#But it wasn’t your warrior’s spirit that drew me to you. It was the delighted trill of your laughter

[untilthen-iremaineveryours]

Kristina Mahr (via facebook)

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Imshael

Chapter 14 of The Love That Grows From Violence (Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is posted!

In which a lot of lore is discussed, including the story from Tevinter Nights that’s narrated by a character named Hollix. A note before we start: Hollix is a master of disguises whose gender identity is non-binary or fluid, but in this fic, I have Dorian calling Hollix ‘she/her’ because that’s what Dorian calls Hollix in the Tevinter Nights story — he gets the impression that Hollix is a ‘she/her’ based on Hollix’s disguises, an impression that Hollix doesn’t correct because they easily and cheerfully slip into either gender identity/role as part of their position as a Lord of Fortune.

~6000 words; read here on AO3 instead.

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“Listen closely now,” Dorian said jauntily. “My story begins with a series of unsolved and rather gruesome murders that had been going on in Minrathous for some time. Rumours had started to circulate that the perpetrator was a creature that came to be called the Cekorax.”

“Cekorax?” Varric asked. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a butchering of the old Tevene word for ‘headsman’,” Dorian said. “The creature earned this charming name because its victims were all found without their heads.”

Tamaris grimaced, and Felassan laughed. “This story is exciting already.”

“Not quite so exciting for those who lost their heads, but I digress,” Dorian said delicately. “No one was doing anything about it, unfortunately, especially since the beast hadn’t attacked any of the altus class yet. So I put out a bounty for the perpetrator’s head, and the person who came to my aid was a wily little thing whom I’ll affectionately call Hollix.”

Tamaris raised an eyebrow. “That you’ll call Hollix? What was their actual name?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he said cheerfully. “I called her Hollix on a whim. She decided to keep the name while she was in Minrathous, and who am I to argue with the adoption of a silly nickname?”

“Fair enough,” Varric said.

“Of course you’d agree,” Dorian said drolly. “In any case, Hollix did some unsavoury investigating for me — for a fair price, of course — and discovered that the creature doing all the killing was…” He sighed. “Frankly, it was a creature of unearthly and uncanny horror. And you know I don’t say this lightly, considering all that we’ve seen together.”

“No kidding,” Tamaris said flatly.

Felassan sat forward and rested his elbows on the table. “What did it look like? This uncanny creature of horror?”

“I can only tell you so much firsthand, as I was high above the action when the creature presented itself,” Dorian said. “But Hollix described it more fully. It was…” He hesitated for a moment before going on. “It was an enormous fleshy mass as large as a house that was able to peel parts of itself away to produce… tentacles. Unbelievably long tentacles bearing human eyes that it had stolen from its victims’ heads.”

Tamaris exchanged a horrified look with Varric. “So it just took the victims’ eyes?” she asked Dorian. 

“Unfortunately, no,” Dorian said. He sounded very serious now. “In the deepest part of this fleshy mass, it was harbouring the heads of all of its victims. Over two dozen heads, Hollix said — all perfectly preserved as though they were still alive. And the monster was… animating the heads. Speaking through their mouths.”

A cold ripple of revulsion ran down the back of Tamaris’s neck. “Oh fuck,” she breathed.

“Shit,” Varric muttered.

Felassan narrowed his eyes. “It was speaking through the heads? Using their mouths to express its own thoughts?”

“Apparently,” Dorian said. “Hollix said it was trying to lure her into joining it. To ‘keep her safe’, it said.”

Felassan leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the table. “So it seemed to have motivations of its own. That’s fascinating.”

Tamaris tilted her head. “Do you know something about this?” 

He grinned. “Are you asking if I’m responsible? That hurts. I’m clever, but I’m hardly diabolical.”

She tsked. “Of course I don’t think you’re responsible. But is it an ancient monster or something like that?”

His smile faded slightly. “I… honestly can’t say.” To Dorian he said, “How did you defeat this creature in the end?”

“An ingenious plan that I regret to admit was not mine,” Dorian said. “The creature had entwined itself in one of the city’s finest public gardens, which happens to be just below my apartment. Hollix cleared the gardens and exploded the fountain with gaatlok so the creature was drenched, and Maevaris and I electrocuted it from the upper balcony of my apartment.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “So wait, you weren’t even in the garden during all this? I thought you said you were involved in the disgustingness.”

“I was involved,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I was in it. Can you imagine?”

Tamaris snorted in amusement. “You’re such a spoiled noble.”

“I do miss your loving insults,” he said. “In actual fact, though, Mae and I had to keep distant so the monster wouldn’t suspect anyone else but Hollix was involved. I do feel sorry for Hollix though, poor thing. The creature popped like an enormous filthy balloon when we zapped it, and she got rather, er, moist in the process. When all was said and done, only the creature’s skin was left behind.”

Varric grimaced. “Like a sausage casing?”

“Ugh,” Dorian said. “That’s what Hollix said. Believe me, you wouldn’t be thinking about food if you’d seen what I had.”

Tamaris looked at Felassan. “So? Does it sound familiar to you?”

He twisted his lips. “Yes and no, actually. It almost sounds like one of Ghilan’nain’s delights, but not completely.”

Tamaris blinked in surprise. What did Ghilan’nain have to do with a horrific murderous monster in Minrathous?

“Ghilan’nain?” Dorian said. “Isn’t that one of the Dalish gods? Er, so to speak.”

“Yes indeed,” Felassan said. He raised his eyebrows at Tamaris. “Would you care to start us off?”

She groaned. “Do I have to?”

He chuckled. “No, you don’t. But it would be informative for everyone.”

“Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. Then she addressed Varric and Dorian’s crystal. “The Dalish say that Ghilan’nain was the mother of halla, and the goddess of navigation and wayfaring. She was actually a mortal who was raised to the status of a goddess thanks to Andruil, who’s the goddess of hunting.” Then she frowned at Felassan. “But in the Temple of Mythal, we found an old inscription that Solas translated. It said that Ghilan’nain created all kinds of creatures, but the creatures ran rampant through the elves’ lands until the Evanuris offered her godhood in exchange for destroying them.” 

Felassan grinned. “Fen’Harel translated that for you?”

“Yes, he did.”

Felassan chuckled. “I can just imagine him screaming on the inside while he read that to you.”

She offered him a slightly bitter smirk, and he folded his arms. “Well, that inscription had the right of it. Like all the Evanuris, Ghilan’nain was a powerful mage, and her favourite hobby was creating new forms of life.” He held up a finger. “Wait, I should be specific: she created new forms of life from ones that already existed, blending and forming them into new creatures that were increasingly spectacular and powerful.”

Tamaris harrumphed. “Until the Evanuris got sick of her shit, it seems.”

Felassan smiled at her. “Blunt as always, avise, but yes. This was before my time, but my understanding is that Andruil became enamoured with Ghilan’nain, who created increasingly insane creatures for Andruil to hunt. Andruil praised her efforts, which spurred Ghilan’nain’s experiments on.” He smirked. “They encouraged each other’s insanity, just as any good couple should.”

Dorian chuckled, and Varric ruefully shook his head. “Very romantic, Jester.”

“I am, aren’t I?” he said. “In any case, Andruil and Ghilan’nain’s… activities eventually drew concern from the other Evanuris, who offered to raise Ghilan’nain to the status of a goddess if she destroyed her more disturbing creatures. By that time, she had already gained a measure of infamy among the people, so it took little propaganda for them to believe she was a goddess like the others.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian said. “Her experimenting didn’t stop just because she became a goddess.”

