits of information. He was silent for a long time, thinking so hard you could see the cogs in his head turning.

“Severus?” You were actually rather concerned now as you put your hand on his knee. He stares at it for a moment for putting his own hand on top of yours.

“I could teach you more.” He said softly.

“I don’t think you can.” You whispered, feeling guilty for trying to invoke something in him, you’d tell him the truth now and stop joking. “Besides, if you remember something to teach me I’ll only be down the corridor.” You smiled quite flatly, still feeling bad about your joke.

“What do you mean?” He looked at you now with a frown.

“Well I’m going to be doing Alchemy. Potentially anyway. Right here. Albus is going to see how I do tomorrow, if it goes well he will give me some time to prepare, them give me trial a period in a classroom.” He narrowed his eyes at you and your smile grew sheepish.

“That was cruel.” His voice sounded somehow deeper than ever.

“I’m sorry. Poor judgement on my part.” You squeezed his knee and looked at him with sincerity. He realized now what you had been trying to do and he almost went to retaliate but Minerva had been right earlier when he asked her what happened after you left the hall.

‘She’s worried about leaving here, about leaving someone close.’ She had said to him and he had shook it off as her playing games as she did with joking about the two of you but she had been right on this occasion.

“I don’t know what I’d have done I’d you left before I even got to figure any of this out.” His hand twitched against yours as a gesture for ‘this’. It wasn’t a big statement but you didn’t want a big statement. In fact it was the perfect statement, because now you could both figure everything out as you are meant to. Nothing can fall into place just like that but this was a pretty good start.

#reader insert #harry potter #severus snape x reader #snape x reader #snape #severus snape #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #part 2 #bothersome

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yandere-daydreams · 5 years ago

Note

if request slots are open: consider. i know you don’t like shoto but listen listen. royalty!au in which the darling is also a royal, of an opposing kingdom. shoto just thinks they’re so soft and lovely and why won’t they accept his marriage proposal?

This is pure self-indulgence, really. I just want to use fancy language and imagery and say nothing bluntly ever because straight-forwardness was only invented in the 1900s, and this is a reality I accept.

TW: Dehumanization, Abuse of Power, and Metaphors.

Your kingdom was known for never refusing a guest.

It was a state more than a nation, really, a wonderful city that relied on trade and unity to sustain itself. As such, you were more of a diplomat than a ruler, a host dressed in jewels and made to entertain true leaders from the allies held in such high-esteem by your advisors. You’d mastered the art of meaningless conversation, your patience taught to you by decades of being talked-over, and although many royals had seen fit to test your policy, there was always a free room ready when they were prepared to humble themselves and accept it. You adored that part of your occupation, how kind you got to be, to your people, traveling peasants, kings and queens and anyone who crossed your path. You liked to be generous.

But, Shoto was not a Prince known for bringing out the best in people. And you were certainly no exception to his contagious aversion.

Usually, you would make an effort to greet your visitors in the courtyard, but his visits were too frequent and too impulsive for you to do so much as stand before his entourage was in your throne room, the young Prince standing before you. He didn’t seem to mind your lack of enthusiasm, the boy smiling so brightly as he stepped in front of the elevated platform. You didn’t doubt he would run to your seat, if given the chance, but your personal guards made their aggression known as soon as his foot touched the first step of the short flight. “My Songbird,” He greeted, instead, not seeming to notice the way you cringed at the nickname. “You haven’t been responding to my letters, but my yearning still persists. Have you grown tired of singing to me so quickly?”

“I do not see why it’s necessary to respond to inquiries I have already answered.” Your voice was cold, at best, frigid at worst. You didn’t have it in your heart to be cruel to anyone, much less a friend you had once held so dear. Even with how appealing he made cruelty seem, these days. “I am not your songbird, but if I was, I think you would dread having to hear the same two notes play on a never-ending loop. God knows my throat has grown sore from delivering them.” You paused, glancing towards the advisor on your left, positioned there on the chance your behavior slipped into something less than agreeable. She waited a moment, pondering, but a nod was all you needed to proceed. “You must be tired, Todoroki, please allow my valet to show you to your chambers. A long journey deserves an even longer rest.”

You saw Shoto falter, a hand unconsciously coming to rest on the sword at his belt. You guards mirrored the gesture, although you didn’t take it as a threat. “I am thankful for any note you grace me with,” He assured, taking another step forward. “But, there are three that would make me euphoric. Isn’t that what you should want? Why would you sing at all, if not to make someone happy?”

Straightening you back, you leaned forward, uncrossing your legs to better fill your throne. “I sing for my own joy, no one else’s. Be glad I am forgiving enough to let you listen from a distance.” He opened his mouth, but you carried on, drawing circles in the velvet under your arms. “My answer is no, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind. When I find a shelter I can roost in, one I choose to roost in, then and only then will make my nest. I have no desire to make my home a cage, regardless of how golden the bars.”

At that, he smiled, and you dug your nails into the soft fabric. “It would be a beautiful cage, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re intolerable,” You mumbled, deflating. It was hard to be angry, now, the disappointment cutting through you more deeply than the knife of loathing ever could. Marriage was not a necessity, to you. Unlike his own clan, your’s had never placed an emphasis on blood. You’d been an orphan most of your life, and you had no issue with continuing the tradition your childless parents had started. Children who’d never known love always seemed more appreciative when receiving it, although you’d admit Shoto’s existence contested that theory. “I cannot–”

“And a beautiful cage deserves a stunning creature to inhabit it,” Shoto continued, speaking over you without hesitation. Another step was taken, then another, leaving Shoto towering before you, too close for comfort. You were tempted to stand, if only to put the two of you at an equal height, but Shoto would’ve simply found another way to place himself above you. He was good at that, especially if it meant making you feel small. “Think of it as an alliance. Your country would have my father’s army behind it, and I would have you. Is that not a worthwhile sacrifice?” You weren’t given time to answer his question, Shoto dropping to one knee unceremoniously, suddenly. It caught you off guard, enough so for you to lean forward, moving to help him up. But, Shoto only took your extended hand, holding your palm to his cheek as he spoke. “Visits aren’t enough, this isn’t enough. I wish to have you as my partner, and if I don’t, I can not guarantee my next action will be one of peace.”

You jerked back, not asking for permission before pushing yourself onto your feet. It took more of your self-control than it should’ve to keep from telling him to leave, to get out of your castle and never come back. Your anger must’ve been visible, because your advisor reached out as soon as your fists had a chance to ball, a steady palm coming to rest on your shoulder. It was a small consolation, but it snapped you out of your rage nonetheless, even if your calmness was still volatile when regained.

“Rest, Little Prince. Exhaustion has clouded your better judgment.” His eyes widened, lips contorting into a frown, but you didn’t give him a chance to refuse. Instead, you made the first move, waving for your guards to follow as you descended the short staircase. “If I hear one more word about marriage, I fear I may be the one to abandon our treaties. This songbird wishes to sing in another court, for now.”

Shoto was quick to stay on your heels, his excuses following just as closely. “But–”

“One more word,” You warned, his troop of guards and servants parting to let you through. “I don’t wish to make an enemy out of you. Please, enjoy my city and take advantage of my hospitality, but do not approach me with the same attitude. I have made up my mind, and my decision is final.”

And with that, you left. That was the advantage of his petname, you supposed.

Flying away was much easier when you were given wings.

But, Shoto was a beast of the ground, unfortunately.

He stayed as you fled, watching you run from him like prey from a predator. Part of him acknowledged your feelings, or the lack thereof, rather. He knew you didn’t love him, not truly, and he knew you didn’t care for him as he cared for you. He knew you didn’t want to be with him.

And yet, you were kind and welcoming and genuine. You were loving towards him, even if you didn’t love him.

Shoto took a moment to scan over the room. His guards surrounded him, as faithful as ever, each buzzing for an order. His father had never allowed him to travel lightly, even when Shoto was more than capable of protecting himself. Your nation didn’t have the same strength. With no standing army, no way to defend yourself, you relied on neutrality and alliances for protection. It was a symbolic security, but one that would stand unless a very powerful, very feared kingdom attacked.

Unless Shoto’s kingdom attacked.

He decided he would bring the idea to his siblings, as he waited for the room’s doors close behind you. It would be a controversial suggestion, but there was territory to be gained, resources that could help more deserving people. With their forces, it would be over in a matter of days, hours, even. He doubted your ‘allies’ would care, by the end of the week.

Besides, Shoto had a pet who needed to be put back on their leash.

You seemed to think you’d outgrown your cage.

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heartbreak-of-a-marauder · 5 years ago

Text

Rogue (3)

Title: The Impossible Girl

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader

Words: 3306

Note: It’s been a long old while but I’ve finally finished my dissertation! University is officially over for me!! It took me a while to work on this part I’m still not super happy with it, I hope you like it. Taglist is open, previous parts are linked below. Let me know what you think!

y/n = you name y/h/c = your hair colour y/f/n = your first name y/l/n = your last name

<- 3 ->

~*~*~*~*~

Age 18

The frigid night air steals the breath from your lungs before you can inhale, wispy white puffs of smoke form as you release another lungful. An invisible band seemingly tightens around your chest making you breathe shallower. Your feet hammer furiously against the mist-covered ground not feeling the stones or twigs that puncture and tear at your skin. The muscles in your legs are beginning to burn, begging for a reprieve; instead, you push harder. A shiver passes over you causing the hairs on the back of your neck to raise, the compulsion of self-preservation increases tenfold.

The thin night shift you wear billows behind you, it provides no protection from the icy temperatures. Your y/h/c hair swishes from side to side past your shoulders, smaller strands that had escaped your plait sneak round to whip at your skin or stick to your face. Roughly, you push the strands away knotting them in the process. You didn’t have time for this. Tears begin to form as you continue to run, blinking you force them out leaving wet trails down your cheeks, yet still, you don’t stop.

Something was out there in the dark, lurking in the mist. You could feel it following you. The adrenaline of the flight reflex descends on every other thought in your brain. ‘Nothing else matters’ it seems to say. What it is, where you were, how you got here. None of it mattered anymore, you simply had to keep going.

But what?

You register a burst of pain in your toes just as the world flips on its side. You crash forward, your knee makes painful contact with the ground first as layers of skin rip against the abrasive stone. Your hands, arms and elbows follow suit when you try to catch yourself. Despite your attempts your head makes contact too, the darkness around you explodes with spots of flashing light as your brain rattles inside your skull.

‘Keep going’ drifts around you, carried along with the delicate curls of mist.

The palms of your hands sting as you push yourself back up onto your feet. Your knee aches in protest at the movement, the skin already beginning to tighten and swell. ‘Go’ a voice from inside commands. You step forward with your injured leg but pain shoots up your leg as your knee gives way. You pant trying to catch your breath, summoning the courage to get up and try again. For some reason you had to, every impulse seemed to be overpowered by the need to keep running.

Warm.

That’s what it felt like.

You risk a look down at the toes on your right foot. A darkness deeper than the night sky had attached itself to you, it was small and unmoving but you could feel its warmth and the way it pulsed. Your hand trembles as you reach out to brush it away. The heat intensifies as soon as your fingers make contact, the blob seems to surge to life crawling up your foot; engulfing you in darkness. You swipe frantically at it trying to get it off, you fingernails scrape your skin but still, it grows.

“Help! Someone Help!” You call into the surrounding quiet.

Panicked whimpers escape you as the darkness ascends your body, the pulsing sensation became more of a throb with every inch it climbed yet still you couldn’t get it off. The darkness was unaffected by your attempts of prising it off, when it rose above your hip you resort to more abrasive methods using the skirt of your shift you rub furiously at your skin.

“Please!” You scream, a strangled sob catches in your throat when it starts on your arms.

“y/n?” a distorted voice drifts from somewhere but you don’t dare look away from the darkness.

You wipe down your arms trying to push the darkness back, trying to slow it down, but the darkness holds no consideration for your feelings. Your breathing comes in short, sharp pants as it reaches your shoulders. Dizziness, heat and the throbbing of power consumed you while tears fall freely from your eyes.

“Mother! Loki! Allfather! Someone help me please!” you call desperately, when it disappears out of sight.

“y/n!” the voice calls again, it sounds closer, more familiar now but you can't concentrate enough to place it.

“No, no, no, no-“ you mutter feeling the heat begin to lick your skin as it weaves its way through your roots.

“Mother!” a final scream rips through you, hurting your throat. “Save me! Save-“

“y/n!” You are jolted awake, your eyes frantically scan your candlelit bed-chamber expecting to see the same eery gloom of the dream. Your eyes finally land on your mother, her features morphed in concern as she grips onto your shoulders.

You waste no time latching onto her in a vice-like hold, burying your face in her chest you breathe in your mother's familiar smell. It keeps you grounded, reminding you it was just a bad dream. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t hurt you, you were safe. Your mother cradles you in return. Peeking your head over your mother's shoulder you wrinkle your nose at the sickly sweet tang in the air, it was stronger again tonight. Your eyes adjust to the dim glow allowing you to see scorch marks and cracks that marred your -. Every day it got worse, spreading further, doing more and you didn’t know what was causing it.

It had all started a few days after your sixteenth birthday. At first, you would just be running endlessly through the gloom, knowing something was stalking you in the mist. It would leave you drenched in a cold sweat, your y/h/c would be tangled and stuck to your neck and forehead. The clothes would stick to your body, the bedsheets wrapped around you, trapping you. When you removed your clothes and cleaned yourself off you would catch the sickly sweet scent for just a second.

By seventeen the nightmares became more frequent, but they had begun to change, you knew what had been chasing you, what had struck so much fear into your heart. As your seventeenth year went on the darkness was starting to win, you had stopped being able to outrun it, and with each dream, it consumed more and more of you. You would wake up terrified, squinting into the darkness, paranoid the horror of the dream had followed you. Eventually, you would manage to go back to sleep. Though it was never peaceful.

You wouldn’t notice the damage until the morning when the sun had risen, casting beams of light through the gap in your curtains. Your bleary eyes would look around the room, the world coming into focus as you rub the last remnants of sleep away. Your eyes widen as you scan the walls of your bedroom, the pictures, the diagrams, the paintings, the edges of every image of childhood memory was singed. Panicked, you tore them all down, stashed them away from sight.

Buried.

Never to be seen again.

You would shiver to wonder what you’re mother would do should she ever find them. It only got worse from there. The destruction became more noticeable, more widespread. Your mother was beginning to notice things going missing, trinkets, ornaments. At times you were afraid to close your eyes, you knew what came with the dark. You would force yourself to stay awake, teetering on the edge of oblivion until exhaustion took over. You began to dread sleep. The destruction was undeniable, you were no longer able to hide it, so you did the only thing you could think to do. Lock it away.

Your mother disapproved greatly of your secrecy but soon gave up trying to convince you otherwise. She accepted it as a phase of your youth hoping you would grow out of it. She would always mutter on about how she was once a young girl going through womanly changes. While it was true, it wasn’t the only thing. The world around you was changing too. During your classroom conversations, your mother had sometimes mentioned that Asgard was being rocked by some unexplained phenomena. The quaking that had once been unnoticeable shudders lasting for less than a second was now more pronounced.