Felassan widened his eyes in mocking surprise. “How did you know?”

Tamaris folded her arms. “But you don’t really think that this Cekorax could actually be one of Ghilan’nain’s creatures. That would mean it was thousands of years old.”

Varric shrugged. “It’s not impossible, Cuddles. Think about some of the old shit we’ve encountered. Corypheus, the Titan…”

“A certain person in this room,” Felassan said blandly.

Tamaris snorted a laugh, and he winked at her. Then Dorian spoke through the crystal. “Whether this creature is new or old, what was it doing roaming around beneath Minrathous?”

“That is an excellent question,” Felassan said thoughtfully.

“Can you answer it?” Tamaris asked.

He shrugged. “I can try.” To Tamaris and Varric he said, “Recall that I told you about Mythal’s Sentinels, and how the other Evanuris sought warriors who were equally dedicated and fierce?”

“Yeah,” Varric said.

Felassan nodded. “Ghilan’nain’s efforts involved attempts to make hybrid… species that would be good fighters and soldiers. And her experiments didn’t just use non-sentient animals anymore.”

A cold stone of horror dropped into Tamaris’s gut. “She started experimenting on slaves?”

“Yes,” Felassan said. His manner was completely serious now, without a hint of levity. “From what we gathered at the time, she wanted her… creations to have some level of sentience, but not so much that they would try to rebel. Which is why I wonder if this Cekorax wasn’t just a simple monster, but a monster possessed by a spirit, since it sounds like it had more… motivation than Ghilan’nain’s surviving creatures had.”

Varric sighed and rubbed his chin. “A possessed monster? As if a regular monster wasn’t bad enough.”

Felassan didn’t reply, and Tamaris looked at him; he had an oddly absent-looking half-smile on his face.

“What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He met her eye, then let out a little laugh and shook his head. “Oh, nothing. Just an idle thought, really.”

She narrowed her eyes, but Dorian spoke before she could press Felassan further. “This still doesn't explain why one of Ghilan’nain’s creatures might be roaming around beneath Minrathous now.”

Felassan sobered once more. “Ghilan’nain had multiple hidden… laboratories, for lack of a better word, where she was creating her so-called soldiers. I don’t know where they were located as her activities weren’t my particular area of focus, but if one of Ghilan’nain’s laboratories was recently… activated, or disturbed, then it’s possible that this Cekorax broke free.”

Dorian sighed. “The murders started shortly after some surviving Venatori opened an underground cavern of some kind.” 

Felassan grimaced. “That could explain it. You should probably look into where that cavern was, in case you start getting more lovely visitors from the deepest pits of Ghilan’nain’s twisted imagination.”

Dorian tsked. “Fasta vass. Of course. We’ll look into that.”

“Felassan,” Tamaris said. 

“Yes, avise?” he said pleasantly.

She frowned slightly. “You mentioned that you thought the Cekorax was possessed by a powerful spirit.”

“I did, yes.”

“Do you know the spirit that might have been possessing it?”

A slow smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Why do you say that?”

“Why are you dodging?” she said quietly. 

His smile faded. “Force of habit,” he said ruefully. “I apologize. I did wonder if the spirit might be one that I was acquainted with in the past.” He smirked and rubbed his chin. “Possessing a many-headed and many-eyed monster that can shape itself at will would be in keeping with this particular spirit.”

“What spirit?” Tamaris asked.

“It called itself the Formless One,” he said. “As you can probably guess, it didn’t have any particular shape that it preferred, nor a name to go by.”

“A name?” Dorian said in surprise. “Spirits have names?”

“If they want one, certainly,” Felassan said. “Though many of them are boring and keep the name of the virtues they embody.” His tone was bland once more, and Tamaris shot him a chiding smirk; he was clearly taking a jab at Solas.

Dorian’s voice was keen with curiosity through the sending crystal. “What are some of the spirit names you’ve known?” 

Felassan casually laced his fingers behind his head. “There was an amusing group of spirits who were banished from Elvhenan long before I was born. Or were supposed to have been, at least,” he added with a smirk. “The Formless One was one of them, though it obviously didn’t have a name. Gaxkang was one, and Imshael was another—” 

Tamaris straightened in surprise, and Varric interrupted. “Imshael?” he said.

Felassan’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “Don’t tell me you met him.”

Varric and Tamaris stared incredulously at him, and Dorian answered. “We didn’t just meet him. We killed him.”

Felassan’s face slackened with surprise. Then he laughed. “You’re kidding. Well, now you have to tell me how that happened.”

They told Felassan how they’d met Ser Michel de Chevin during their travels to Emprise du Lion, and how Michel had asked for their help defeating Imshael at Suledin Keep. When they described how Imshael had been directing and guiding the growth of red lyrium in the Red Templars and peasants in the quarry, Felassan laughed and tugged his ear.

“Well, I suppose I did tell him to have fun,” he said dryly. “Not the sort of fun I would have chosen, but…”

Tamaris recoiled slightly at his flippant reaction. “Were you friends with Imshael?” she asked.

“More like long-time acquaintances who made deals sometimes,” he said. “He was supposed to have been banished from our lands along with the others I mentioned, but he, er, stuck around.”

His tone was curled with mischief. She eyed him shrewdly. “Did Solas know you made deals with a spirit who was supposed to be banished?”

“He knew, but... unofficially,” Felassan said.

“Why unofficially?”

“Because Mythal didn’t know,” Felassan said slyly. “She was one of the Evanuris who banished him, you see.”

He was grinning now. Tamaris frowned more deeply. “How is this funny?”

“It’s not, actually,” he said. “Not at all. Can I ask if Fen’Harel was present when you met Imshael?”

Varric nodded. “Yeah, Chuckles was there.”

“And he didn’t say anything?” Felassan said. “Any… recognition or anything?”

“Not a fucking word,” Tamaris said bitterly.

Felassan let out a snort of laughter. “I bet he was fuming on the inside. If I wasn’t already out of the picture, he probably would have skinned me.” He snorted again and rubbed his mouth, then suddenly burst into laughter.

Tamaris’s heart clenched; the quality of his laughter was wild and uncontrolled. She took his hand and squeezed it. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Just breathe.”

Another blast of laughter left his lungs. Tamaris stroked his arm with her metal fingers. “Look at me, brat,” she said softly. 

He wheezed as he met her eye, and Tamaris nodded encouragingly. A few breaths later, he was calm again.

She squeezed his hand before releasing it. “Why did you say Solas would skin you?” she asked.

“Because it’s my fault Imshael was free to run a red lyrium farm in Emprise du Lion,” Felassan said. “And whatever shortcomings the Dread Wolf has, he does not like red lyrium.”

“No one in their right mind does,” Varric said flatly.

Tamaris frowned. “What do you mean, it was your fault Imshael was free?”

He looked at her, and her belly jolted; for a split second, an odd flash of wistfulness had crossed his face before his usual pleasant half-smile returned. “Imshael had been summoned and bound by a Dalish clan,” he said. “My… lack of involvement, shall we say, led to him being set free.”

Her gut twisted with apprehension. A Dalish clan?

Dorian’s words echoed her thoughts. “You were with a Dalish clan?” he asked.

“For a very brief time, when I was travelling with Briala and the others,” Felassan said. His tone was light and pleasant, but he was still gazing steadily at Tamaris, and there was something about the neutrality of his expression that she didn’t like. 

Then Dorian spoke in a peevish tone. “I beg your pardon, but what in Andraste’s sacred underthings are you talking about? I’m feeling terribly left out.”

Felassan finally looked away from her to face the crystal. “I travelled for a time with Celene, Briala, and the illustrious Michel prior to the Orlesian civil war breaking out in earnest,” he said. “At one point during our travels, we were hosted by a Dalish clan.”

“Hosted?” Dorian said. “The Dalish hosted Celene and Michel?”

Varric spoke up. “I didn’t think Dalish hospitality extended to humans. No offense, Cuddles.”

She didn’t reply; she was too focused on Felassan, who was now wearing a little smile that somehow made his face look empty.

Felassan shrugged. “Well, they tied Michel up and beat him, and they kept Celene under guard. Does that count as hospitality?” 

Tamaris’s gut twisted. Something awful had just occurred to her. “Felassan, what happened to the Dalish clan after Imshael was freed?” she said quietly. 

His eyes returned to her face. “Imshael killed them all.”

A jolt of shock stabbed her in the gut. She stared at him for a second before finding her tongue. “Imshael killed them?” she said weakly. “The… the whole clan?”

“All but one, yes,” Felassan said. He was still wearing that empty little smile, and he sounded so casual, and it… it didn’t add up. 

“Wait,” she said. “He…” She trailed off; her heart was thrumming now, and it was making it hard for her to breathe. She forced herself to inhale. “Imshael went after the clan because you let him go free?”

“Yes,” Felassan said.

She dragged in another breath. “Did you know that Imshael would attack the clan?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he said. 

He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked so serious now — no, not just serious. He looked…

Her heart twisted. He looked wolfish, somehow. Dangerous. This wasn’t the Felassan she knew. 

She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “So you… you purposely let a demon go free, knowing it would kill an entire Dalish clan.”

“Yes, Tamaris,” he said. “I did.”

She stared at him in shock. His face was so forbidding and his voice was uncharacteristically hard, and … and he’d purposely given a demon free reign to kill a Dalish clan. 

She hadn’t known. She hadn’t known about this. He hadn’t told her about this, for obvious reasons — he’d gotten a Dalish clan killed, for fuck’s sake, so of course he hadn’t told her. But if he hadn’t told her this, what else was he hiding from her? What other ugly secrets was he keeping? 

Nauseous with horror, she gazed into his violet eyes — his beautiful violet eyes that were usually full of warmth and humour, and that she’d been growing to trust more and more with every passing day. 

Beautiful violet eyes that were probably hiding all kinds of deeds that Tamaris knew nothing about. 

She rose from her chair, and his hard expression cracked. “Tamaris,” he said.

She shook her head and took a step back from the table. Felassan stood up and reached for her hand. “Tamaris, don’t—”

She whipped her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled. She turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.

She went straight to her room and shoved open the window, then climbed up to the roof and started pacing. Her heart was pounding in her chest and behind her eyes, and her fingers shook as she dragged them through her hair.

Felassan had gotten a Dalish clan killed. He had purposely let a demon run rampant and kill an entire clan, and he hadn’t told her. They’d been living here for weeks and he hadn’t… she had no idea.

She was so stupid. She was so fucking stupid to have thought she could trust him. He was thousands of years old and she’d only known him for three weeks, and — she knew basically nothing about him. How could she have thought she could trust him at all? 

It’s Solas all over again, she thought. Once again, she’d been lulled into a false sense of safety with a compelling older man, and once again, he’d betrayed her trust. 

Her ribs felt like they were swelling with misery. She sat down abruptly and leaned back against the chimney, and for some uncounted time she just sat there ruminating on her own idiocy. 

Eventually, she heard the distinctive soft shuffle of bare feet joining her on the roof. She clenched her jaw and looked away, but Felassan sat beside her anyway.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

His voice was back to its usual warmth, but this only made her feel worse. She shot him a venomous look. “Don’t act like you know everything about me. You’ve only known me for a couple of weeks.”

He elegantly lifted an eyebrow. “Can I speak without you biting my head off?”

“Why should I let you?” she snapped. “So you can talk circles around me?”

His eyes narrowed. “I have never done that to you and you know it.”

A pang of remorse penetrated her anger, and it was enough to make her relent. She shrugged and looked away from him. “Fine. Talk.”

“As I said, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking that I’ve withheld this terrible tale from you, and that if I was hiding this, there must be an entire thaig’s worth of villainous secrets that I’m keeping from you. I am extremely old, after all. There must be hundreds of skeletons in my proverbial closet that you don’t know about, so how can you possibly trust me?”

His tone was annoyingly playful, but what really rankled her that he was right. “Look at you, using your spy skills to figure me out,” she said snidely. 

“I am only using the information that you told me yourself,” he said. “I know you’re on alert for reasons to cast me aside. I am not going to give you any.”

A sudden throb of pain in her chest took her by surprise. She swallowed hard and lifted her burning eyes to the sky as Felassan continued to speak. “I was not purposely hiding this from you. If the topic had come up before, I would have told you.” He lowered his voice. “And I think you know that.”

Fuck, her lips were trembling. She looked away from him and didn’t speak, and Felassan was silent as well. 

When Tamaris was able to control her face once more, she shot him a hard look. “Tell me why you let that clan get killed.”

His shoulders loosened slightly. “The practical reason is that Imshael had something I needed: a keystone to unlock the eluvians. Setting him free gave us access to the keystone, which ultimately ended up in Briala’s possession.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she said coldly.

“I do know what you mean,” he said calmly. “The real truth is this: I could have gotten that keystone in other ways. I knew Imshael, and I knew how his mind worked. But I wanted that clan to suffer.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What the fuck did they ever do to you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “They did nothing to me, and there was nothing they could have done to harm me.” He paused and clenched his jaw, and her gut twisted; his expression was hardening again in a way that she didn’t like. 

“It was the way they treated Briala,” he said. “Briala had been supplying information to that clan for years through me. She’d pinned her hopes and dreams on them, and do you know what they said to her when they finally met her?”

“What?” Tamaris said faintly.

“They called her a flat-ear and said that she was not their people,” Felassan said.

For a moment, Tamaris stopped breathing. That was what Abelas had said to her at the Temple of Mythal, and she still remembered the way his disdain seemed to stab her straight in the heart.

Felassan went on. “Their Keeper, Thelhen…” He curled his lip in disgust. “It wasn’t that he was blind to the plight of the alienages. He knew what they suffered, and he didn’t care. He was no better than the human nobles that beat and killed city elves for looking at them the wrong way. He knew the problems that city elves faced, and he chose to do nothing, claiming that they were not his people.”

His voice was growing angrier by the second, and Tamaris held up a hand in surrender. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay, I… I hear what you’re saying.”

He took a deep breath and nodded, then leaned his head back against the chimney, and for a moment they were both silent. 

For once, Tamaris broke the silence. “Was that the only clan you ever had dealings with?” 

“No,” he said. “But I had dealings with Clan Virnehn for as many years as I have known Briala. No matter how many times I told them that a city elf was the one to thank for their knowledge of Orlais and how to avoid the shemlen troubles that plagued the country, they still refused to accept her as their own.”

“I hear you,” she said gently. “Honestly, I do. And that’s… it’s fucking awful, and I’m sorry Briala had such a shitty experience with the first Dalish clan she finally had a chance to meet. But do you really think that’s enough reason to let the entire clan get killed?”