The Allfather had apparently tasked a team of senior advisers to survey all of Asgard to find the source. They were to search high and low; never to stop until the source was found and dealt with. As of yet, that had come up empty-handed.

_ _ _ _ _ _

The recipe for ‘Draught of Sleep’ had become a staple in your knowledge as you grew up. While you felt bad for every time you used it on your mother – praying to whoever may listen for forgiveness – it became a welcomed method of escaping the monotony of your routine in isolation. On a few occasions, you had run into Prince Loki, or rather he had stumbled across you.

He never seemed to change. The tall, raven-haired prince was as handsome as ever, the last time the two of you had met he had outgrown his boyish charm. It had been replaced by something more manly. No doubt a result of the adventures he had been on with his brother Thor and the Warriors Three. However, there were some things about Loki that would never change like the way his eyes glinted with mischief or the way the corners of his mouth would quirk upwards when he grinned. You were always grateful for his friendship but you envied him in a way, the same was a caged bird envied those who were free to soar in the skies.

You sat in a secluded garden, enjoying the late autumn sunshine. It was ideal for you as it was just a stone's throw away from your chambers and hidden well enough that no one would stumble on it by accident. Loki had shown it to you in the spring while he had been bragging about knowing lots of little secrets about Asgard.

The rays of the sun were comforting against your skin, making you feel warm. You scrunch your brow slightly concentrating even more on the sentence you had already read five times previously but it was no us the words weren’t making much sense. You sigh, rubbing the back of your hand against your forehead. After last nights nightmare, you had been too afraid to go back to sleep and exhaustion was setting in. blinking once more you attempt the sentence again, this time feeling your heavy eyelids begin to lull closed. Shifting your position on the stone bench you try to wake yourself up a little more, you didn’t want to fall asleep. You couldn’t fight it anymore.

‘Five minutes won’t be long enough for a nightmare’ you think hopefully as you let your eyes slide closed.

It doesn’t toy with you this time. The chase is shorter, it already knows how terrified you are part of you wonders if it enjoys how frightened you are. When it does catch you, it wastes no time in beginning its journey up your body. In every other nightmare you had had, its ascent was slow and deliberate. This time you barely had enough time to comprehend that it had attached itself to you before it started moving.

You could hear a distant rumble echoing through the bleak mist, but it was overpowered by your screams and pleas for help. Why weren't you waking up? Every other time you had managed to wake up before it had consumed you completely. This time you didn’t, the dream would not surrender you so easily.

“y/n!” a voice shouts, it is muffled but you can hear the panicked edge.

You could feel the earth rattle beneath you like a rag of angry horses were stampeding. In an instant, it grows to something deeper, more ferocious. What had started as a rumble now roared all around you. You hear your name echo around you once more but it is smothered by the noise.

“y/n!” Your eyes fly open to making contact with a set of familiar green. His hands ghost over your body, his eyes follow the movement scanning you. Your eyes focus on his hand as it wraps around your wrist with ease, you frown slightly noticing the coating of grey dust on the sleeve of his normally pristine tunic.

“Loki? What- I don’t... what is happening?” Your body moves on autopilot as Loki pulls you with him, your mind still a few steps behind you. Somewhere around you, you hear the sound of pebbles skipping over the stone and another person's heart-wrenching cries.

“It was another earthquake, it brought down part of the east wing, I thought, I-” Loki jerks you towards him, before wrapping his arms tightly around you. The dust on his clothes makes your nose itch.

“The east wing?” you ask pushing out of his hold. The east wing housed your chambers. Now you were truly awake.

“Was anyone hurt? Was my mother, where- mother, I-is she alright?” you stumble over your words, your mind working faster than you can speak.

Loki’s fingers tighten on the fabric of your dress he can still reach, it keeps you close. He doesn’t answer your question. His normally bright features morph into a look of sadness giving you an answer.

“It's alright, I’ve got you,” Loki soothes pulling you back for another hug. “I will keep you safe,”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You didn’t remember much of what happened next. If someone were to ask you how you had gotten into one of the royal chambers you wouldn’t have been able to tell them. Royal handmaids worked quietly and quickly to clean the dust from your skin and rubble from your hair. None of them spoke to you. None of them looked you in the eye as they gently dabbed away the tears that leaked from your eyes. When they had finished their work, healers escorted you to their work station. They did not speak either. You stared up at the ceiling as they worked, talking in hushed whispers to one another. You didn’t understand what they were looking for, as far as you knew you had not been injured during the quake.

You did not find solace in the quiet if anything it created a vast breeding ground for feelings of guilt and self-loathing. Why did you have to be so selfish? Why did you need to give your mother the ‘Draught of Sleep’ today of all days? Would it have changed things? - would she still be here?

That last thought stuck with you, you let it burrow deep in your heart; scarring it. A constant reminder that your only family in life was gone.

Lost if grief, you didn’t hear the clinking movement of Asgards soldiers. One of them bent over you, his mouth moved but the words sounded like and meant nothing to you. Another seized your arm and pulled you from the examining table. They held a tight formation as they led through the castle, you could only see flashes of your surroundings when their shoulders jostled apart. The once brilliant glittering gold of the palace had dimmed somehow. Sorrow had settled everywhere.

You were presented to the Allfather in the throne room. The show of power had seemed excessive, was this how the King normally expressed his sympathies? Gathering your thoughts together you raise your gaze to Odin. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you meet his stoic, stormy eyes. It didn’t take a genius to work out that something was wrong. You notice a small group of men gathered on either side of the dais, perhaps they were his team of advisers.

Hands clasped. Worried expressions.

Good.

Their king was displeased with them, they had failed to find the cause of the earthquakes at the expense of Asgardian lives. They should fear his ire.

“You are positive?” Odin looks to a man on his left, the rotund old man with rosy cheeks simply nodded in affirmation. “Very well,” Odin replies gravely.

“y/f/n y/l/n, do you know why you have been summoned here today?” The Allfather leans forward on his knees, sounding more like a disappointed parent than a king.

Your y/h/c hair sways past your shoulders as you shake your head in response.

“An independent investigation conducted into the recent geological phenomena plaguing Asgard has found you, and you alone responsible,”

Your eyes bulge in disbelief, you attempt to step closer to the Allfather but the guards flanking your sides grip your shoulders, stopping you.

“Me?” you breathe incredulously. “How could I, w-why would I? My mother is dead and I am the accused?!” the guards now hold you by your arms too, keeping you in place.

“For this crime, you are charged with reckless endangerment to life and accidental manslaughter,” he motions to a nervous-looking gentleman on his right who brings forth two golden bands sitting on a red velvet cloth.

“No!” you argue desperately. “It was not me! I swear on my ancestors, Allfather, please! I was not responsible for this,” you rush, voice rising with every syllable. Your eyes follow the bracelets as they get closer.

“Enough!” Odin bellows, silencing your ranting. “It has been decided to protect the good people of Asgard, you shall be bound forevermore by the bracelets of Sindri,”

The guards flanking you push down on your shoulders when you don’t submit one of them bumps the back of your knee forcing you into a kneeling position. You thrash against them as they hold you still, allowing the sweaty advisor to deposit the bracelets onto your wrists. Still fighting, you watch as the bracelets glow in an ancient language before shrinking down to fit snugly against your skin. The metal that looked hot enough to burn when it glowed is as cold as ice.

“You cannot do this to me Allfather! I did nothing wrong!” Your head whips towards the Allfather again. The bracelets glow once more and you notice Odin’s frown deepen.

“y/f/n y/l/n, through the uncontrolled forces you possess you have opened this peaceful realm and the innocent lives that reside in it, to horror and death.” Frantically you shake your head, the bracelets on your wrists glow brighter.

“You have betrayed those you love, and those who loved you. I have taken from you your power, in the name of my father, and his before,” A mystical wind rushes past you, making you squint to keep your eyes fixed on Odin, as you do colours that remind you of the Bifrost begin to dance behind him, they pick up in speed swirling faster; it's difficult to keep your eyes open.

“I, Odin Allfather, cast you out,”

An unseen force hits you squarely in the chest forcing you backwards, you brace yourself for the impact against the floor, it never comes. Instead, you keep falling, you scream and wonder if anyone will hear you. The feeling of weightlessness making you feel nauseous. Cracking open an eye your senses are assaulted by the bright colours of the Bifrost's transportation.

Just as you feel like you’re going to fall forever, your back collides with solid ground, knocking the air out of your lungs. Rolling to your side you cough and gasp for breath. Your fingers dig into damp soil, an earthy smell invades your nose. Your vision still swims around you, black begins to rim your sight. You head feels like it weighs a ton as you raise it to look out across the expanse of green.

Where had he sent you?

The distant sound of water sloshing was the last thing you remembered before you succumbed to darkness.

TAGLIST: @hellethil @icunee @bloatedandlonly @khadineberry @abrunettefangirlnerd @whothehellsbucky @dark-night-sky-99 @nonsensicalobsessions @batsdothings @crazymclazy @shesakillerkween @nxts-xsf @alwaysincaffeinatedstate

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pagsys-writings · 6 years ago

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Time Flies Chapter 29: Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing

There’s always something cathartic about coming home after a long day at the field. Maybe it’s knowing a good night’s rest is just waiting for him upstairs or maybe it’s being greeted at the front door by his favorite people. Because that’s something Nori has come to expect these days. It’s either almost being knocked over by his overzealous daughter the moment he enters the threshold, or he’s greeted with a kiss by the man he loves more than he ever thought possible.

As he opens the door to their home, Nori can feel the stress of the day falling away. He stops thinking of all the mistakes he made earlier in the day. He stops berating himself. He even stops himself from making a mental list of ways to improve because once he’s home, he’s home. There’s only one thing important under this roof and she has the brightest smile and the squishiest cheeks.

His bag drops to the floor and he toes off his shoes. He turns and waits, almost opening his arms wide in preparation for the onslaught, but nothing happens. Perhaps Nori’s been getting ahead of himself or maybe he’s just been spoiled up to this point. “Hello?” He calls out, standing still to make as little noise as possible. “I’m home!” The only sound he hears comes from the television in the other room.

Nori finds them and smiles. The television is replaying one of Kazuya’s recent games, and his notes are spread out on the floor in front of it. Yet the man in question is fast asleep on the couch, glasses crooked and falling off his face. Pressed against his side is a bundle of blanket where Nori can just make out some of Chiyo’s hair and her eyes and forehead. Kazuya’s arm is carefully wrapped around the young girl, keeping her from the edge.

The sight warms his heart. Without making a sound, Nori fishes out his phone and takes a quick picture of the two. He’ll make it his background later. “Kazuya,” he whispers as he kneels beside the couch. The man stirs and manages to open an eye and turn in Nori’s direction. The latter holds a finger to his lips as he picks up Chiyo.

As he carries her to her room, Nori wonders - not for the first time - when she had managed to get so big so soon. She’s still easy to lift, but she’s grown so, so much. He has to use both his arms to support her instead of just one. They’ve had to go buy new clothes and shoes because she’s already outgrown the others.

And as he places her gently into the bed, he finds himself thinking that he’s missing so much of her life. She’s loved by so many people that would give her the world, but he’s missed things because of what he does. Like her school play last year when she was given a solo part to sing or her first homerun. Kazuya swears it counts even if the ball never went over the fence and she only made it home because of all the errors. (Kazuya had spent hours arguing with Mei over it. Nori had thought it was ridiculous.)

Nori’s seen all the videos his friends and family have sent him when he had away games, but it just wasn’t the same as being there in person to celebrate those moments. He runs a hand through her hair and her nose scrunches up just a bit - a sign she’s waking up. Her eyes blink open and she has trouble focusing them, but she grins when she sees who’s in front of her. “You’re home…” She says, grin spreading a little more.

“Yeah, Cupcake,” Nori whispers, brushing the hair out of her face. He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” She doesn’t even fight him on it like she used to when she was younger. She simply closes her eyes and pulls the blankets closer to herself.

Nori turns out the lights and returns to the other room where he finds Kazuya rubbing at his eyes and trying his best not to yawn. “Long day?” Nori asks, teasing grin on his face. He knows more than anyone how tiring his daughter can be.

Kazuya lets out a laugh as he glances at the time. “I should be asking you that,” Kazuya raises an eyebrow, noticing just how late it really is. He pats the couch beside him and Nori wastes no time curling into Kazuya’s side, relishing in the warmth and comfort the other always provides without even knowing or trying. “Tough game?”

Nori hums and he wraps his arms around Kazuya’s waist carefully. He always comes home later after tough games due to spending too much time in the locker room thinking over things from the game. But this time there was more than just thinking about the game. “I’ve been thinking,” he says but he’s unsure of where to begin.

“About?” Kazuya asks and Nori is thankful the other didn’t say some sarcastic joke that he was so good at producing. It gives him hope that Kazuya was actually taking the statement seriously.

“The future.” Kazuya hums at the answer, but waits for Nori to continue. “You know, Chiyo will be starting third grade next year and she’s almost nine.” Silence. “And then before you know it, she’ll be a teenager and probably hate me because all teens go through that phase.”

“Nori,” Kazuya cuts in before he can go off on a tangent, “what’s going on?”

Nori looks at Kazuya and he sees so much. So much love and support. He sees the past and how far they’ve come as a family. He sees all the possibilities of their future together. He sees a man that loves him and his daughter - a man that would do anything for either of them.

And he’s not afraid that Kazuya would judge him. “I’m missing so much of her life, Kazuya.” There’s a fear that Chiyo will suddenly stop needing him. What if she stops looking up to him? “How am I supposed to support her when I’m never here?”

Kazuya rubs a soothing hand on his back - up and down, repeatedly. It grounds him. “You are here. Whenever you can. And when you can’t, I’m here. And if I can’t, it’s Kuramochi or Shirasu or Haruichi. Someone will always be there for her.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Not at all. He knows her uncles would go above and beyond for her and him subsequently. “I know that,” he whispers, trying to convince himself. Yet he can’t shake the fear that’s suddenly holding him.

“Then what’s really going on?” Kazuya asks, voice low but supportive.

“I want to stop.” His voice is low as well and his eyes widen when he realizes that he spoke the words aloud. He’d been thinking about it on and off but he’s never said them out loud. And now that he’s said it, he feels the truth of it all. There’s a sense of relief. He looks at Kazuya, and if the other is surprised, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. “I’m gonna retire at the end of the season. My contract is coming to an end.”

There’s a flash of sadness in Kazuya’s eyes when he smiles. He pulls Nori close and presses a kiss to his temple. It’s so caring that Nori melts against him. “I’m sorry,” Nori mumbles, pressing his face to Kazuya’s shoulder.

He feels Kazuya shake in silent laughter. “About what?” He sounds amused but Nori can’t bring himself to look up right now.

“I know you were looking forward to being on the same team at some point.” He remembers how excited Kazuya had been at the prospect when they were talking about his contract ending. “Think of all the possibilities!” Is what Kazuya had said on multiple occasions. “Sorry,” he mumbles again.