He exhaled heavily. “Tamaris…”

She pushed on ruthlessly. “What about the kids in that clan? There had to be kids. Did they deserve to die because their Keeper was a piece of shit?”

“You don’t understand,” he burst out.

“What don’t I understand?” she asked. 

“The…” He dragged his hand over his hair and glared at her. “The frustration of living through the same short-sighted stupidity from thousands of years ago. The fact that our people are still so divisive and blind. You can’t understand how frustrating it is to wake up thousands of years later to realize that the worst attitudes of my time were one of the things that survived.”

“You can’t judge all of the Dalish based on that one clan’s attitudes,” she said firmly. “That’s you and Solas’s biggest problem. You’re judging all of us based on just a few.”

He let out a rather tired-sounding laugh. “This kind of sparkling optimism is a strange look on you.” 

She couldn’t tell if he was complimenting her or insulting her, but it didn’t matter right now. She shifted a little closer to him. “My clan isn’t like that, Felassan.”

“You’ve said that before,” he said. “You told me you take in city elves who run away from the alienages.”

“Yes, we do,” she said.

“And the elves who can’t run away?” he said. “Those who are stuck in the alienages with no means of escape? You told me you knew of the massacre of Halamshiral’s alienage. What did you do about it?”

His tone was calm but piercing somehow, like he was trying to dig beneath her skin with his pointed words, and Tamaris forced herself to reply just as calmly. “Me personally?” she said. “Nothing. By the time I heard about it, it had happened six months before and I was travelling to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to spy on the Conclave.”

“And once you became the Inquisitor?” he said. “Once you had power? What did you do then to help your brothers and sisters in the alienages?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I allowed the Empress of Orlais to be murdered in order to make a city elf the real power behind the throne,” she said quietly. “Or have you forgotten that already?”

His eyebrows rose. After a brief pause, he smiled and bowed his head to her. “Fair enough, avise.”

She relaxed slightly. “I can’t speak to that clan you ran into,” she said. “And… fine, all right, I’ve known some people from other clans who… who feel like we don’t owe anything to the city elves.” She scowled at him. “But Clan Lavellan is not like that, okay? I’m not bullshitting you. We don’t look down on city elves that way. My clan purposely went into Wycome to protect the city elves, for fuck’s sake.”

He looked at her in surprise. “They did?”

“Yes,” she said. “This was a couple years ago. The Duke of Wycome was involved with some Venatori, and they were trying to frame the elves for red lyrium getting into the water supply. The humans tried to burn the alienage down, and my clan interfered to help the city elves fight back. After the Duke was killed, my clan stayed in Wycome to support the city elves, and my Keeper and a city elf got sworn in on the city council along with some human merchants to run Wycome. A third of the clan is still there.”

He nodded slowly. “And the rest?”

“They didn’t want to stay in the city,” she said. “Most of us prefer the woods. But a number of city elves wanted to leave the city with them, and guess what? My clan adopted them.”

He gazed at her appraisingly and didn’t speak, and she gave him a pointed look. “What, nothing to say? That’s new for you.”

“It is, yes,” he said. “It’s an interesting change. It’s not often I’m struck speechless.”

“You do talk a hell of a lot,” she said.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he retorted.

She scoffed, then realized she wasn’t feeling angry anymore. And then she felt weird about the fact that she wasn’t angry.

He tilted his head. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t… really know,” she said slowly. She was feeling oddly at a loss, and she couldn’t say why.

He gave her a slow smile. “You’re not used to winning arguments about the virtues of the Dalish, are you?”

She lifted her chin. “So you admit that I’ve won.”

He chuckled and flicked her knee. “Yes, avise, you’ve won. You can gloat if you like.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she studied him thoughtfully. “You really care, don’t you? About the elves of this time. The city elves especially.”

“Why wouldn’t I care about them?” he said.

She didn’t reply right away, but instead continued to study him. The more she thought about it, the more she understood where his attitude about present-day elves came from. Felassan might wear vallaslin and know things about the elvhen gods, but his origins as Andruil’s slave gave him far more in common with city elves than the Dalish. 

A little pang squeezed her heart. That was why he cared about the city elves and their suffering. He’d essentially been one of them, back in the times of ancient Elvhenan.

He lifted one eyebrow quizzically, so Tamaris replied. “Solas didn’t care about the city elves,” she said. “Not like you do.”

Felassan sighed. “I suspect the issue is more that he couldn’t care. He couldn’t afford to. With all that guilt hanging over his head? He couldn’t afford to carry any more by caring about anyone else that he couldn’t save. It would crush him.” He suddenly grinned at her. “I imagine he must have been furious with himself when he realized he was in love with you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You think that makes it okay that he… how he treated me?”

“No,” Felassan said. “Not by any means. A stronger man would have distanced himself from you.”

She huffed, then shrugged. “He tried to. Sort of.”

Felassan shot her a half-smile. “Meaning what exactly?”

“He warned me more than once that getting involved with him was a bad idea,” she admitted. “I guess I… I should have listened.” She scowled. “But he was saying one thing and acting a different way… fucking Solas.”

Felassan smiled to himself, and Tamaris shot him an exasperated look. “What’s so funny now?”

His smile widened. “If I tell you, you’ll say I’m full of shit.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” she said.

He huffed a little laugh and shook his head, then looked her in the eye. “Fine. I say a stronger man would have distanced himself from you. But it would require the strength of Titans to resist your brassy charms.”

She stared at him. Then she started laughing. “You are completely full of shit.”

He placed one hand on his chest and bowed his head politely. “Acknowledged and accepted.”

She smiled at him, then chuckled and shook her head before taking a joint out of her breast pocket. She lit the joint and took a drag, then offered it to Felassan.

He accepted it with a nod and lifted it to his lips, and as she often did, Tamaris appreciatively watched his lips as he drew from the joint and released the smoke into the air. 

He took another drag and blew a perfect series of smoke rings before offering back the joint, and she carefully took it from his fingers. “You know,” she said, “for someone that he tried to kill, you sure spend a lot of time trying to make me forgive him.”

“That’s not my intention,” Felassan said. “I told you before: I’m not defending him, only explaining him. Know your enemy, blah blah and so on.” He shrugged casually. “Besides, there is only so far that sheer anger can take you. An adversary as unexpected and subtle as Fen’Harel can be requires an approach that’s equally unexpected and subtle.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What approach is that?”

He gave her a fond look that made her heart flip. “This is one thing I won’t tell you,” he said. “Think about it, avise. You’ll figure it out on your own.”

She harrumphed, but with no real ire. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” She took a drag from the joint.

He gently took the joint from her fingers. “I will say this: of everyone who is working against him, you stand in a unique position. You are someone who knows Fen’Harel, loved him, and still wants to defy him. You may be the single most dangerous person to him in all of Thedas.”

She shot him a sharp look. “Is that really what you think?”

“Of course,” he said. “I always tell the truth. To you, at least,” he added with a smirk.

“Then you’re just as dangerous,” she said firmly. “You know him and loved him, and you’re defying him too. You’re just as dangerous as me.”

He raised his eyebrows, then brought the joint to his lips. “How about that? What a team we make. The woman who dances with fire and the slow arrow.”

Her heart did a little squeeze. He’d called himself a slow arrow, not a broken one. 

She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her. Then she reached up and plucked the joint from his lips. “I still think you’re a fucking asshole for letting a demon loose to kill that clan.”

“I know you do,” he said. “And I’m not asking your forgiveness. But I will ask you to recognize that I did not lie about this to you.”

She eyed him appraisingly for a moment, then nodded. “I know. And… I do appreciate that.”

They smoked together quietly for a moment, and the silence between them stretched like warm taffy. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the joint met his lips and moved away to let the smoke bleed from his perfectly sculpted mouth.

She had no reason to trust Felassan. There were thousands of years’ worth of heinous things he could have done and hadn’t told her about. But he had been honest with her about his reasons for doing this one heinous thing. He hadn’t tried to sugarcoat anything, and he hadn’t tried to prevaricate. He’d even followed her to the roof in order to tell her the truth, knowing full well that she wouldn’t like it. 

He offered her the joint once more, and she took it. But instead of bringing it to her lips, she leaned into his side and rested her head on his shoulder. 

He shifted slightly so her head was tucked more snugly against his neck. When he turned his head to speak to her, his words wafted over her forehead in a soft murmur. “You walked away from me.” 

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It gave me an excuse to watch you walking away.”

She snorted a laugh. “You’re such a fucking rogue.”

He chuckled and took the joint from her fingers, and for a time they simply sat pressed together on the roof with her head tucked against his neck. The longer she sat there savouring the steady warmth of Felassan’s neck against her temple, the more she realized how strange it was to feel this relaxed and at ease after a fight. How strange it was to feel so… resolved.

“Any particular thoughts on your mind?” he said.

His voice was low and warm, and it was just as comforting as the warmth of his neck. She shrugged and nibbled the inside of her cheek as she considered her reply. She was having plenty of thoughts, thoughts about Felassan’s mischievous smirk and his righteous anger and how patient he was with her, even though she’d walked away. 

She was having thoughts, all right. But nothing that she was ready to say out loud just yet. 

“Not really,” she said. “I’m just… content.”

“Ah, contentment: my favourite,” he said. “It really is an underrated feeling, you know.”

“You said that before,” she said drolly. But in the privacy of her heart, she knew what she was really feeling.

Athdhea’lath, she thought: the precursor to love. A feeling which Felassan had openly admitted to having, and which he was so carefully fostering in the closely guarded garden of Tamaris’s heart.

A little jolt of nerves plucked at her gut, but she took it in stride. She drew from the joint once more, then exhaled and closed her eyes. She breathed in the scents of herbal smoke and Felassan’s skin, and she enjoyed the feeling of being… content.

[woodelf68]

Young, But Growing

Belated fill for @sifkiweek2020‘s week four prompt “fluff”. With thanks to @otterskin, for furry-faced inspiration. (Note: Sif and Loki are around 13-14 Midgardian years old here.)  On AO3 | Moodboard

----- 

Odin waited until everyone was nearly finished with their breakfasts before addressing his eldest son.

“Thor, you’ll be with me this morning.”

Thor paused with a sausage halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“I spoke to your tutor yesterday, and he felt, and I agree, that you would benefit from some more hands-on instruction in the act of government.”

“But – “ Thor looked at Loki helplessly, then back at their father. “Loki and I were going to go riding to the lake today.”

“The lake will still be there another day.”

“What about me, Father?” Loki looked interested. “Will you want me, too?”

Odin smiled at his youngest. “Your tutor assured me you have an excellent grasp of the topics you’re covering without the need for any extra help.”

Thor scowled, predictably, but Odin was surprised to see Loki’s face fall in disappointment instead of looking pleased by the praise. “What is it, Loki? Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” Loki did his best to smooth out his expression, but then, spurred by the fact that his father had actually both noticed and asked, impulsively continued. “It’s just that it’s funny that Thor does poorly and he gets to spend more time with you; while I do well and I do not.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “As I said, it’s no matter.”

Odin looked at him silently for a minute. It hadn’t escaped his notice that his boys were growing up – Thor’s latest growth spurt had put him on eye level with Odin himself, and Loki wasn’t far behind, all slim long limbs with the promise of future height – and that perhaps he ought to take advantage of Loki still being young enough to want to spend time with him.

Loki fidgeted under the scrutiny. “Really, it – “

“If you would care for a lesson in battle tactics,” Odin said, interrupting him. “Then I will be available for a game of hnefetafl after dinner.”

Loki’s face lit up so brilliantly that Odin couldn’t hide his own answering smile in his beard.

“I would like that.” Loki beamed at him. “Thank you, Father.”

“And don’t worry,” Odin added affectionately. “You’ll get your turn at learning the very boring daily duties involved in running Asgard one day, too.” His tone turned dry.  “There are more than enough to go around, Norns know.”

Frigga laughed. “So what are your new plans for the day, Loki?” she asked, feeling a surge of fondness towards her husband.

“Might still go riding, I suppose. Take a book and find a nice spot to read.” He looked at Thor, who still looked put out. “You can tell me about your day later, Thor; you might get to do something interesting.”

“All right.” Thor perked up. “I suppose it’ll be better than books and lectures if I get to actually do something.”

—

Loki exited the palace a short while later, a book and a few provisions for lunch stowed safely away in his interdimensional pocket. It was a bit of magic that he’d only recently mastered and was still thrilled with. He saw Sif sitting on a low stone wall, idly drumming her heels and keeping an eye on everyone exiting the palace. As soon as she saw him she jumped down, smiling.

“Loki!” When no one emerged from the palace behind him, her brows drew down, puzzled. “Where’s Thor?”

“Father kept him behind this morning. Apparently our tutor had some words to say about Thor’s less than exemplary classroom performance and Father is going to try to drum some lessons into Thor’s thick skull via a different approach.”

“Oh. Well, where are you going? Do you want to spar?”

“No, I do not. I’m going for a ride.”

Sif fell into step beside him as he continued walking in the direction of the stables, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Can I come?”

Loki considered. “I don’t see why not.”

They made their way to the stables and proceeded to tack up their horses. Thor’s stallion drummed his hooves against his stall door, demanding attention, and Loki consoled him for being left behind by offering an apple from the barrel that was kept to provide treats for the horses. Drawn by the commotion, Sleipnir gave a bugling neigh from further along the aisle to remind Loki that he, too, existed and Loki fetched an apple for him as well. “Yes, hello,” Loki said affectionately, scratching the thickly muscled grey neck as the apple was lifted gently from his palm.  Sleipnir munched it happily, ears pricked forward, watching Loki out of one brown eye.  “You’d like to come along, wouldn’t you? Thor and I will have to get Father to come riding with us one day.“ One of Loki’s earliest memories was of being lifted up atop Sleipnir into his father’s waiting arms, and how the ground had looked so very far away. But his father had been a steady, solid presence behind him in the saddle, one arm securely wrapped around Loki’s waist, and Loki had been nothing but thrilled with how high up he was.  He smiled and gave Sleipnir a final pat before returning to his own bright chestnut mare, who was as quick and spirited as her eight-legged sire, even if she only had the usual number of legs. He led her to the entrance of the stables, where Sif was waiting with her black, and they both swung up into the saddles to the accompaniment of creaking leather and jingling harness.

“Where to?” she asked.

“Thor and I were going to go to the lake,” Loki said. It was a beautiful day, a fresh, cool breeze stirring the manes and tails of the horses and keeping the sun from being overwarm.  He had thought about staying closer to home, but with a companion along, the longer ride appealed again.