Kazuya hums. His thumb rubs circles on Nori’s shoulder where he’s holding him. “You’re doing what you think is best for Chiyo. I could never be upset about that. Maybe a little disappointed but never upset.” There’s a pause and Nori both feels and hears Kazuya chuckle. “And that just means you’ll be able to come to all of my home games.”

Nori smiles at that and finally looks up. “I think I’d like that and I know Chiyo would as well. She’d be your number one fan.”

“She already is.” They smile at each other for a moment before Kazuya frowns. “So when are you gonna break it to her that her number one pitcher is retiring when the season is over?” Nori groans, making Kazuya laugh.

“Soon,” he says with a smile, “I need to prepare myself for the waterworks.”

Kazuya shakes Nori’s shoulders a bit. “Once you tell her you’ll be around more, she will be the happiest kid I know.”

“Yeah.” Nori leans up and presses a quick kiss to Kazuya’s lips, making the latter beam. It never stops being amusing to see just how happy Kazuya becomes with the smallest actions. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” And Nori smiles knowing that it’s the absolute truth.

#miyunori #miyuki kazuya #kawakami norifumi #daiya no ace #daiya #time flies #parent au #its been a minute since i wrote for daiya LOL

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onelittlesparkx · 6 years ago

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TriWiz ctnw

The former Gryffindor remained in her spot, watching as one of her most promising students continued through the maze. She had to admit that the last time the tournament was held, she had been jealous. Jealous because she wasn't of age to compete. Daphne always enjoyed proving herself and to this day she had no idea why. It was a hidden drive to be known, to have glory and more than likely the very reason the metamorphmagus had gone on living the life she did. Fighting in the war, joining the top ranks of the Quidditch league, and now Hogwarts where she had even gone as far to create a new elective to the school. But just like the end of the last tournament Daphne found herself regretting ever wanting to compete back then, even if she had been young and naive. Almost as suddenly as they had formed, her thoughts had lost focus and a smile formed on the blonde's face, her husbands words bringing her back to reality; an act she was thankful for. "Sounds great, I'll hold ya tuh tha'," it was almost hard to believe that they could celebrate after tonight and the prospect was enough to assure the blonde that the champions would all be alright.

With Grace's arrival came another glimmer of joy. It wasn't that she wanted to be distracted from the scenes but the blonde knew all to well to cherish the moments she had with her own loved ones when they were being given to her. "I'll take one love," grabbing a hold of two of her daughter's creation she carefully pinned it onto the collar of her shirt, taking a quick moment to admire it before sending her daughter a wink of approval. With a sense of pride she watched as her youngest continued to give out the buttons before turning towards her husband as he spoke to George about Radomir. A light chuckle escaped her lips obviously entertained by the idea of Oliver chasing away a future boyfriend of Grace's. "I'm sure ye'll scare'em good, love." Pushing the wrinkles around the button off his shirt she gave him a reassuring nod. With any lucky, Grace would have the instinct to come to her mother first before her father when it came to the prospect of having a boyfriend this way the two of them could ease the Scottsman into the idea.

Shifting her eyes up to the screens the flying instructor held her breath momentarily, as if this would aid the Ravenclaw against the large troll. Exhaling, she turned her line of vision over to the Creeveys, both wearing grins of amusement as they too noticed the young hufflepuff who was trying to make his presence known just behind them. It was no news to her that Jason Jameson enjoyed impressing Daphne and a few other of the female student bodies. "Some'o tha' gals at the castle are even think'n 'bout a restraining order," she joked thought she hadn't even been given time to enjoy her own joke when there was more positive news to enjoy. Raising a fist of conquest the woman allowed her blonde locks to flash in a shade of Ravenclaw blue and bronze, amazed and impressed over Dominique's use of wandless magic. By the time the Hogwarts champion had discovered the goat Daphne had been convinced that she was going to finish this task.

But just as usual as it was for the duration of the night the tables had turned. Before the champion stood a pair of familiar figures, figures Daphne knew to be out of that maze. There as no doubt that the image on the screen was fictitious, a trick, and the only thing she could think of to cause such a sickening sense of fear was a boggart. She didn't know what to think at this point, but she wouldn't have to. Oliver's movement had cause Daphne to turn her attention away towards the approaching figures of her niece and nephew. Only then did she notice the commotion that was going on. As the tension in the area rose she couldn't help but stiffen up some. "Wait, whats happened?" she noticed Susan crindging into Dennis's chest letting out a soft "Oh No." Turning back to the screen she placed her hands up her mouth shocked by the image of the Ravenclaw lying on the floor. She stood there frozen, unsure of what to do or say it wasn't until Kyle following after Freddy and then Roxanne not far behind him did she finally move. She watched as George went after his children and instinctively did her eyes move towards Brianna and Keegan.

"No!" the Head Girl had shouted before letting out a sob of fear and worry. Daphne turned her head quickly, "Sea-" but instead she found Susan, the Head of Hufflepuff house widening her eyes towards her friend before stitching her brows together in worry. All Daphne could do was stare at her, shocked by the fact that she had almost slipped up. A year wasn't long, certainly not long enough for some habits to die but she had been doing better than most people would have. Whether it was her unfortunate experience that she possessed or the fact that she was stubborn about being alright still wasn't clear to her. Either way, she hadn't expected to see Susan like she should have, she was expecting to see Seamus to him to check on Brianna. Instead, she foun a ghost that wasn't even there.

There was no time for either Susan or Daphne to speak of the situation, by now Brianna had ripped herself from Keegan's hold and made to scramble towards the steps of the stands. With a quick glance to the bottom of the pitch Daphne could see Lee Jordan carrying the champion into the medic tent and knew exactly what it was her niece was trying to do. She reached for Oliver's hand, squeezing it tightly for a short moment and motioning her head towards their niece who was trying to push the crowd to get to the stairs. She hoped that was all she needed because she didn't have time for anything else, letting go of her husband's hand she quickly excused herself past the Creeveys. "Brianna!" Keegan had called out, hoping that his sister would listen to her. "I'll get her," Daphne quickly patted the young Gryffindor on his shoulder, not taking any notice over the rest of their company. Moving fast on her feet she was able to pull the Ravenclaw into a stop before reaching the stair case. "Le'go Aintín Daphne!" She struggled against the former beater's hold but to no avail. "I need to make sure she's alright!"

Surprised by Brianna's all of a sudden strength she looked back down towards the tent, taking notice that both of Dominique's parents where making their way there. "Come lass," the woman wrapped her arms around her niece, doing the best she could to calm the girl down. Motherly instincts had taken over and while Daphne would never be the mother Brianna needed it was the only thing she had to offer. "I know yer worried an' all," she pulled herself away from the hug and looked directly at her niece in hopes that she would better understand her. "It's down righ' scary! Bu' Dominique doesn't need ya ta be scared or worried outta yer wits. She's gonna need'ya tuh be strong." She took a moment to exhale heavly. "She's gonna be fine'n hopp'n outta tha' tent like tha boomslang bite twas nottin' but a bug bite," of this she was sure of. Laura Madley was a fine healer, she had faith that the woman's magic would cure the girl. "Bu' right now, it's gonna be a wee bit crowded in there, her parents are gonna be want'n their space with her,alright?" She wasn't sure how much Brianna would believe her, but it had been enough for the young woman to calm down her breathing and nodd her head towards her aunt.

"Come," she wrapped an arm around her shoulders and lead Brianna back towards their family. "I left yer Uncail without an explanation. He's gon'be worried."

Returning to her family, the blonde had not been prepared for what was about to come, her moment of positive consoling with her niece now long forgotten. No, it wasn't the fact that she hadn't expected Durmstrang to win, that possibility was always there. It was the vision on the screens that had horrified her most, at least for that moment. Whatever had happened within the group of people moments ago did not matter to her. Here was a situation, yet another, for her to loose the people she loved. "The kids," she breathed, quickly placing a hand on Oliver and looking over her shoulder. She could feel the vibrations of her heart, beating faster and faster, looking over at the four who had already outgrown the term 'kid'. "Wands out, Wands!" she heared Susan cry, finally snapping out of the fact that her husband had gone. She and the Charms professor not only had the responsibility of their own, but to those of Hogwarts as well. "We have to help them..." she stared around herself almost blanky as people began to either rush under the stands or into the battle. She could see even brave and spunky children, throwing themselves into the heat of the danger. "We have to help." In that moment she could feel her courage swell up inside, the kind many Gryffindors were known for. She fought then and she would fight now. Nothing was going to get in the way of what she had set out to do. "Kyle, Brianna!" the screens fell to the ground, their shattering echoing into the night sky. "Don't seperate from your sister and your brother!" she could have decided to treat them like ther were seven instead of seventeen. But the fact of the matter was, they were of age and knew a thing or two. Perhaps more than she herself knew. And while motherly instincts were screaming to shield her babies, another bit was telling her how ridiculous it was because more than likly it would cause more harm than good. "I'm going to see if I can get everyone in order."

She climbed up a few stands and before she knew it everything had turned upside down and inside out. She felt the cold digits of a man she had hoped to never see again pushing up against her lips, keeping her from calling out for help. She pushed the pain he was inflicitng on her away from her mind, noticing it would only give him what he wanted and she sure as hell wasn't going to do that. She felt disgusting, her skin crawling with imaginary insects of the most repulsive kind as the ex-death eater dared to touch her. Her eyes widened, iris's shrinking as his cold voice hit her ear drums and yet, she remained calm. If there was any chance of her fighting back she'd have to wait for the oppertune moment, a moment that didn't involve rallying anyone around her. If she cried for her help too soon, and was suddenly stopped, then everyone would grow frantic. At his mention of Oliver she could feel herself itching to fight back, thoughts of anger and insult raging in her mind. How dare he. How DARE he. It was one thing to attack her alone, but so close to her family, her children. That was stepping over boundaries that would eventually lead to boldness or stupidity depending on the point of view.

She twisted her shoulder a bit, attempting to pull away from his hold. If there was any part of her body that was strong it had to be her arms, she didn't spend her time as a beater just to sign autographs. For an old man, he had a bit of power to him but it wasn't something to be discouraged over It was when he was reaching for her hand did she finally have a chance. Failing once again at pulling away from the man wouldn't have seemed as bad, but what he had done had changed that. Optics followed the one piece of precious jewlry she own ripped(or what felt like it) from her person and tossed as if it was nothing more than something out of a bubblegum machine(Though, to be fair, if Oliver gave her a bubblegum machine ring then she'd probably still feel the same way XDD). "SOD OFF before I smack ya wit a sack of potatoes!" she cried out. Taking the chance that had been given in tose few seconds he had pulled his hand away. Surely, her outrageous comment would not go unnoticed, especially with her family so close and knows how vivacious the woman could be with her words. It wasn't until she tried for the third time to pull away that she realied she couldn't. Instead, she found herself going in a direction she had been dreading, one away from the people she loved. The image of her friends and family burning into her sockets as if she had never been moved.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

This couldn't be happening. She wasn't worried about herself, but worried about what would happen if she wasn't where she was suppose to be. Grace needed her, Keegan needed her, Kyle needed her, Brianna needed her, and she needed them, and she needed Oliver. She needed to break away from this hold that was placed on her. She had to fight, it was in her blood and there had been a time in her previous encounter with Rodolphus Lestrange that she had broken through the curse with the use of her metamorphmagus abilities. Control, even the slightest bit of it was all she needed. She tried again and again, but nothing. This time he must have been aware of her capabilitis unlike before where he had been takenn of guard. She would have continued to try if the light from the flames in Hogsmeade hadn't distracted her. They danced around in the darkness, had it not been so sad and discouraging for the hopes and lives of those that invested in the village it would have almost been a beautiful sight. Closer and closer they got before she found herself inside what could have been described as hell. She could feel the high temperatures around her, beads of sweat forming on her skin trying to cool her off. Soon, Creevey Snaps came to full view; the structure having been freshly set on fire was still standing. But Daphne knew better. She had gone in their countless times and knew what the building held. If the fire somehow got to certain potions it woul only fuel the blaze and make matters worse.

Upon realizing that perhaps she had finally ran out of all her luck the woman had been thrown off, literally. She was no longer being controled but instead of relishing in the moment she felt pain. Parts of her burned, as if they would forever be doing so. Another was sore, her back having gotten the full hit when she hit the stand. Coughing, and expressing her pain in a low groan she began to pull herself up only to be yanked up before she was even ready. They were moving, they were moving up and with the smoke cripling her she had no choice but give in as she tried to catch her breath. She'd catch her breath and then reach for her wand. Yeah. EEEEEEEEEEEEH Wrong. When they finally reached the top Rodolphus had been smart enough to... well, smart enough. The weight on her ankles and wrist had increased by the foreign objects that were now binding her. Hues of scarlett(a change she wouldn't have noticed anyway) locked on the death eater's figure, carrying nothing but loathing within them.

"How did this Happ'n? You happ'ned ya bas!" She didn't have to stay quiet for this. If all she had to fight with were words, then she'd throw every word she could at him. Twitching back in objection to his touch. It hurt, but she would not show it. She kept her head held high, her frosty expression not holding anything back. Emitting a gagging sound, she turned away, preffering to forget the man's next actions. "Didn' anyone teach'ya how ta treat a lady?" she questioned between a few struggling grunts, protesting against there sudden move, yet again.

Now in the next room, her mind race, trying to think of anything she could do to help in her odds of coming out of this alive. She could feel the floor growing warmer as the minutes piled on, wondering how long she had to find a way out of this situation. She had been up her thousands upon thousands of times. That had to count for something? Looking up to check in on the situation she quickly ducked out of the way of the flying object. The pole landed across her side, as she squirmed her way out from undrneath the piles of clothes. "Wha? Not find anyth'n ya like?" she asked coldly. She had to think, what had she learned? She would have been dumb not to do research on the man after their first encounter. She had learned a lot about the elder Lestrange and nothing she liked. Then it hit her. "It's tha hair, ain't it? I betcha like it wild, and dark." Could she play this game? The game of guts and bravery? Uh.. duh, she was Daphne Wood. Like second nature, the locks of blonde hair transformed into curls of dark brown similiar to that of perhaps his neglectful wife whom she was almost sure showed no affection to him. If she couldn't fight, then she'd have to be unappealing; tainted, in his eyes. Hawking up a wad of spit, she shot it ouf of her mouth and towards the ground nearest his feet. "Yer sad, is whatcha are. Dun think there ev'r was a man in there, huh? Betcha tha's why yer wife was all piney fer someone else. Ha!" She used her upper body to sit herself up, face gissled like stone. "Free me!" she demanded, asserting herself as anything but a victim in this scenerio.

#df:ctnw #old rp shit.