“Sounds good to me.” Sif touched her heels to her horse’s sides, and her mare stepped smartly out into the yard.

Loki followed suit, moving easily with his horse as they rode out into the city’s streets side by side. As they passed through the already busy market square, people moved out of their way, some half-bowing or inclining their heads respectfully to Loki as they rode by. He straightened his spine that tiny bit more, his shoulders going back and his chin lifting, secretly pleased by the fact that he knew they were for him this time and not just for Thor, his usual riding companion, or either of their parents. He nodded back occasionally in acknowledgement, and when a small girl, the daughter of a bookseller he frequented, hailed him by name, he smiled and sent a tiny green pegasus winging her way, her expression one of utter delight as it landed on her outstretched hand briefly before dissolving into sparkles. He was in a good mood when they emerged out into the countryside beyond the capital.

"Care for a run?” he asked Sif. His mare was prancing under him and champing at her bit, clearly eager to stretch her legs.

“Always!” Sif grinned.

Together they sent their horses into a smooth, ground-eating canter over the fields, eventually slowing down to a trot and then a walk as they rode uphill into dappled woodland shade, Sif falling back behind Loki as the trail narrowed too much to ride two abreast. It was cool, and it was peaceful, and Loki appreciated that Sif hadn’t felt the need to fill the silence with constant talking as Thor usually did. Finally they emerged into a broad clearing, the sun shining full upon them again, and Loki grinned as he saw it sparkling on the lake up ahead.

“We’re here,” he announced needlessly, turning to look back at her.

“I haven’t been up here in ages. This was a good idea. Perfect day for it, too. Maybe a bit cool for swimming, but we can catch some fish and gather berries for lunch.”

“Do you have a fish hook? Or line?”

“No, of course not; I didn’t know we were coming out here. Don’t you?”

“I brought a loaf of bread and some cider; I wasn’t planning on going fishing.”

“Well, we can use spears,” said Sif negligibly.

Loki made a non-committal noise. “Mm.” He made for the shade of a broad tree near the lake, where they dismounted and let their horses drink before untacking and rubbing them down and then leaving them in hobbles to graze to their hearts’ content. Finally Loki and Sif slaked their own thirst on the cold, fresh water. “Are you sure you want to wade into that to fish?“ he asked dubiously. "I’m willing to share my bread and we can gather berries, as you said.”

Sif hesitated, then shook her head stubbornly. “It’s the principle of the thing. No point in coming to a lake just to look at it. Unless you want to go swimming or build a raft – “ They had done that one year, she and Thor and Loki, labourously felling young trees and cutting them to length before tying them together tightly with rope, rejoicing when they had finally made a water-worthy craft, spending days happily paddling around the lake on it. She had always had a hook and line in her belt pouch back then. “Then I intend to fish. And warriors of Asgard are not afraid of a little cold water,” she declared stoutly.

“Suit yourself. I brought a book.” He settled himself comfortably at the base of a tree, face shaded but legs stretched out into the sun, and drew forth his book to read.

Sif gave a huff of exasperation and went to find a suitable branch to whittle down into a fishing spear. Finding one that would do, she sat down on a large rock near Loki and began the pleasurable work of peeling the bark off in long strips, watching it curve away from her knife. She began to sing a somewhat suggestive song that she had picked up from the older warriors in the barracks.

“Do you mind?” asked Loki. “I’m trying to read.”

“Read to me, then,” said Sif, angling her knife down the long branch and shaping it into a smooth pole, just the right width to fit comfortably in her grip, Prongs would give her a better chance of catching the smaller fish more likely to be in the shallows of the lake, but she only had a short length of leather thong in her belt pouch, not enough to securely lash the wood above the prongs to prevent it from splitting further up. She made a mental note to add some twine to her pouch and began to carve a simple barb instead. "Unless it’s something on magic I wouldn’t understand.”

“No, it’s on the folklore of Vanaheim. All right, I’d just started a new story; let me go back a bit.” He began to read out loud, of a tinker who was forced, when his cartwheel broke just as dark was falling, to spend the night in a wood known to be haunted by the ghost of a thief who had been hanged for his crimes. Sure enough, the ghost soon appeared, bearing the remains of a noose around his neck and shackles on his wrists, and offered the tinker a deal. If the tinker could remove the ghost’s bonds before the setting of the moon, he would be given the gold that had been hidden and never recovered. If he tried and failed, however, the tinker would forfeit his life. Loki paused for dramatic effect and saw that Sif had stopped whittling and was leaning forward with flattering interest, wholly absorbed in the story.

“Would it be honourable to keep stolen gold?” she asked doubtfully.

“If he didn’t know who it had belonged to,” said Loki thoughtfully, “I think he would be justified in keeping it. And – gold means the victims were probably well-off. The tinker could probably make better use of the money than whoever it had originally been stolen from – if they were even still alive.”

“Fair points,” said Sif. “All right, go on.”

“The tinker agreed,” Loki continued, “And fetched a knife and file from his cart. But they passed through the bonds as if through smoke, without leaving any mark. The moon sank lower and lower towards the trees, and the ghost gave a harsh growl. "You fail as all the others failed, and your bones shall join theirs. Live tools can’t cut a ghost.”“

Sif’s eyes dropped to her own knife, and she absentmindedly carved another couple of shavings away from the barb before abandoning it once again.

"The moon touched the edge of the horizon. Through his fear, the ghost’s words stirred an idea in the tinker’s mind, and he glanced around wildly, seeing the flash of white in the moonlight. Seizing some poor soul’s thigh bone, the tinker brought it down with all his strength on his tools, shattering them into pieces. And there, amongst the broken shards of metal, glowed the ghosts of his tools. He picked them up; the noose parted swiftly under the ghostly blade of his knife, and with six strokes of ghostly file, the shackles fell to the ground just as both moon and ghost disappeared from sight. In the ghost’s place, a bag of gold sat on the ground.”

Sif sat back with satisfaction. “That was a good story, and a clever idea. I liked it. But I question whether tools can have ghosts. Surely our fathers have seen many shattered weapons in battle, and what is a weapon but a tool? Yet I have never heard any tales of ghostly weapons.”

“Perhaps they have to be shattered deliberately?” Loki hazarded. “There is some small magic involved in all smithing; I would not discount it entirely without testing it.” Surely he could find some old nicked weapon in the armoury that would not be too great a loss to sacrifice in the pursuit of knowledge? “And would one notice a ghost of a shattered weapon in the midst of battle? It would serve no purpose against a live enemy, after all, if the logic of the tale holds.”

“Hm.” Sif finished up the back-pointing barb near the end of her spear, thinking. She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea of shattered weapons yielding ghostly versions of themselves or not. But… “You’re going to test it out, aren’t you?”

“I think I should; we might need to fight an undead foe one day against whom regular weapons won’t work. In fact, I would say that it is my duty, as a prince of Asgard, to learn everything possible which might help me defend her one day,” he said virtuously. “Although I don’t think we can duplicate the conditions exactly. The knife might need to be of Vanir make, and I certainly don’t have the thigh bone of a murdered man. But we’ll start with the basics. Shatter one Asgardian knife, look for its ghost. Do you want to be there?”

“Yes, of course. And what about Thor? He can smash it with his hammer.“ She sharpened the point of her spear a little bit more and tested it against her finger. "What do you think?” she asked, holding it up.