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easkyrah · 8 years ago

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Elorcan Werewolf Part 10

Are you ready? I’m not. [Unedited]

All my wolves, begin to howl Wake me up, the time is now Oh, can you hear the drumming? Oh, there's a revolution coming Elorcan Werewolf 10

She soared on wings of misery and ruin, every feather slicing slivers of sores and wrecking welts through her. Ripping pain rippled through her, muscles burning and tightening. Her skin had shed, her nails stretched, the very roots of her hair screaming in agony. A rattling vigorously shook within her, bones bending and lungs lifting. Her spine arched, with her nostrils flaring. Hair prickled across her skin, acidic akin feelings coursing through every inch of her screaming pores. Saliva bubbled in her throat and a dryness coated across her tongue. After the flame came the ashes, where the the mind slaved down memory lane: roaming and raging with flashes of sickened smiles and the whistling whip raining over her, pale skin blemished with purple and red hues, salty and thin liquid warming the stones. Afar she watched the strippings and the beatings, the ghost of the red and the pain a figment of reality that no longer her drilling appeals of feebleness. The phantom face of the predator in victory and ruined triumph leered down on her. It was neither hot nor cold. It was all nothing. And dark, and more dark. It was another cell, a transformation from a weak, ruined flesh to hardened, strengthened possessions. She distantly was aware of the shivering wracking her skin, but the cold cell had been far worse, a numbing to the perspective of an outsider welcoming the pain, and relishing in the wrongs of the singular and surroundings. A part of her swayed to an unsung melody, trapped within the bleeding ears and scarred tongue, scratches and screaming echoing through her head and bouncing around her walls. Her head throbbed and swabs of cotton smothered her vast space and thoughts of process. It was cold. The loneliness had left her for the embrace in pain’s open arms. The itch at the back of her mind eased as the darkness swept in, consuming every crevice and corner, calming the chaotic condensations once crammed down her throat. A bubbling sensation rose up, smothering down her body, lying still in a seemingly blackened alley where the crickets no longer chirped and the roaches had long deceased. Pacifism arose with those lying words of calm and soothings, for she was not alright, and had not been. Distorted images and mangled bone rose within her vision, and she could see the image of a trembling girl huddling in a damp corner, tears coating a grime-caked face with equally dirtied and bloodied skin, crimson liquid bathing her skin, sticking to her tongue, and filling her nose. Scars decorated her, blood crowning her black burnt strands. Smoke and ashes filled her insides, slithering into her veins. There had been the warm, tepid hands of longing and hope, shattered by the epiphany of what came after pain, numbness. A string of stress snapped within her, a balloon of remembrance sleazing a decrement of undulated joy and innocence. Her lungs opened and filled with a vast broad suck of air, and Elide Lochan exhaled, breaking from her cell.

Lorcan laid his mate in the center of the dark cave, running a hand over her burning forehead, leaving traces of red welts over his palm. He hadn’t expected the circumstances to trigger whatever hidden Lycan gene within her to detonate, especially within the bounds of being able to finally hold her within his arms safely and securely. He would never let go. He was sure of it. A sob escaped Elide’s mouth, and her body lurched forward from her previously prone position. Lorcan immediately pressed wet towels against her burning body, and hissed when her temperature plunged into dangerous, icy textures, mist escaping her breath. A damned old Lycan, and through his entire life span, he hadn’t seen a transformation like this. He could not fathom why fate or the moon goddess would pair him with a beautifully and tragically broken creature who would suit another male of purity and trueness, but he supposed that Elide had enough with attempting to be molded into a higher figure as a priestess with inked and poison insides. He murmured his mate’s name soothingly as he rocked her in his arms, and whispered his assurances into her ear, her skin already hardened and smooth from the beginning stages. In certain intervals of seizures, her eyelids would flare open, dark, onyx pupils glistening in true, speckled darkness even the cave could not swallow. The final stages of the process had come, the coldness shattering into the shedding of wrinkled, outgrown exteriors to sleek skin, and muscular limbs. Lorcan studied his mate’s even breathing, and gently wrapped himself around her, stroking her hair. All the troubles for her to live immortal along him, to see the world through a deeper, more powerful eye’s of restrained responsibility and flying faults, would mean tethers to the true. To have another soul to care for didn’t seem the burden’s weight when the very fabric of mates meant equality and sharing, a bond of the better. Elide’s eyes darkened into pure obsidian, and her spine snapped straight, a sharp gasp of breath wrenching itself from her mouth. A rasp of sound crackled through the dampened darkness, and Lorcan gently poured a little stream of water into her mouth, allowing her to swallow. His body lit afire, his mate’s perfectly situated with him, both tragically broken. A rumble of possessiveness shook his body. Her wet hair, curling into thin curls and loops, slicked back against her forehead and plastered against her pale skin. Cold hands wrapped around the nape of his neck, and erratic breaths burst from her, chest heaving deeply. A roaring sensation fired from some hidden depths within, matching the turmoil colliding within his own mate’s eyes, filled with a blankness that sends him reeling over. “Elide,” he whispered, and leaned his nose against her forehead. The hands slid down his neck and across his chest and right over his beating heart, thrumming just for her. A phantom of a breath ghosted over his skin, and a tremble ran through him, in forever peace and contentment within the splits of a second. Fingers reached up to cup his chin, and dark lashes blinked up at him. “Lorcan,” Elide Lochan answered, and the edges of her lips curled up, revealing white, canine teeth. A dark, questioning look flickered across her features, a spell of quick agony. By the dilation of those hardened eyes from the once-softness, and the tang of fear and anger spiraling through the air, Lorcan knew that his mate craved a revenge full of vengeance so deep that the ocean itself would be envious. He could not rightly offer he what she wanted now so he endowed her with what she needed; not of the bloodshed to beckon her away from the abyss of numbness but another stolen piece from her scratched and strung tapestry of life. The pads of his thumbs brushed over her cheekbones down under the curve of her jaw, cupping her neck and smoothing one shoulder; pulling his mate in, Lorcan kissed her deeply. Elide responded instantly, her teeth nipping over his parted lips, and wrapping her own hands behind his neck, viciously pouncing on top of him, his back kissing the cold, hard ground. Her body was warm, and suddenly the cave seemed full of the hidden potential that had coasted over his own ground, soiled and covered with dirt. His Lycan within him responded to the roaring in his female’s, and his nerves set afire with each stroke of her hand that set him into a frenzy of no return past deep despair. Her skin touched his, her full breasts pressing against his chest, pale and porcelain legs wrapped sinfully around his waist. She gasped as he sucked on her neck, the sound full of rich forbiddenness, sending him close to free ferality. “My mate,” she whispered, and leaned her head back, exposing her neck to him. “Mine,” he growled, and stared into those onyx eyes, waiting for that permission to confirm past the disaster that had dented their destiny, waiting for that spark of what should have been theirs since the beginning, waiting for step towards surety and security. She merely cupped his chin, forcing him to stare at her, not quite consenting. “Do you love me for who I am or for what I do to you?” “You are referring to the mating bond?” “What else?” she said, almost bitterly. Dark eyes narrowed. “I do not need the mating bond to fall in love with you, Elide Lochan.” He could see the doubt in her darkened eyes, and the slight chill coursing through her. Lorcan held her tighter, and buried his nose within her damp hair, cradling her stiff and new body, one with unbridled potential and higher capacity. His Lycan side growled, needing to assuage his mate’s concerns and fears, and Lorcan abided. “I do not need the mating bond to see how the light catches against your hair,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her forehead. “Nor how you twist the strands when you’re nervous or thinking, a quiet foreboding. How you lick those fingers before turning a page or to remember the taste of what you last ate. How you believe yourself inferior when you have surpassed the limitations of your expectations. How you cross my mind, as if I can see the magic in the world, as if “I’d been searching for you all my life, a lost soul without an anchor. I have made a plethora of mistakes in the entirety of my life, but if each of this missteps would have let me to you in the end, I would commit each single atrocity again. If every inch of darkness and insanity was so that I could have you, then I forgive the cursed fates. I had never planned on falling love, much less with another person, didn’t think it was possible, much less it possible to love someone so much with all of me. I barely held control and focus, but with you, it’s not about these things. It’s about honor and cherishment, about you, Elide Lochan. “The darkness lived and lives through me; it simply does not live around me. So when you cannot see the light, I will sit with you through the darkness. I look at you and the twisted things that have come between us, and I know that I will choose you in the next life, in the next realm, in this life, through death, through whatever shape or form, to whatever face of shadow will appear. I broke and will break my rules, my mind, myself, just for you, just to see you hum to yourself as you continue in your beautiful, complex symphony, a passerby such as myself forever granted the pleasure of hearing. “I do not care if we are not soul mates because I had never believed in the concept of love, nor bothered to listen to its proof of existence, not when fear would win out in the end. But I fear for my love of you, and I fear for myself for what ends I would do for you. At your beck and call, I do not know what bounds or limits what I could do and destroy for you. In the middle of the chaos and lunacy, you were there, with my heart, and I’d let you keep it for the eternity. With you, I can breathe a little bit more, and fill the dead skin and smothering ashes sweep away, filled with a sound melody, one that will reverberate for as long as your heart beats. “If I could turn back the clock to be the male you deserve, I would do so in a heartbeat. For you deserve every twinkle in the stars that lights up the night and the rays of the sun in coldness. No longer do I think I deserve nothing but stark bareness for my brokenness, but one who craves so deeply for more and seen too much that perfect shards would not be enough. You need to paint, Elide, and need to unleash your emotions jailed, and I will be your palette should the need arise. I have conquered and silenced but never have I loved, and now, I think that I can finally do such a thing. Everything I have not done, I want to do with you. With you, and only you. It’s always you, Elide Lochan.” Elide stilled, pressing her cheek against the top of his chest. “You—” Lorcan brushed a knuckle under her chin. “—I could not learn about my mate as a human, so I chose my weakened wolf form to present to you.” “Lory,” Elide murmured, her lashes fluttering, inevitably floored. His inner Lycan twitched, and he pressed himself harder against her, needing more than their touches, needing to fulfill that animalistic need driving him for completion. For awhile, simple silence filled the cavern, a blanket of the inked dark providing solemn, sincere need of time as a sponge to soak in the words and occurrences of the chaotic, distorted past. But the present was a gift for aknew. A laugh slipped past Elide’s lips, and his mate smiled knowingly at that tent in his pants, screaming for her, ready for her, slaving to her. Elide bared her neck wider. “You are mine, Lorcan Salvaterre, and I will fight for you.” Trust and certainty bound between those eyes. Lorcan brushed his nose over hers, and a deep rumbling resounded from within his chest, a noise that had been locked and swept along with the ashes of unspent time and burning emotions. Baring his fangs and revealing the aura of his true other side, unhinged, Elide leaned forward, waves of longing from what time and distance had built between them. Lorcan bit down, and watched Elide’s eyes flutter open and close, a murmur of content escaping her mouth and her skin shuddering with pleasure. Her lidded eyes gazed into his, a smile smoothing across her features. When his fangs retracted, his tongue licked the blood pooling across her collarbone, his mate’s breathing uneven and ragged, her body ready for what followed next. The scent of need and hormones permeated the air thickly. But Lorcan could not give that to her, not when they needed to seek cements of closure from the cowardly confronted. So he pulled his mate into for another kiss, one which their their inner wolves howled together in synchrony, a stimulation ceases his current worries and fears, save for the warm body in his arms. When they pulled apart, both mouths dripped with blood and sores, Elide ran a tongue over her ripped lips, and gave him a wicked smile. The scent of mixed arousal pierced through the cave, flowering in the darkness, matching their smoldered songs of suppression and satisfaction. Lorcan’s hands ran over her thighs and skin, not to claim, but to heal, kneading those tight, new muscles that would need to be broken in. Tomorrow they would face the new freshness of the world together, hand in hand. So he said, “Sleep,” and curled her body against his own, molding their flesh together and against one another. Elide reached out to grasp Lorcan’s hand through the darkness, resting her head along his torso. “Goodnight,” she whispered, voice muffled. Elide could almost feel the other Lycan male’s smile warming her skin, a rarity at odds against all. “Goodnight,” Lorcan rasped back. “Elide Lochan.” “My mate,” Elide whispered, and allowed the dark oblivion to wash over her, carrying her further with an anchor into the abyss. No longer was she only human, a simple, disposable gem in this dim world, but a larger player, one with cards to hold and discard, with a lover at her side, one to fit her perfectly, one she’d love forever, through everything.

Elide awoke to warmth, her body tucked within another’s. As soon as she stirred, the male holding her gripped her hips, and a satisfied growl rumbled deep from his chest. She traced her hands across his chest, and closed her eyes as he kissed her forehead, stealing another one from her lips. Tracing her fingers along his lips as they parted, she could feel them curving up into a feral grin. “A run?” her mate proposed, and her body surged with power at the request. She didn’t respond, and instead channeled in the raw depths of power and dominance within her. Elide closed her eyes and focused on her inner Lycan, the unknown beast within her that had slumbered for years in silence. Feeling her bones crack and rattle, her teeth shifted and hands grew, paws hitting the floor, her tail wagging. By the time her nose sniffed the air, the scent of humanity had no longer reeked within the cave, the other in front of her radiating the typical-Lycan authority. Her mate took off and out from the cave, Elide surging forward behind him. The hints of light peeking through the demented trees drooping over with hanging branches and sickly yellow leaves dripping thick, orange meshes. Their bodies wove through the firm trunks with white claw marks and deep indents, stale, brown blood caking the curves. Stalks of yellowish grains spurted from the left fields, the tips dotted with crimsons colors. Their wolves streaked by, and Elide pushed her legs faster and faster, feeling the wind tearing at her face and her lungs opening and expanding, the infinity of forever within unleashed within the trapped seconds of a limited body. This was freedom. She hadn’t been a believer in hope, that sliver of beautiful shreds ripped within her and howling to another wolf. She didn’t need hope when her true passions blazed from the wrongs and flaws hampering her true state. She couldn’t be restrained, not in this body, nor in the next. She had been scared of her future from her past, but she swore to herself no more. As they raced through the forest, the trees grew straighter and taller, the air crisper and fresher, no longer stale stenches of the rotted filling her nostrils. Rich green flashed across her vision, an array of colorful, vibrant hues rising from the soiled Earth, full of the minerals and sprinkles of waters. The sunlight glared down harsher, and no longer did the shadows loom over in hulking forms, cowering the damp dirt. The first willing surrender came with chasing her mate, allowing him to hold her heart. She lost track of time, allowing the figment of that necessity to slip from her mind. She followed her mate, with her giving trust, the last piece of what remained from her fractured heart. She nipped at his paws when he slowed down, and eventually took the lead, leaping over fallen logs. They raced further and further in the morning until her tongue lolled out, and Lorcan slowed down to a trot, leading her to a crystalline river. He nudged her to the edge of water, licking the tip of her ear. Pushing her forward from her behind, her mate eagerly walked them down the bank. Elide’s snout reached down to lap up the water, but stopped at her reflection. No longer did white-fur coat her, but midnight dark streaks to match her mate’s fur. Darkness. Elide’s ears twitched, and Lorcan stalked next to her, rubbing his snout affectionately against hers. Elide can only stare at her reflection, at the darkness, and the pitch-black coat that she now owned. A tiny part of her shivered, and wondered what her once-jailed would have thought, at the winning inklings that he’d left in memory, perhaps even a victory. Her uncle had molded her so that staring at any reflection had her turning away, scared of her own ruined image full of tears and washed dreams. He’d seen her heart as a piece of plastic, his own mind a red-hot brand, hands his hammer to pound with pain. The salted liquid brimming on her eyes had held no value, full of empty emotion, a natural response from her body, damaged and depressed. The cold cell had been a war with herself, a pity for her own weakness and feebleness, for her foolishness in believing for much more. It had been a cry for wonder, her own pity party in the trapped and isolation. The only beginnings had been the flames in the night of broken memories and crooked laughters. And now, this river, with the sun beating down on her, filling her with unwanted need that a past shape of her would have needed awhile ago. Pure, undulated light. Light that could not outshine the dark hole inside of her. She could feel a calling to fulfill the need in wrecking pain against her uncle, and having bloodshed run along with her bloodlust. It was an animalistic, acute sense that had her almost on her knees, but her mate was next to her, holding her, a pillar of solidity. The fact that her pelt had transformed into rich tufts of dark fur to match the midnight quality of her mate’s had her mate often licking her coat, and content rumblings emerging from his throat. Their wolves had gotten to acquainted with one another too well, and too much. Most hunts ended up in playful banter between the them, rolling on top of another, the male allowing his female to yip her victorious by pawing him on the ground. After drinking their fill of water, two dark, ethereal shapes raced through slanted and crooked trees, the onyx eyes the predator and feared as creatures of the night and strays of the moon, bent on their own love and no other facets wedged between or among them. No longer did she have to hide the things she hadn’t like about herself, flaws or facts in the hands of vices clamping hard around her. She had freedom and fullness, no longer a mangled ankle, where she could howl and push her legs faster and further as one with the wind, the whispers of might and glory at her heels, her mate racing right next to her, sheer power and strength exuding from him. The first kill had been a bear, to which they’d taken down easily that Elide gained a grasp of her own power. The male bear had not withstood a chance against the two hungry Lycans, Elide ripping chunks of his hide, her maw drenched with the warm blood oozing out. Lorcan had scratched the bear’s face, and easily clawed an ear off, slamming his body into the bear’s side, sending their prey into a tree, which promptly collapsed. Lorcan had dipped his head at her, allowing her to take the first bite. After digging past the ribcage and licking the bone clean, she’d allowed her mate to finish devouring the other meat from the liver and stomach. Leaving the carcass in the burning sun, they’d returned to the lake afterwards to clean the blood off their faces. She lapped from a lake greedily, ignoring the sense to reach out to her past Alpha and Beta, and nudged her mate’s proud head towards the water. Lorcan had taken in the habit of standing guard whenever she ate or drank, but all she wanted was her mate to eat with her, two forces of nature sharing a meal together. She slowly lost herself with her mate, to the wildness and its call, while the itching for revenge grew at the back of her mind. By the time the sun set, and the shadows loomed, preaching the misfit and the outcast, Elide had nudged her mate’s head. Lorcan responded by licking her mated mark, sending sensual thrills over her body, tail wagging furiously. The floating feelings of ecstasy ended as the loneliness diminished, the rage filling her, claws digging into the soil. Lorcan brushed himself over her, intertwining their scents, a question in his eyes. She swallowed, and twitched her eyes, pawing the ground. Reality would sink in one way or another, and it seemed it would always harbor anguish. Tugging on that firm thread between them, Elide allowed her mind to coast and seep over the sanctuary between them, shattering them with her syllables. Where is Vernon? Lorcan’s tail stopped wagging, and his snout touched her nose. After silence reigned over them for awhile, Elide reared back and shot off into the distance. If her mate would not give her the answer, then she knew someone else who would willing. Following that thin thread of connection to former warmth, she touched the link between her old pack, feeling the storm of voices and waves of shouting. She could feel Lorcan at the back of her mind, growling, but the itch grew more pronounced. Focusing on that past link, she channeled into the Fireheart Pack, feeling the soothing remembrance of belonging on some interval. Aelin’s link soared over her first, sending her a set of coordinates that Elide followed easily, weaving through the trees and jumping over rivers, knowing that her mate would be on her tail despite all odds. Manon’s voice easily boomed over the little murmuring in her mind, demanding how she’d survived the shift, if she’d been marked and mated, if she was fine. Elide didn’t know what fine was, but merely repeated her previous question. She’d be fine once the scratch within her went away. Aelin hadn’t responded, and Elide could imagine her musing over the consequences of telling her, while she sprinted towards them, pushing her new body faster and harder. Manon didn’t wait. Locked in the middle of a human city Las Vegas in human form so no wolf can get to him. Council banned any werewolf in any form from entering. Elide nearly tripped over a dip in the ground, but continued to leap forward and run and run and run. Then I cannot get to him? He’d gotten to her, wormed his way into her, darkened her, hurt her, broke her. Not without breaking Council rules, Aelin piped in. There is a death penalty, Elide. Come home. Elide abruptly swerved to the side, and shut down the link of her past, before leaving her farewell. A death penalty would not serve when there were worse things than death, a figment of this reality she no longer feared. Home was no longer with the Fireheart Pack when she was destined to rule to Perranth Pack, buried under the disgust and falsities of the Morath Pack. She deserved her empire and her people, one where her Alpha blood reigned, now mixed with Lycan genes. Her home was herself. She owned herself to her mate, another creature of the night and wind and darkness, and her broken mind and shattered heart. Closure seemed a distant concept with seeping ailments howling within her. She would no longer be feared. How could she settle for less when she’d been given none in return, given a body as more? Lorcan had feared for the depths for her, his love for her, and now Elide only feared what she would do when she saw her uncle. She left her scent through the forest as she broke out into the clearing, allowing whispers of her to trail behind for her mate. Pushing her legs faster, her paws pounding against the Earth, Elide ran, her lungs capable of more, her muscles able to absorb more, and her heart ready to devour. She crossed borders after borders, a set destination carving in her mind, to quell that urge for more.

Elide’s scent had ended past a run-down railroad, his own wolf growling and snarling in frustration. She’d blocked her own link to him, shutting down a window on her mental side, leaving traces of bitterness. Shifting and showering his own dark residency in the castle, Lorcan headed towards the Fireheart Pack. Rowan, to his credit, didn’t speak a word as his hooded face stalked into the Pack House and slammed the door shut. An arm was wrapped around his mate, Aelin, and across the table sat an empty chair where the half-Lycan should have been. The lack of activity when he had passed border lands sent him on edge more than usual, and by the blank faces staring at him, numbness had settled in. Lorcan slammed a fist on the table, staring at the thick wad of papers sent from the Council. Across in bold were the consequences if any wolf in any form dared to set foot or paw into Las Vegas without authority. Rowan nodded, hearing his linked question. “It’s where Elide went.” He let out a growl, anger rushing through him. “Do you know what you’ve done?” Sometimes secrets were for the better good, for the sake of sanity, one lesson he’d learned over time. Information was too gold, too heavy, and too greedy for those whether unwilling or drowning. Aelin sat higher in her seat, and pressed her palms against the table. “Manon told Elide, and is tracking her down currently. You can’t cage someone again when she’s been locked up for too long.” “And if your Beta fails?” Lorcan hissed, and Rowan leaned forward, his natural instincts to protect his mate. But at least the Lycan Prince had his mate near him, while his own was a shattered mosaic of wear and tear. Rowan ran a thumb over Aelin’s arm. “Then the Council will issue a death warrant.” Lorcan stared at them dully. “Everyone has their secrets, some more deadly than the rest. But my mate held the most dangerous. She harbored her Lycan side in.” The monster had thrashed within her, claiming divine retribution. Lorcan allowed himself a brief second to close his eyes, at the wrenching and snaring tugs at his heart. Without his last shred of fulfillment, he had lived without honor, but to live without experiencing the brighter spectrum to only listlessly carry on with the dulled cowardly and bloodied halves had already ingrained into his mind. His duty had shifted from the killing fields to defend and cherish another soul, a match for his. “She’ll be fine,” Aelin whispered, flatly staring at the stack of papers with vivid contempt. “She lived in Morath all her childhood.” “So Elide’s been through worse,” Rowan clarified. “You have a strong mate, Lorcan.” But even the strongest fell, and Lorcan feared that for once, this concept of more, of hope and love, would not be enough. He tore off into the fading sunlight, his clothes tearing and body shifting into solid muscle and full wolf, a deep howl full of pain and sorrow erupting from his throat, a sound that no other echo would capture, and no other wolf could vocalize in the forbidden night. For Lorcan would reclaim what owned his heart and keep hers beating. He promised her as much. He flew across borders and pushed his body to the limits, all for her, all to have her, all to live for her.

Aelin cradled the picture frame, tracing a finger over the young dark-haired female in the middle, Rowan’s arms wrapped around her waist. Three women had stood proudly in the picture as the sun’s rays had casted over their tanned bodies, their toes curled from the wet sand and waves lapping at their ankles. Aelin had taken Elide’s right, her hair seemingly catching on fire at the angle, Manon the pillar of ice and height on Elide’s left; Elide had smiled gently into the camera without Aelin’s own signature smirk of wildness or Manon’s sneer of ferocity. She had been their rock, their gentle tide, their voice of calm reason against all raging reasons. It seemed the fates were bent on disorder and chaos from false notions of tranquility. “She’ll be alright,” her mate murmured, staring at her instead, offering his warmth. Rowan slid the frame from her hands and guided her to the bedroom. “I’m afraid,” Aelin murmured. “That in the dark she chose herself because we all fully refused to give to her. Her pack, her freedom, her strength. She’s been so cooped up for so long, I’m afraid what the oppression has molded into Elide’s heart.” Rowan leaned down into her. “Elide is not evil, Aelin. She will come home.” “The problem is, Rowan, where exactly her home?” Elide was heir to the Perranth Pack, an Alpha in her own rights. She’d been a second Pack Doctor within the Fireheart, and could now have a place in the Lycan’s royal palace as a mate to one. Aelin didn’t even know where her future laid with the Prince of Lycans, one where she was a simple female Alpha, one with a dirty past no clean palace could harbor. She’d killed many, had many blood and lines on her hands, and played dirty. By no means was she ready to take up the Princess title. “You do not think she will return to your pack,” Rowan mused, brushing a hand over her neck where her mated mark would have shown. He’d been surprisingly patient with his feral dominance to take things slow. He hadn’t displayed the typical possessive behavior in vying to mark his mate that every male inherently held. “I do not think Lorcan will return to your Pack.” Aelin shrugged off her leather gears, noting the scorching gaze Rowan shamelessly directed towards her. He shucked off his own clothes, pulling off his boots, and headed to the washroom. She could imagine two Lycans on solid, ivory thrones, heading the Perranth Pack. A new type of signal in a new world with darkness and lightness colliding like never before. A force Elide and Lorcan would hold as two blooded Lycans, mated to one another. A new empire forged from the darkness into the light, one with scores to settle. Lest her own Pack fall apart, her Beta was missing, Manon radiating another ancient power of her own, her authority matching that of an Alpha and strength comparable to the Lycans. Their functionality seemed to end as time poured over. Sense evaded her. Rowan tucked her under his chin, his naked torso slightly wet, steam escaping from the washroom door. “Elide and Lorcan have each other.” Aelin blew out a breath. “They will reinstate the Perranth Pack. If the Council does not demand their deaths first.” If not— She felt rather than saw Rowan’s wolf rear at the thought of the blood and deaths that would be shed, and Aelin’s own skin matched his shiver. A dark dawn was emerging, one that time had cultivated, and it seemed like the fire would not be able to out shine the shadows. Ashes had scattered too far. Sleep did not find her, a restless itch at the back of her mind. Even her mate’s presence was not enough. Even the chocolate gifts he’d bestowed on her no longer tasted sweet in her mouth, sourness gathering at her teeth. When the clock strummed twelve midnight, a beeping emission rose from her office computer. Aelin blandly arose from her mate’s embrace, and sleepily headed towards her device, scanning an email from an unknown address. Frowning, she dragged her tongue over her bottom lip, doubling clicking the link. Her eyes skimmed over the package, and her cursor hit start, she listlessly stood up, and cast one look at her mate, the Prince of the Lycans. Her focus returned back to the video. A gown had swished around the Princess of Lycan’s hips, her cunning eyes taking in the male in front of her. Minutes later, the beautiful fabric had been ripped and discarded, skin on skin. Rowan and Remelle had been more than acquaintances, and it seemed like the Lycan princess’s claims of lovers had been more fact that false. Aelin didn’t bother to mute the moans from the video and the flashes of naked skin that sent her inner wolf reeling. From shock and disgust. What we did meant nothing, her mate had said. But by the mated mark on Remelle’s neck, his words had meant otherwise. And would explain why he felt less of a tug and shift towards to her, not matter fate’s plans in destiny. You are mine, Prince, Remelle had smiled, moments before Aelin had once upon a time entered the castle for Elide to confront Lorcan, before all pain and chaos had broken, before she had allowed Rowan to court her. I am yours, her mate had said, holding Remelle in his large arms, embracing the Princess. For she had come too late. For timing had been everything, a facet of life destiny had not granted her. She was as good as rejected, and without her mate, her pack would not fully function. And her pack came first. Aelin stormed out of the Pack House, masking her scent, and shifted, damning the Council, and shifted into her blood-red wolf, sprinting off into the night. She had enough of games, and without her rock here, bloodlust was calling.