“It looks adequate,” Loki admitted, now half-wishing he had made one for himself. And Thor was a good idea; he didn’t know how hard it would be to shatter Asgardian steel but surely Mjölnir could do it.

“Thank you for your high words of praise,” said Sif gravely, jumping to her feet, and Loki laughed. “Now let’s see if I can catch anything with it.”

Loki put his book away, interested despite himself, and followed her down to the water’s edge. She stripped off her boots and socks, and rolled her breeches up as high as she could before stepping into the shallows of the lake.

“Fuck,” Sif swore, as the cold clamped down on her legs.

Loki snorted and grinned.  Ah yes, that was why he’d forgone the fun of spearing fish.  It was different when you were swimming and moving around, but he saw no need to subject himself to the discomfort of standing still in the chilly lakewater waiting for a fish to go by when he had another plan of his own.  But first he was willing to give Sif a chance.

He tsked at her. “Such language, my lady. What would your mother say?”

“She’d blame my father for not guarding his tongue around me.” She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move deeper into the water, lifting her spear and holding it poised as she stood still, staring into the water, watching for prey. “And I’m not a lady, I’m a warrior of Asgard.”

“I don’t see why you can’t be both,  Is it the rank or gender that you take exception to?”

“Neither,” said Sif. “It is the expectations attached to the gender. That I should have no desires other than to learn how to cook and clean and sew, that I might one day take care of a husband and children.” She saw a flash of movement and drove her spear down, scowling as the fish darted back out towards deeper water before her spear reached it. “I wish for more, for honour and glory and the chance to serve Asgard as one of her warriors. I’m a good fighter; I should be allowed to do what I’m good at.” Another jab, another miss. She swore. This was easier in the creek that ran clear and narrow through the back of the palace gardens, and which, when followed deep into the woods, eventually broadened out into a wide pool that was their usual swimming spot.

“You’ll get no quarrel from me there,” said Loki. Sif took joy in battle the way that Thor did, and he was glad that she had been allowed to start weapons training with the other boys. He was sure that his mother had had something to do with that – he’d overheard her talking to his father about it one day, before they’d moved away and out of hearing range. And as for being allowed to practice what one was good at – he let wisps of green magic curl about his fingers – he still didn’t understand why it was looked down upon for men to practice magic on Asgard. His father, the king, practiced magic, and no one said anything against him. He pushed the usual resentment away and brought himself back to the present. “Be a warrior and marry someone who’s got servants to do the cooking and cleaning. Like Thor,” he said, as if it didn’t matter. That was another of those things that went mostly unsaid but understood; he was sure that Sif had originally been introduced as a playmate in the hopes of a betrothal between Sif and Thor one day.

Sif looked up, her face twisting in obvious rejection of the idea. “And have to be queen one day? To be tied to the palace, and have to be nice to people even when I can’t stand them? No thanks.”

Loki felt more cheered by this then perhaps he ought to have been. “Well, there’s me,” he said lightly. “You’d still have to be nice to people sometimes, but you’d be a lot freer as a princess than a queen, and you’d still get the servants for cooking and cleaning.”

Sif laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind for the future.” She turned her eyes back to the water and made a wild thrust, groaning when yet another small fish eluded her spear.

She hadn’t said no, thought Loki, a quiet thrill running through him. It wasn’t often that he heard someone voice a decided preference for him over Thor, and Sif seemed to have so much more in common with Thor. But she had completely vetoed the idea of marrying Thor, while suggesting she might consider him. Suddenly feeling immensely fond and gallant, he stirred himself. “Come on out, this isn’t a good place for spearfishing, and your legs must be freezing. Let me have a go at it.”

“Do you think you can do better?’ she challenged, but was glad for an excuse to leave the water; she had to lean on her makeshift spear to keep from stumbling on her numb feet as she waded back onto shore. “And what makes you think that I’ll let you use the spear that I did all the work on?”

“Oh, I don’t need a spear,” said Loki airily. “Make a fire, and warm yourself up. I’ll go get your fish.” And he shifted, shrinking down in size until an otter stood where the boy had been. He gave her his best open-mouthed otter grin and scampered into the lake.

Sif stared after the sleek brown shape cutting gracefully through the water, dumbstruck for a moment before recovering her voice. “Show-off!” she yelled. The otter disappeared under the water. Shaking her head, she fetched the rub rag she had used on her horse and turned to the task of drying her feet and legs and chafing some warmth back into them, before pulling her stockings and boots back on gratefully. She was just dumping her first armful of twigs and branches inside the ring of stones containing the remains of previous fires when Loki resurfaced at the edge of the lake with a fish clenched between his sharp little teeth. He tossed it onto the shore at her feet, looking as smug as an otter can possibly look, then disappeared back into the water again. She snatched up the fish, quickly stunned it with one of the heavier branches she’d gathered. and laid it next to the fire pit. She resumed gathering wood for the fire, but she hadn’t even had a chance to get it started before Loki was back, squeaking cheerfully as he dropped a second fish beside the first.

“Yes, well done, why didn’t you just say you could do that in the first place?’ she grumbled, dispatching the second fish in the same way before crouching back down in front of her neatly-arranged wood and then pausing in striking her flint to her steel when he simply stood there, watching her with his bright, mischievous eyes. “Well? Aren’t you going to change ba–” She shrieked as Loki shook himself, the water flying out from his dense coat in a wide spray of droplets. Having been wetted by a fair share of them, Sif lunged to her feet and dove at him.

“I’ll get you for that!”

Loki tried to dart away, but Sif had been fast and she’d managed to catch hold of his long, muscular tail. He quickly shifted back to his usual form in an amorphous blurring of shapes, depriving her of a tail to hold, and sprang to his feet, backing away. He held up his hands placatingly, unable to keep a grin off his face. “I’m sorry, Sif, I shouldn’t have done that.” He danced back as she swung at him.

“You don’t look sorry!”

He retreated around the fire pit as she came after him, trying to banish the grin off of his face and failing miserably at it. “I can’t help it! My otter brain thought that it was funny.  But I got your fish for you!  And…and I’ll even clean them if you want.” He felt very generous for offering this; the usual camp rules were that the person who caught the food didn’t have to clean it.

Sif stopped pursuing him, debating and then noticing something. “Fine. Clean the fish and I’ll forgive you. But how are you still completely dry in this form?” She reached out to touch his tunic and he let her. "You can’t have shaken it alloff.”

He shrugged. “Magic.” He made a face. “Ugh, my mouth tastes horrible, though.” He pulled his bottle of cider out of his interdimensional pocket and took a long draught, chasing away the taste of raw fish. Replacing it, he walked over to the fish and squatted down, taking out a knife to scale and gut it. “Get the fire going.”

Sif did as instructed, using lots of kindling to get the fire to burn fast and hot, and then sat back, watching Loki come back from the water’s edge with the cleaned fish and sit back down, setting them aside on a rock until the fire burned down into hot coals. He looked at her sideways, a little smirk on his face. Sometimes, she thought, he looked exactly like his mother. She’d seen that expression on the queen’s face more than once.

“You think you’re so clever.” She threw a small pebble at him.

Loki batted it aside easily. “Am I not?” He couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself; this was only his second time as an otter, and he hadn’t tried to catch anything the first time. But certain instincts seemed to come naturally with each shape.

“You have your moments,” she admitted grudgingly. “What’s it like, being an otter?”