Manon tore through the forest and past the streets, a blur from the cars and trunks, the buzzing and honking, the shiny lights and cursed mumbles streaming past her ears. Once the sights of the looming, towering structures came in sight, she quickly shifted, and stalked through the night, cracking camera screens before glimpsing the dangerous, seething woman. Sliding through thin doors, she picked a set of clothes from the racks, flipping a black hood over her white-hair. Filling the pockets with the familiar curve of blades, Manon strode into the human-filled streets. It was a filthy, ugly disgrace here, where innocence bled and corruption ruled. The disgusting cards littering the cracked streets and whistling catcalls had her gripping her blade at her waist. Walking up the steps to the Caesar's Palace, Manon could feel the eyes boring into the back of her head, and the thumping of other foreign heartbeats. She could not stop Elide from her mandate, but she could complete it for her, lest she suffer from death, live without experiencing the joy of having a mate and belonging in unity. Manon moved behind a pillar before an arrow drove through her spine and out her heart. She barely had time to dart away before the pillar collapsed and the human screams erupted. “You are not welcome here,” a voice hissed, a slight rasp and undercurrent lying beneath the syllables. Manon drew out Wind Cleaver, her eyes adjusting to the smoke billowing in the hallway. She swore as the marbled statues glowed and shuddered to life, moving towards her. The water from the fountains rose to the air and slammed against the ground, rushing towards her. Magic. Her lips thinned, and she rolled underneath the first lash of a fist aimed at her head. She hauled herself onto the higher beams, and dodged the first strike of the Poseidon statue, slicing off the trident. When the chariot flew through the air, the water flooding the entire floor, Manon dove, and swam deeper into the hotel. Rivulets of stream wrapped around her ankles and tossed her back to the entrance, the back of her head hitting the wall. Gritting her teeth, Manon ducked as a wheel from the chariot flew right above her head. Her nails dragged along an outlet, and with a wince, she clawed at the walls, climbing higher. When the next stature flew towards her, Manon loosed a dagger at one of the columns, the marble collapsing on top of the magiced solid. Panting, she hauled herself into an alcove, and grasped blindly at the stones embedded in the walls. She jerked her body to the side as a hammer grazed the edge of sweatshirt. Finding the Lycan stone, she twisted hard on it, and when it didn’t budge, she drove Wind Cleaver through the middle, and the entire building shook in response. Turning around, she flashed her blade in front of her, watching the statues crumble into dust, and the water drain beneath the tiles. Dropping onto the ground, she continued deeper into the hotel, scenting the darkness and wretched scent of twist distorment. The next hall shuddered, and the ground shifted within her, tossing her body to the side. Darting up the middle stairs, Manon slashed Wind Cleaver through the incoming volley of arrows. One arrow exploded in front of her, and while Manon had seen many explosions in her life, she didn’t think she’d seen one where the flumes aimed straight up her nose and mouth. Snarling, she pressed her blades against her face, and muttered an archaic Crochan command, spoken from eons ago. Wind Cleaver flashed out, forming a mask around her face, thinning out to a veil around her eyes. Then she darted behind a curtain, ready to jump out the window if the attack continued. It did. A large spear shot above the curtain, crumbling the entire mainframe of gems and sparkling hues. Manon swung herself back into the staircase, her exit now blocked. She palmed two daggers, and then dashed down the main hall. Two knights standing against the wall shuddered to life and groaned, their helmets turning into her direction. The Council must have hired experienced witches to fortify the entire hotel with magic. It was too bad she was half-witch. Manon ducked and danced between the two knights, dodging each blow. When the last sword embedded itself into the wall and the other knight dug his lance out of his foot, she launched herself in between, and stabbed both her daggers through the would-be hearts, disconnecting the magical chain. The armor clattered to the floor, and she dusted off one metal hand clinging to her elbow. Sheathing her daggers, Wind Cleaver peeled off her face, and landed comfortably back into her palm. Manon slashed the blade through the cracks of the grand hall door, and then yanked the doors open with a crash, tasting the blood slipping out her scratched lip. Wind Cleaver nearly dropped out her hand as she leapt forward with a no, her face straining. For she had been simply too late.

“Well, well,” the face of her nightmares chuckled in front of her. “Have you come to finish me off at last, my dear niece?” Elide smiled at him, a curl of lip full with ice. “I don’t need to kill you when you’ve been dead for some time.” She stalked in front of the silver-chained monster. “But I suppose death would be a nice touch.” Especially if she were to break Council laws. “You touch me, you cannot touch your Alpha title as Perranth.” Dark shadows had blossomed under his eyes, and his body had thinned considerably, skin faded into gray, feeble meshes. His teeth cracked at the edges from grinding his jaws harshly together, and his nails were shredded. All the lies and tells in her life...maybe one day she’d have all the pieces. But maybe it was better she be reckoned as shattered and broken. Elide hefted a chain in her hands, her heart thrumming. “Look familiar?” she cooed, and swam in the despair and fear in her uncle’s eyes. She had drowned in those emotions a long, long time ago. The chain jerked around his neck, the shackles at Vernon’s wrists and ankles and waist screaming against his scarred flesh, burning from the metal. His neck snapped to the side, his eyes unfocused but glazed over in determination. She’d burned for so long that the sight did not an ounce of satisfaction to her. Elide stepped forward, and the balcony window shattered. A sigh of relief bubbled from the Vernon’s rasped throat, but quickly dissipated into a squelch of agony as a hatchet whistled through the air and pierced across his ankle, destroyed the chain and the flesh underneath. A howl of anguish shook the Alpha’s body, but he continued smiling. For he had believed crafted the perfect monster and carved a hole into society, a shard in the masterpiece of society. His legacy, his faults, his nightmares. A reality. Little did he know that he hadn’t destroyed her. She had destroyed herself. He had willingly retreated into the abyss of dark and ink. Elide tightened the chain, and waited for the newcomer to reach her. Warm hands wrapped around Elide’s waist, and her mate kissed the base of her throat. The ground beneath them shook. “Together,” Lorcan rumbled, and wrapped a hand around her wrist. Elide knew what her mate was offering. To end Vernon himself, to take the burden off of her. But this was what something that she needed to carry by herself. Shrugging off Lorcan’s hand, Elide offered her own smile at her Uncle, who shivered violently, teeth bared weakly. “I’ll see you in hell,” she said sweetly, and jerked the chain violently down, watching the neck snap completely. The doors burst open, and Lorcan arranged himself in a protective stance around her. Manon, looking as if she’d been dragged across the grave and back, hissed, her eyes purged into utter block. A single no hissed out of her mouth, and Elide felt the thin thread bound to the Council snap, and a fallen order blanket across her mind. A death sentence. Issued and ordered. The hotel floor shook again, and Elide braced herself for the consequence. Manon slammed the door shut, and stalked towards her, not sparing Lorcan a second glance. Blood dripped from her sides, black sweatshirt torn and ragged. Her past Beta dipped her head and gripped Wind Cleaver solemnly. “I stand with you.” She bared her teeth, and nodded towards Elide’s mate, just as the balcony drapes flung apart, and the white uniforms of the Council guards flew in, wolves of order leaping from behind. The South wall shuddered and collapsed, fire ringing out and bursting into flames around them. Lorcan pinned her to the floor as a burst of flame brought it down. An Enforcer flung a sword towards them, aim at Lorcan’s exposed back, but a wolf leapt through the fallen wall, a red pelt slicked with flames flying through the air, and taking the weapon. Aelin Galathynius slammed into the floor, the sword sticking from her back, blood swirling with the flames around her. Her wolf shuddered and stilled. Elide roared and tossed Lorcan’s weight of tons off of her and ran towards her fallen friend, the echoing howl of Manon’s having the tiles shake. The tide of Enforcer did not stop, but Lorcan flung his dark magic forward, sending the first wave of wolves out the window. Darkness swept across Elide’s eyes as she nosed her previous Alpha’s body. She watched the flames surrounding them wink out. She felt the Alpha of the Fireheart’s pack fur turn to ice. Decaying. Elide howled, and Lorcan roared his own, Manon’s screeching nails tearing across bodies after the next. The doors from the upper floor cracked open, and Elide’s heart soared as she saw members of the Fireheart stream in, wolves of all colors with snapping teeth. The floor became a battleground for unseen justice and stringent consequences. The Fireheart Pack had openly issued their statement in disloyalty as rebels and resisted the Council’s orders by heeding their Alpha’s call. As Elide launched herself against the nearest guard, she knew the deaths would come. But she welcomed it. For once.

Lorcan ripped off the pelt of the nearest enforcer, and kept an eye on his mate, whose claws had dug into a guard’s eye. After the wolf laid dead as his feet, he raced towards her, hauling the bleeding enemy off her back, and tossing him into the rubble. His mate rubbed her maw against him, and together they leapt into the mess of hissing and tearing and howling. They killed every beating heart of human or animal in their way. She became the silencer and the executioner. He was death. She was desire. They slaughtered the Council guards and the Enforcers. Without a blink or thought. And together—together they could bring down kingdoms if they wanted to. In another realm or world. For their limits came as the Council themselves stormed in, and the floor levelled off, the ground shaking and infrastructure collapsing around them.

Rowan awoke to a cold bed, and felt frosted agony worm through his body. He tore through the Pack House in search for his mate, and found not one trace of another Pack member. Aelin had to have more logic than to dare step foot or paw into Las Vegas, but by the true absence, it only seemed plausible. He swore, and opened his mind link with Lorcan. Blocked out. Of course. Snarling, he shifted into his silver wolf and followed the Council orders to the edge of Nevada where the desert ran for miles. Uneasiness ran through him as he picked up speed. The sun baked his fur, but he continued to push. Riddled and bristling trepidation coasted over him, driving him over an edge. When his paws no longer hit grass and soil, churning over sand, his pace slowed down considerably, a sharp searing pain digging into his side. The Prince of Lycans howled as he felt wedge drive within him, pain flowering within him to unknown depths. From his peripheral vision, dread building within him, he mustered up his well and stalked to the camp where the flying white flags of the Council shone. The guards parted, and his wolf strode through the line, noting the scent and stench of metal and wolfsbane. As the line of guards ended, a white elder with wrinkly face came into sight, and Rowan halted. The King of the Wolves. Rowan dipped his wolf’s head, not meeting the golden-ringed eyes of the other Lycan. The final authority and the highest honor, King Erawan, wolf of the order. The full-blooded Lycan merely handed his scepter to a helper next to him, and maintained his posture. “As the Prince of Lycans, you are authorized to uphold the law,” the King droned, and parted to the left. Rowan’s heart broke at the sight. A red-ash wolf laid bloodied and broken along the sand, face caked with tears and grime. His mate. “Aelin Galathynius.” A pained look crossed over Rowan Whitethorn’s face. The King nodded, a sneer on his face. “She has broken Council law and is sentenced to die. As Prince, you will set an example.” An example. That law was first. Over love, over morality, over need. The King beckoned a finger, and Rowan shifted, clothed in his royal garb. His Lycan within him howled in anger and fury, a turbulent storm raging within him. But the duty called. The first bond he had swore. His tongue filled with ash as the solemn words washed over him. One his animal side could not yet overcome. “Through my Lycan blood in me and through orders through the Council, you are condemned to execution for slaughtering and violence, death and destruction. Your disloyalty holds charges with the end.” Rowan felt his legs lurch forward, his wolf howling within him, a sound his mate did not echo. Betrayal ran in his mate’s eyes, deeper than the execution. Disappointment and sorrow. He knew the sight would haunt him for the rest of eternity. Another Hell on Earth. The King snapped his fingers, and the helper handed Rowan a dark blade, crested with obsidian gems on the hilt. He could feel the order pressing down in his mind, caging him. He lifted the blade.

Aelin merely grinned at Rowan Whitethorn, still finding the strength within her failing lungs. He wasn’t on his knees grovelling, serving her, honoring her, cherishing her, protecting her. He wasn’t. Not when his mark laid on another’s neck. Not when a silver blade inked with darkness was directly over her. Not when the Council themselves had swarmed the hotel, and Remelle had triumphantly dragged her bleeding body across the city and into the desert where her veins had been ripped and displayed. Her Pack was in ruins, more than demolished. Only thirteen of her pack members had survived, and had fled with Manon—Aelin’s last order as Alpha. To survive and to remember. Aelin watched her mate take the dark blade from the King’s hands, and felt hatred boil up within her. Felt her inner wolf agree and hiss out, “I, Aelin Galathynius, reject you as my mate.” It would be easier this way, for the pain to fuel her, and for the pain for him to end her without rational thought. So that he could live with the burden that he had no control over his animalistic side, and lost his other half by priorities. That it wasn’t the sword of the King that ended the chance of more, but the emotions of the rage and embittered. She supposed this was her fate. To be stuck within that scale. And she did not stop her once-mate as the feral growl rippled through him and his bones shifted, a silver wolf leaping towards her, fury in those eyes. Aelin supposed she knew how Elide felt, how the physical pain of her skin being ripped apart and blood gushing out, pooling around her—it compared to nothing in the slightest to her heart breaking, not from the sheer force, but from her mind collapsing down on her and giving up, diving into that black abyss, and over the edge and into the what waited in the next life. “I hope Remelle is everything you wanted,” Aelin managed to whisper out as her spine cracked and her neck snapped. And she saw the darkness.

Lorcan stared at his mate, his love, his fate. “Elide,” he whispered. Elide blankly stared at him, a little trickle of blood running down her face. “Elide,” he repeated, his voice cracking between the syllables. Elide part her mouth. “Lorcan,” she murmured, and her hands fell limply to her side. “What have I done?” He swallowed harshly. Rid the threat before the threat rids us, as ordered by the King Erawan. Kill the girl. Pure ferality and unbridled bloodlust. His mate, his fate. The Council members closed within them, blank faces. Another cage, another cell. Lorcan felt his paws holding blood and sand, reeking of gore and flesh. Holding his and his mate’s defeat. It had not been enough. “I am sorry,” Lorcan whispered, despairingly. “Moon goddess forgive me.” For his first oath had drilled into his mind and wormed its way. The silver blade lurched forward, driving within his Elide Lochan’s ribcage, piercing through her hardened flesh and out her other end. The onyx eyes widened before her lids fluttered shut, and she croaked out his name thickly, her upper body collapsing on top of the blade. “Forgive me,” Lorcan said, and embraced her. Darkness and madness swept through him, a cord of sanity pulling into a reach beyond him. Her nest of hair fell across her face, and the salted stench of blood filled his nostrils again. He wrenched the blade out, and a silent scream stamped onto her face, pale features turning into whitened ash. “Forgiven,” Elide rasped out, and went limp, her eyes closing. For they had both sinned beautifully in the tragic world. Lorcan held his mate in his arms, and blankly stared at the silver sword tainted with crimson, staining the ground. He had promised to not let her go. Promises, his oaths, his only living shred of morality in this world. He would not let it slip from his fingers as further dishonored. Lorcan slowly reached down and wrapped the warm hilt around his roughened hand, his other wrapped around the drooped body, a sack of emptiness. Inhaling the fast fading scent of his source of elation one last time, Lorcan drove the blade inwards without a figment of restraint. The Council wolves stared blandly, empty holes drilled into their eyes. Two bodies collapsed onto the soiled ground, blood intertwining between them, tying them closer than ever before than in life, through the decay, and to death. Even his Lycan genes could not regenerate him fast enough, as the fast fading mated mark disappearing from Elide’s neck snapped his own tether to this world. For when his mate had been sentenced to die, so had he. She hadn’t needed a ring on her finger when he had claimed her, a claim that went into the next life and realm, a long, long dream of what could have once been and whispers of fantasy of might and true love, an easy conquerment to whistle through his heavens only to plunge into the depths of hell. For death had been their wedding with eternity.

Manon tossed away the flowers that littered the three graves she had built near the entrance of soom gloomy and haunted cave in the middle of a darkened forest. Elide Lochan. Aelin Galanthysius. Lorcan Salvaterre. It would have been suicide to return back to Las Vegas where the Council awaited, with too much dark enhanced power and foreign allies. The Fireheart Pack remained in spirit, but the name was filled with too much raw memories. Settling her heart in steel, Manon headed into the wild, Alpha blood coursing through her veins. She’d rebuild up this pack, and forge them into their own masters, not weapons. And the dawn of the Crochan Pack arose, filled with thirteen beautifully broken members. Thirteen survivors with the blood bathing over their bodies and minds, sculpting their souls. She had revenge burning within her. In memory of her fellow wolves, the fallen who had fought against the stringent orders. And so the Crochan Pack sprinted into the distance, where they’d forge the next era.

Elide jerked up, panting, and stared at the darkness within the cave. Lorcan immediately sat up, and wrapped his arms around her, offering his warmth.

She yawned, and her mate yawned back.

A run? Her mate proposed.

She didn’t respond, and instead channeled in the raw depths of power and dominance within her. Elide closed her eyes and focused on her inner Lycan, the unknown beast within her that had slumbered for years in silence. Feeling her bones crack and rattle, her teeth shifted and hands grew, paws hitting the floor, her tail wagging.

Elide waited for her mate to shift, watching the powerful muscles ripple through currents in the dark cave. When Lorcan finished shifting, her nudged her in concern. She moved against his pelt, shaking off the vivid images that had flashed across her head. Elide licked her mate’s ear affectionately, and wiggled her tail in anticipation.

Her mate took off and out of the cave, Elide surging forward behind him, into the breaking light of slanted rays, ignoring the murky and hidden feeling of deja vu running underneath her.

FIN

#I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF YOU UNDERSTOOD WHAT JUST HAPPENED BUT OK #elorcan werewolf #i'm not processing what i just wrote #elorcan #elide x lorcan #lorcan x elide #tog au #elorcan werewolf au #finale #easkyrah #whyy am i like this

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mostnoblelancelot · 4 years ago

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there’s a siren somewhere | g & l

@gxpendragon @ladyxguinevere

tw: rape mention

Guinevere wasn’t one to keep a pulse on the comings and goings of the castle. She didn’t want to be part of the gossip in the trenches, which was especially difficult to avoid with her semi-recent role in the Queen’s service. Though Guinevere was somewhere on the younger side within the grouping of women and adults should know better, she did while they did not. They were merciless gossips and, she had a feeling, as bad as a pit of vipers if the situation called for it or they felt like being nasty. She didn’t really fit with them, but she excelled at keeping her mouth shut, so she didn’t fall out with them, either.

Somehow, though, she was always aware of Lancelot. He’d been the one who pulled her onto his horse as her village was ransacked and other, dishonorable men were trying to get at her. Without knowing her more clandestine role to the king himself, Lancelot had saved her from a terrible fate without a second thought. He’d covered her torn clothing with his own cape, and he’d then covered for her in every other sense over time in Camelot. It was not a difficult or fussy bond they shared, but it was real. Maybe because of her largely undetected place in the King’s bed, and all the complications that came along with that balancing act and secrecy, her deep friendship with Lancelot was a saving grace. She held him in the highest regard and she always sensed when he was around, when he needed something from her, and what it was he needed.

This particular sense told her he was out of sorts and would benefit from her companionship. Once the Queen was in her chamber, locked away for the night, and Guinevere was free, she managed the too-easy task of swiping a wineskin from the cellar (and hiding two more under cover of her dress, tied to her legs with thin rope) and settled herself in front of the dying fire in the knights’ designated area of the castle. Her own lodging wasn’t far from it, though she was slightly lower on the rungs of social hierarchy, and most of the knights were tending to their own social agendas at this time of night. They would have the space to themselves and be able to retreat with discretion at the end of it.

Somehow, she knew Lancelot was not among them, out gallivanting and being raucous and young, and he would sense her laying in wait. Like she knew him, he knew her. She tugged the rug as close to the fireplace as she could manage and waited, listening for his footfalls so as not to be surprised.

Lancelot rarely concerned himself with castle gossip, but perhaps he should have listened to it more closely. It might have warned him. He wasn't blind to Lady Elaine's affection for him, but he didn't realize how far she would go to win his favor. If he had, he would have kept at least an entire room between them at all times. When he was younger, he might have thought less of bedding a woman he had no intention of marrying, but he'd outgrown those habits long ago. As it was, he'd done his best to stay out of her path and not encourage her fancies. His best had not been enough.

He wasn't sure where she had acquired the magic to trick him into her bed, but he had some guesses--namely two--and they were nearly as troubling as the betrayal itself. He had no idea what either Merlin or Lady Morgana might have against him, but it was clear one of them had an agenda--or a very twisted sense of humor. Lancelot was less amused. In fact, he'd rarely been so angry. He'd never before shouted at a woman, much less threatened one, but not killing her outright had felt like a very near thing at the time. He'd left before he could harm her, but he made no promises if she approached him again.

His bloodlust had eased, but he was still seething. Sparring with a few of the other knights had done little to help, and there was no one he trusted enough with the truth of what had happened. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was one person. Guinevere was easily his truest friend in the castle, and he knew very well that she could be trusted to keep secrets. Given the nature of Elanie's deception, he was going to find it difficult to tell her about it though. Anger and shame still pulsed through him at the memory of her face--that was not actually her face. He balled his hand into a fist and resisted the urge to punch something. Violence wasn't in his nature, and he wasn't comfortable with it now. He was rarely so out of control of his own feelings.

As if by some unspoken agreement, they'd both visited the wine cellar and made for the fire in the knights' common area, although she'd beaten him to it. He'd mistakenly thought some fresh air would clear his head, but since he couldn't clear it, he'd decided to muddy it further. He knew that she would be there even before he strode into the room. They had an uncanny sense of each others' presence and needs. After last night's events, he was fairly certain he knew why he was so aware of her, but he couldn't have said why she was equally attuned to him. He threw himself into the chair nearest her and took a long pull from the wineskin. "Keep it coming," he said gruffly.

Guinevere found herself lost to her thoughts as she waited, staring into the flickering flames that filled the common area with a gentle warmth. It was beautiful and its constant motion was one thing that could make her feel less solitary, less alone. The only thing that could pull her from the vague thoughts was a presence entering the room. She was unsurprised to see it was the person she’d been waiting for, but couldn’t glean any more information from watching him. He walked in and sat down, not quite like himself, and greeted her very briefly. But she had known he wasn’t himself already, so none of this was a surprise. She reached to her hiding place and retrieved a wineskin for herself.

“Perhaps you should just keep that one,” she said, her voice low but only vaguely amused. There was something appealing about him all the time, and moreso his rough, low voice. It sent a thrill through her she would quite likely never admit to feeling. His general demeanor, though, caused more concern than amusement and she frowned. “You seem unusually unhappy, and I fear the wine may not be enough to soothe you. How else may I be of service?”

"If that is a challenge, then I accept." He wasn't usually the kind to seek any opportunity for proving his fortitude, and that wasn't what he was doing now. It was merely a way to carry on doing what he'd already decided to do, which was to wipe this day's experience from his memory. More's the pity if it should prove to be temporary. He took another long drink and then shook the wineskin experimentally to see how much was left. It sloshed around the empty spaces inside. He was confident he could have it empty in far less time than usual. Drinking to excess wasn't one of his vices, but at present, he could see the appeal.

In spite of himself, her offer forced him to crack a smile, the trace of mischief in it signalling that he was about to take it way out of context. "My lady, I am far too sober to entertain such talk." She was one of few people, and certainly the only lady at the court, that he would have dared to be so cheeky with. It was a facet of his personality that was usually buried beneath honor and good manners. It was also a way of not answering her question directly. He still wasn't sure what to say or how much he could stand to reveal. The wine likely wouldn't help with that, but it would make him care less about how the words came out. At the moment, that didn't seem such a bad thing.

Her words had not been designed as a challenge, but his acceptance gave her some pause. He wasn’t normally a heavy drinker, which was a commonality they shared. It was generally something that made him easier to spend time with than other men. She very nearly opened her mouth to express concern, though not to request restraint, but his grin cut her off. Against her better judgment, she returned his grin with one of her own.

“If it is to be that form of assistance, not only are we too sober, but we are also too public,” she commented. She took a drink from her own wine, though not as long as his. The flavor was too strong for her to drink in a rush, and she refused to make something so wonderful leave a bitter taste behind. Life was more than capable of that feat, and wine was solace. The distinction, to her, was clear. Perhaps he didn’t feel the same, and she would not condemn him for that. Though she was quite curious what had caused his mood, that was still obvious to her in spite of his efforts to be a little tawdry and something resembling jovial, she did not press. “Perhaps I could propose a game for us to pass the time until we are not too sober for… whatever comes next.”

"Quite," he agreed, somewhat more darkly than usual. He doubted there was a non-public place in this saintsforsaken castle, but he wasn't feeling so bitter that he wished to get into that topic. Then he realized that, either way, he'd managed to lighten the mood and then promptly set it on fire. He wasn't accustomed to being unhappy. It was possible he didn't know how to do it properly. He didn't want to bring her down to his level though, so he took another, smaller, drink and tried not to brood. "By all means," he agreed, with a gesture for her to proceed.

She adjusted her position, moving a bit closer to him so they could speak in softer tones. She strongly doubted anyone would disturb, or overhear, but this particular game would require at least an effort at something resembling security. “So the game I am thinking of requires three pieces of information about you, given to me. It can be something generic or something very personal. Two of the facts must be true, and one must be a lie. If I am able to correctly determine which is the lie, then you drink. If I am not, then I drink. I take my turn doing the same, and the same rules apply.” She hoped this might loosen his tongue and his demeanor a bit, and possibly open the door to other confession. Whatever was darkening his mood, she didn’t want it to linger and fester.

The natural response was to shift closer to her as well, and he wondered briefly if the game required secrecy or if she was merely being cautious. The room was empty at this hour, but after the kind of day he'd had, he wasn't feeling especially secure about that. Clearly, things were not always what they looked like.

"Alright." He considered the things he might tell her. He wasn't a particularly secretive man, nor was he a very skilled liar. "When I was a boy, I stole roses from my Lady's garden. When I was somewhat older, I fell in love with a water nymph who did not return my affection." He smiled, pausing again to think. It was more difficult than he'd expected. "My horse, Concorde, is my closest confidante.

She toyed with the edges of the wineskin in her hand as she turned his words over in her mind, poking at them for weaknesses and twisting them into the things she knew of him to test which one felt wrong. “I cannot imagine you stealing, but I cannot imagine someone being loved by you and not returning the sentiment, either.” She turned toward him and narrowed her eyes. “And I resent the implication I am not your closest confidante. Are you sure two of these are truths?”

With a breath out and a gentle smile, she offered her answer. “I do not believe you fell into unrequited love with a water nymph.” Even though she had previously said she couldn’t imagine the sentiment not being returned, she successfully fought the urge to offer the opinion that he was naturally quite lovable, and the brief acknowledgement of what that might mean for her own feelings toward him.

He chuckled, his lips parting to answer her question before he caught himself. They were playing a game; he couldn't very well give it away by giving her more information. It was a success in one way at least, since his mind was temporarily off his troubles. When she guessed correctly, he took a long drink from his wineskin. "I've never been in love," he admitted. "But she was a lovely girl." Most of the nymphs were, if also rather flighty and moody. "I believe it is your turn." He found himself anticipating what she might say, as well as wondering how well he actually knew her. She seemed to read him effortlessly and always had, if the ease with which she'd guessed his lie was anything to go by.

When he confirmed her hesitant answer was correct, she beamed. Perhaps her reasoning had not been quite right, but that was rather beside the point. The smile faded into a moment of contemplation, one where she had no regard for what her face was doing, as she considered what to offer. Part of her thought of stating how fickle love could be, but she didn’t volunteer the topic. She couldn’t be fully sure what she felt for Arthur was love, because it wasn’t something that would ever have the chance to go the distance.

“Very well. I hope you are listening, because I intend to say this one time only.” She meant it to sound stern, but she failed miserably because she was smiling. “One: I once had the opportunity to marry a miller, but he opted out of accepting a woman who could read. Two: my favorite pet was a dog we had when I was a child. And three: if you were to kiss me behind my ear, you would find it the best place for such an act, though I have no control over the preference.”

The wine was beginning to set in. He wasn't usually one to opt for numbness, but it was a relief to take the edge off his emotions right now, even if that meant he was also loosening his tongue. If he wasn't going to share this experience with Guinevere, then there was no one left to tell. The castle was too full of gossip to risk talking about it with anyone else.

His mind had wandered briefly, but it returned at her attempt at sternness. He took another drink and set the skin aside. "You have my full attention, my lady." He couldn't help an answering smile, even though an hour ago he wouldn't have thought it possible. People were easily that close-minded, so he had no trouble believing the first. "One sounds like every miller I have ever met, and three is strangely specific." His smile widened slightly. "So I will go with two." She'd never struck him as much of an animal lover, with horses as the exception.

She watched him with something resembling concern as he took yet another drink of wine. It was so out of the ordinary for him that it doubled down on the thought she’d had that something was troubling him. It was a bit of a relief when he set the skin aside, if only because she knew he was still paying attention to what she said. When he confirmed he was with her, she believed him.

“Two is the lie. We had a dog, but the dog and I did not get along. He belonged to my brother, and was used as an aid in hunting.” The explanation was probably unnecessary, but she offered it freely because she knew, no matter the size of lie or truth about her, it was safe in his care. She took a drink from her own wine skin, but it was no more than a hearty sip. “I believe that makes it your turn – if you can find another lie to tell. This is harder than I imagined it would be.”

"Yet you get along well with horses," he observed. Maybe it was the nature of the dog's purpose, bred for utility rather than companionship, though the same could be said for horses. He personally found them companionable, but he got along well with most living things, animal or human. "I was never very skilled at lying," he admitted, taking another decidedly smaller drink. He was feeling the effects well enough already, but he needed the fortification for what he was going to say next.

"I was raised knowing I would one day be a knight in Arthur's service. I remember the faces of every man I've killed in battle." He hesitated. Perhaps his tone gave him away, but he wasn't sure he could say the next thing in the same voice. Putting words to it was far from pleasant. "The Lady Elaine once used magic to tempt me into her bed."

His observation nearly made her smile, but she reined it in at the last second by pressing her lips together. “Yes, well, horses have a quiet and noble intelligence. Dogs have noxious odors, loud noises, and are sometimes a bit too boisterous. I’ve also seen them get distracted licking themselves.”

In spite of the (truthful) joking, she was fully focused when he started listing his three items for the next round. As he finished, she knew what she wanted to state for the lie, and it wasn’t the last item he offered. Maybe it was his hesitation or his general demeanor. She frowned. “I do not believe you knew you would be in Arthur’s service,” she said softly. “But I do believe you would be extremely upset by Lady Elaine lying to get you into bed. Given your current affect, I think that statement is true.”

"One could say the same for people, if they were determined to be uncharitable." He said it at least half in jest, though his face didn't reflect that. That wasn't usually his perspective, but he wasn't feeling particularly charitable at the moment. He often found the castle too boisterous.

"Last night, to be precise," he confirmed with a small nod, chasing the confession with another drink. "I did know, from the time I was a child. Perhaps not the specifics, but the Lady raised me for it." He didn't usually have trouble with eye contact, but he stared at the floor, the pattern in the rug a little mesmerizing in his current state. "I couldn't see all their faces for their armor, but I remember the first. I remember enough."

The conversation had taken an unintendedly grim turn, but there was no way to flip any of those around into a joke. He decided a straightforward apology would be better suited, and he'd likely apologize tomorrow in more detail for saddling her with his moody company. He raised his head and made an effort to shake off his gloom. "Forgive me for the melancholy turn our game has taken. It is your turn, if you still wish to play."

There was a lot going on in their conversation all of a sudden, a lot to unpack. She watched him with open concern and affection, not flinching when he finally looked up. It didn’t feel like going back to the game would be a possibility, though he offered. She didn’t even bother taking a drink to celebrate being wrong because she was distracted, just watching him.

She shook her head. “I wanted to get at what was bothering you from a different angle than asking outright and the game has served its purpose,” she admitted. “I figured if it didn’t come up, we were at least spending time together and that will never be bad. However, now I know. All I can say is I am here for you as you have been for me so often. We may continue if we wish, or you may air your grievance and I will keep your confidence. I can only hope you will feel relieved of the burden if you do.”

He didn't usually squirm under scrutiny, and he didn't now, but he was finding it suddenly uncomfortable to be the focus of her attention. As soon as he realized it bothered him, he forced himself to raise his head and meet her gaze steadily. He was a lot of things, but not a coward, and he could face her while he spoke about this. As he'd expected, it was easier now that the words were out.

He nodded his agreement about the game running its course. In hindsight, it wasn't looking very fun, but he could admire her cleverness in getting information out of him. "Thank you." He paused, considering those options. He didn't wish to play anymore, but he wasn't sure he wanted to linger on the subject either. "There is little else to say. I was fool enough to fall for her trickery." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind turning back over the previous night. He wasn't sure he wanted to share the exact details of that deception, for an entirely different reason.

There was a good, long internal debate. Neither of them were really the wordiest of people, and the closer they held something to them, the more true those patterns held. While he said there was little else to say, she didn’t entirely believe him. Instead, she believed there was little else he wanted to say. Should she pry? Should she let it come out at a natural pace? Or would he squander this moment, for whatever reason, and then be duty-bound to keep a secret that would eat at him? Even a drink yielded no answers for Guinevere.

“You are, as far as I know you, no fool,” she finally said. It was a bare statement where she could have elaborated indefinitely. “You have every right to be angry at her elaborate scheme, but please don’t fall prey to doubting yourself based on someone else’s actions. You are a good man, and you deserve kind treatment. The only fault here is hers for taking advantage of you.” She took another drink, unprepared for what he might say, but ultimately she had to make the offer. “I do not know if it will help you to unburden yourself, but if that is what you want to try, I am here to listen.”

How strange it was for the situation to be reversed. Usually, it was Lancelot who was trying to coax the words from her without pressuring her overmuch. Of the two, he was more likely to be forthcoming, although it was a somewhat deceptive trait. He made friends easily by sharing just enough, and still kept much of himself to himself. Because the silence had stretched rather painfully, neither of them filling their natural roles, he copied her movement and took another drink. It burned pleasantly at the edges of his feelings, promising to eclipse them given enough time.

"Perhaps I am the biggest fool of all," he murmured absently. Up until the previous night, he'd allowed himself to pretend that his feelings for Guinevere were nothing more than friendly. Perhaps if he'd acknowledged them sooner, he wouldn't have been so quick to fall for Elaine's trickery. He'd wanted it to be true, and it put a chink in his armor large enough to be visible to another. He considered her words with a quiet nod. He didn't know if telling the tale would unburden him either, but now that he'd started, it seemed better to let the poison out. He wasn't the sort of person to fester in his own unhappiness.

"She used magic to show me the face of someone I love. In my willingness to believe it, I doubt I even hesitated a moment." A small, unhappy smile quirked his lips. "Whatever spell she used was gone by morning, and had I stayed, we would likely both be dead for our trouble." Lancelot in a hangman's noose, and Elaine because he could have killed her. He'd managed to kill many people as a knight without thinking himself a violent person, but the memory washing over him afresh clenched his hands into fists. It was best they did not cross paths for a while, though he'd have preferred forever.

Guinevere shook her head, protesting yet again, but she did not give the thought voice. She’d already said she didn’t think him a fool, and yet he still murmured it to himself. He was beating himself up for this and there was little to nothing she could do to ease the pain of self-inflicted wounds.

It was almost a surprise when he spoke again. She hadn’t accepted his nod for what it was, agreement, until he found words. Any easing that happened when he started speaking, though, had disappeared by the time he finished. They spent more time talking, or skirting around, her involvement with Arthur than they did talking of Lancelot’s romantic endeavors. The face of someone I love, was enough to haunt her. Was she that horrible of a friend, of a support? He loved someone and she had no idea whom it was?

And why did that bring up something uncomfortable in her chest, eventually forcing her to swallow hard in order to even consider accepting it?

The good in the situation was the vaguely threatening curl of his hands, for it gave her a distraction as she reached over without thought to slip her hand into his. Though he was a knight, a good one, and had ridden in battle, she saw no reason for him to be tensed and ready for a fight here and now. If her grasp could help him release a bit of the tension, she would gladly provide it, although it felt insufficient.

“I am glad you fled, then. I am sorry she forced you into that situation.” She pressed her lips together, wineskin slid off her lap and largely forgotten for the moment. “How can I help you? For all the help you’ve provided me, I would do anything to make this less grievous for you now.”

Current circumstances aside, Lancelot had no romantic endeavors to speak of. When he was younger, perhaps he had shown less restraint, but it had gradually become clear to him that he had no wish to marry and, if he did, the woman he cared for was already spoken for. Even if Arthur could never truly commit to her, far be it for him to come between Guinevere and her happiness. Also, he'd been denying it as hard as he could to save them all the heartache. That particular wall was in shambles, but he expected he'd be able to build it back up over time when the feelings were no longer so raw.

He was so busy wallowing that he wasn't prepared for the proximity. He startled slightly under her touch and then thought perhaps the wine had worked better than he realized because he wasn't a person who startled easily. "You are helping, my lady. I could ask for little more than drinking, conversation, and good company." He gave her hand a small squeeze in return and then pulled it away on the pretense of reaching for the wineskin. For the first time, her touch sent tiny stabs of pain and regret through him, and he was newly angry at Elaine for ruining that as well.

Guinevere wasn’t perceptive enough, tuned though she was to him in the moment, to notice when he startled. She let him pull away without complaint, but her spirits slipped a bit. She had no idea how to comfort him, or even if he would allow it. It seemed he would only tolerate so much by way of attempt. She didn’t entirely believe his words, but they were all she had.

“Perhaps…” she trailed and reached for the wineskin she’d been drinking from. For reasons she refused to examine too closely, she was about to choke on her next words. She raised the wineskin to her mouth so she could drink as soon as she finished speaking. “Would the one you love be a possibility? Perhaps if the last hands to touch you were genuine, it would lessen the anger here.”

Lancelot didn't entirely believe himself either, but there was no more he would ask from her, even in his slightly drunken state. Far from taking the edge off his emotions, the wine seemed to have only sunk him further into melancholy. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand to impose his brooding on her presence. He could hardly stand his attitude, himself.

He was too preoccupied with his own self-pity to pick up on the subtleties of her mood. Even sober, she was one of few people who managed to conceal much from him if she wished to. "The woman I love is spoken for," he said, a trace of weariness entering his tone. He couldn't quite bear to meet her gaze when he said it, so he contented himself with gazing into the hearth. He wasn't planning to make that declaration, perhaps ever, and certainly not in these circumstances.

She was floundering on decoding his subtleties as well, as he often seemed a mystery. He generally was a man who chose his words carefully. While overall she felt they had that in common to some extent, she was more likely to speak to him without fear of impunity. If there were anywhere she would be free, it would be with him. That thought nearly stopped her completely.

The pang that filled her upon his admission only intensified when he was looking down as he spoke. No matter how close they were, this information was off limits and she didn’t want to push any more than she already had. His explanation made it clear there was nothing to be done about it, either. Rather than focus on the woman and the vague feeling she suspected was something like jealousy, she focused on him. “You of all men deserve to have your love returned, Lance. You are so… good. And not perfect, but so worthy. If she cannot see that and realign her choices, perhaps she is not worthy of you. Of course, my saying so and your accepting it are two different things. I’m sorry you’re in this position. I hate to see you hurt and wish there was something I could do to help.”

Ordinarily, he felt the same. If he had a confidante in Camelot, it was Guinevere, and he trusted her discretion as much as she trusted his. The fact that it wouldn't leave this room was the only reason this conversation had started in the first place. He was regretting that now, a little bit, but only because he'd inadvertently turned the topic to her.

The insane urge to laugh rose up in him when she spoke. She was being kind; he knew that, but she was also speaking about herself without knowing it. He contained it with a wry smile. Even lacking sobriety, he wouldn't do her the disservice of laughing at her kindness. He reached for her hand, clasping it between both of his, and it was easier to meet her gaze now. "Thank you, Guinevere, but you do her a discredit. She does not know of my feelings. But perhaps I will consider telling her, one day."

He gave her hand a light squeeze and pulled away, hauling himself to his feet. He was even mostly steady on them. He'd tortured them both enough for one night. There was no reason to stay and force her to be miserable along with him. "You have helped. Thank you for the wine, and the kind words. I could not ask for a better friend." He hoped she didn't hear as much regret in those words as he did. He could hardly be the person to come between her and Arthur's happiness, even if their king could never promise her anything more. Realizing that he wanted to was like being hit with it for the first time. Perhaps the wine had been a poor decision.

There was something in the hand clasp. Something stirred within her, but aside from noticing it, she couldn’t define or detail it any further. Before she had the chance to really think on it any further, he’d given her a squeeze and then departed anyway.

She wanted to press. She wanted to ask why he hadn’t been more forthcoming with this woman. She wanted to know whom it was. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter, but of all people, Guinevere longed to see Lancelot happy. Even if he couldn’t be happy, he didn’t deserve the misery and anger he was currently feeling. It was easier for her to rise with a modicum of grace, because she’d consumed less. She could feel the dismissal even before he spoke, and more acutely once it was issued. “Well, as your friend, I feel it would be a mistake to leave you before you are even a little cheered.” I don’t think you should be alone right now. She hoped he wouldn’t make her say it. “Perhaps a walk along the shore? And only safe topics when we’re out in something resembling public.”

Even somewhat intoxicated, he could tell that he was leaving her with a pile of questions. He also knew how out of character that was between them. Normally, they would drink and joke and speak freely. He didn't doubt that Guinevere knew more about him than even the knights. He couldn't share this with her, but he suddenly wasn't sure he could continue to keep it from her either. There was a heavy ache in his chest, and he suspected it was at least as much from the deception as it was from Elaine's treachery. He hated that there was a secret between them, hated more that he was the cause of it.

Of course, she couldn't just let him leave with the remaining shreds of his dignity. He would have been reluctant to let her go, had the situation been reversed, but in this case, it wasn't working in his favor. "Are you going to stay by side until dawn, or tomorrow's dawn?" He tried for a smile and couldn't find one. He wasn't sure how long it would take him to feel cheered again, but he was positive he couldn't endure a walk around the lake in this condition. "I cannot," he said gently. He took her hand, pressing a brief kiss to the back of it, and then daring himself to press one to her palm. "I wish things were different." It was the only truth he could give her right now.

Guinevere raised her eyebrows at his question, however gently he asked it. She wanted to protest that she could. Truth be told, she had very little keeping her in Camelot. The mainstays were Arthur, Lancelot, and the more subversive reality she had nowhere else to go. Her home had burned, her father was dead, her brothers were scattered and weren’t likely to care anyway. In some ways, Arthur and Lancelot were all she had. It wasn’t as though that tied her down or forced her to stay, though. She had moments where she wondered if Arthur would truly notice if she left; in reality, the reason she stayed is she knew Lancelot would notice.

“I could,” she protested, a feeble sound she barely recognized as it slid from her lips. He countered it, though, with only two words and a sweet gesture that left a hollow ache behind. It stole her breath, the intimacy a step beyond their usual when he kissed her palm.

She wanted to ask if she could change the things he wanted to be different, but she couldn’t make herself speak over the feeling curling in her chest. She couldn’t even name the feeling, let alone find other words. Her eyes searched him frantically for answers, but other than his mouth on her skin briefly, he yielded nothing. “Lance,” she whispered. “Please. If anything were to happen to you, I…”

She trailed. There was no more horrific thought to her, and not just for herself. She couldn’t bear to give it name.

She was being ridiculous, a silly girl. He was Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table. Arthur’s most ardent and skilled champion. Nothing would happen to him because he was capable of any fight. She stepped back, tears heavy in her eyes that she found herself wanting, but unable, to blame on the wine.

“Very well. I shall go, then. This is your home.”

Lancelot would notice. Whether he willed it or not, he was always aware of her presence in the castle. Life without her there, even as Arthur's, would have been bleak indeed, but he didn't know that leaving was on the table. He'd never imagined she'd want to. He'd come to Camelot to serve Arthur, but perhaps his loyalties had shifted somewhat. If both Arthur and Guinevere were in equal danger, who would he save? He didn't know the answer. Actually, he knew the answer and didn't like it. He told himself he would save her first because she was more in need of protecting and not because he loved her. He didn't deserve either of them.

It shocked and appalled him to see her eyes fill with tears. Guinevere rarely cried. That he'd been the cause of it filled him with self-loathing and a kind of grim resignation. He would have to tell her, but not like this. "Please forgive me. You are the very last person I wished to hurt." It took more self-control than he thought he had to let go of her hand, but when she stepped back, he didn't try to stop her. "I swear to you that no further harm will come to me this night. If the offer stands, I would take that walk with you in the morning, and I will answer any questions that you have."

He took a step back himself, mirroring the action. "I'm sure Arthur is waiting for you." His tone was still gentle even though the words burned. He hoped that he was. He didn't like to think of her alone tonight, but he'd done enough damage with his own presence. He needed time to sober up and decide what to say to her. The truth, obviously, even though she might hate him for it. That would still be better than the hurt he'd seen on her face tonight.

She fixed her gaze on him for as long as she could without blinking, steady and more somber than she wanted. In reality, she was trying to buy time to close her eyes until either she was alone or the water wouldn’t fall. As he apologized for causing her grief, she would not allow one more thing to give rise to guilt within him.

But how to explain he had done nothing to her, at least not directly? She knew he was hurting, and that was the real source of her pain. She hurt because he did, and it was a feeling as overwhelming and confusing as it was tangible and undeniable.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she managed, her voice a little rough for the wear. That she could, and would, blame on the wine if necessary. “I am not upset because of my own hurt.” She bit her lip and dropped her gaze, unwilling to explain any further. His reassurance nothing else would happen to him provided at least a little comfort, even if she knew she was still far from rest. There was too much weighing on her mind and heart at this point. “We may walk in the morning if you wish, and you my choose our topic of discussion but I will have no further questions and wish to intrude no further on your private grievances.”

She swallowed hard against the bitter taste of that particular promise, blinking at last when her eyes burned and her tears would be reabsorbed for want of lubrication. Her vision didn’t clear as he stepped back, following her lead.

“He may very well be,” she confirmed, leaving the rest of her thoughts unspoken. There was no plan for tonight; that is why she’d been free to visit Lancelot. Arthur would generally receive her well, whether there was a plan in place or not, but there would be no spontaneous visit tonight. She already knew too many things weighed on her mind and served as distractions her lover would be likely to question. Even if Arthur were waiting, she would not be going to him.

“I bid you good night, Sir Lancelot,” she finished, more formal than their usual greeting, complete with a bow of her head before she turned to retreat, intent on walking the lake unaccompanied.

#chat: guinevere #ladyxguinevere #gxpendragon #there’s a siren somewhere #broverse

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