“Fun.” Loki grinned and drew forth the cider again, offering it to her. “If you don’t mind sharing the bottle.”

“When have I ever?” Sif uncorked the bottle and took a swig, pleasantly surprised to find it still cool. “If I can overlook the fact that you had your actual teeth in the fish that I’m going to eat…” She took another swallow before passing the bottle back. “Are you using magic to keep this cool?”

“Yes, it’s a fairly simple spell.” Feeling justifiably smug, he took a swallow of the cider and then re-corked it and set it down between them. “I can keep things warm, too.” He pulled out his loaf of herb bread and tore it in half, passing her one portion.

Sif bit through the crispy crust into the soft, warm bread. “Mm, this is good.” She tilted her face up to the sun, closing her eyes contentedly as she chewed. “Hey!” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Could you have kept my legs warm in the lake?”

Loki pursed his lips. “I’ve never tried to use that spell on a living being, but I don’t see why not?” He spread his fingers and held out his hand, staring at it consideringly.

“Well, don’t go and start experimenting now, when we’re out in the middle of nowhere. If something were to go wrong, I wouldn’t know how to help.”

“Such faith in my abilities,” said Loki deprecatingly. “But no, I’ll ask my mother about it first. Although – “ he smirked at her. “I thought, as a warrior of Asgard, that you weren’t afraid of a little cold water.”

“And I’m not, and I proved it. But what if we were someplace where an enemy might ambush us, and I couldn’t run or fight well because my legs were stiff with cold? I wouldn’t turn down a spell to keep them warm if I had to go wading in a cold lake or river.”

“Sensible girl,” said Loki approvingly. “If I am to marry some day, I will consider nothing less in a wife.”  He took a bite of bread. “Also – “ he chewed and swallowed. “You are not afraid of hard work. Another admirable trait.”

“Oh? Well, I suppose I must admit that you have shown that you would be a good provider. That’s important, in a husband.”

Loki grinned. “Thank you; tooth-marked fish are my specialty. Also, I’m very adept at stealing bread from the kitchens.”

Sif snorted. “‘Stealing’, my foot. You’ve got every single kitchen maid charmed and willing to give you whatever you want.”

Loki looked modest. “It’s amazing what a few compliments will do.  But,” he added fairly, “They deserve them. It’s hot work, slaving in the kitchens. They’re nice to visit, but I’d hate to be cooped up in there all day. And – how many people do you think ever bother to send back a message that they enjoyed what they ate? It’s not hard to make the cooks happy by letting them know that you appreciate their culinary efforts.”  His mother had pointed this out to him once, and he’d found it good advice. It was only when the cooks were truly frazzled preparing for a feast that he ever found himself chased away from the kitchens empty-handed.

“Well,” said Sif, “Please tell whoever made this bread that I enjoyed it very much.”

“Solveig will be pleased to hear it.” Loki poked at the fire, which had nearly died down, the smoke scenting the air. “I think this is ready; have you got a couple of sticks to lay the fish on?”

Sif pulled two straight sticks out of her pile of unburnt kindling, and laid them down upon the hot, glowing embers of the fire. Loki leaned over her and laid the two fish crosswise across the sticks. They only took a few minutes to cook, and then they were burning their fingers as they pulled the hot fish off the coals onto a couple of large leaves they’d had ready, the blackened, crispy skin flaking away and revealing the succulent flesh within.

Loki sucked and blew on his burnt fingertips as he tried not to drop his fish, the leaf not doing much to shield his palm from the heat. “A hand-cooling spell would come in useful right about now.”

“Mm,” Sif agreed, blowing on fish and fingers alike, and saying another unladylike word.

There was no way to eat it neatly, so Loki didn’t even try, biting into the smoky-tasting fish with as little care as Thor usually showed at mealtimes, Sif making just as much as a mess of it as he did. They chased it down with the rest of the cider, and washed their hands in the lake afterwards after smothering the remains of the fire. A quick check on the horses showed them to be fine, and Loki stretched and yawned, comfortably full and disinclined to movement.

“I think I’m going to close my eyes for a bit,” he announced, and chose a spot on the soft grass to stretch out on, folding his arms behind his head.

“Seriously?” While Sif wasn’t feeling particularly energetic, she wasn’t in the mood for a nap, either. “May I borrow your book to read, then?”

Loki lazily twisted his hand and the book appeared in it. He held it out to her without opening his eyes. “You could read me a chapter if you like,” he offered magnanimously.

“All right.” Sif settled with her back against a large rock and turned to where he’d left the bookmark. “The Bäckahäst,” she read, and began the description of a shapeshifting creature that could take the form of a beautiful white horse to lure humans to it and drown them under the waters of the brook where it lived.  Sif particularly liked the story of the farm girl who defeated one by keeping her wits about her; Loki liked the fact that she banished it with a magical rune.

“You’ve never turned into a horse, have you?” She was quite sure he would have made sure that they’d known of it if he’d had – he’d been quite proud to show off the elegant, silky-coated hunting dog he’d transformed himself into one day – but one never entirely knew with Loki. Sometimes he kept a new skill hidden until the most opportune moment to reveal it.

“Not yet. Mother doesn’t want me to try anything that much larger than myself until I’m a bit older; all the books advise against it,“ he admitted. "So far I’ve only shifted into things the same size as myself or smaller.” He shrugged. “ I think I would be fine, but it’s more fun to do animals that can pass unnoticed where a person couldn’t, so I’m willing to oblige her for now. Why?” He cast a mischievous glance her way. “Would you like to ride me?”

Sif’s face heated; she wasn’t so young or so sheltered that she was unaware of the possible innuendo in that question. But if he thought that would put her off…

“That depends on whether you want to be ridden,” she said levelly, and saw the answering tinge of pink rise to his cheeks.

“Mm.” Loki jumped to his feet. “Why don’t we head around to the side of the lake where the berry bushes grow thickest?” He held out his hand. “I’ll put the book away.”

Sif passed it back to him, glad of the excuse to drop that particular line of conversation, although a part of her mind couldn’t help imagining how he would look as a horse, and how it would feel to sit astride him, to feel the intimacy of him moving between her thighs. Her mind couldn’t quite go to the other place yet.

Thankfully, the new and slightly awkward heightened awareness of him only lasted until he bent and picked up a smooth stone on their way around the lakeshore, and sent it skipping across the water.

“Four,” he announced. He knew he could do much better, but it wasn’t bad for his first throw of the day.

Sif at once accepted the unspoken challenge and cast her eyes around for a suitable stone of her own. Picking one up, she sent it chasing after his, and the easy familiarity between them was back as they engaged in a friendly competition as they made their way towards the west shore of the lake in fits and starts. “Six,” she crowed.

Loki narrowed his eyes and took extra care in choosing his next stone, looking for one as large and flat as possible. He angled his body and let it fly, sweeping his arm out with a fast, fluid, practiced motion and watching the stone skim low across the surface of the water, barely touching before lifting off again. Seven…eight… “Nine,” he said with satisfaction.

She scowled at the fading ripples in the water. “Are you sure you’re not using magic?”

“For nine ? With the right stone, I can do 14-15, easy. You just need to spend more time throwing things and less time hitting them.”

“I don’t think throwing my sword at you during practice would be as effective,” she teased.  

“I meant knives,” he retorted. “You should practice with me sometime.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” she allowed, and was surprised by the brilliance of the smile he gave her.

“As I said, sensible.”

They arrived at the start of the berry bushes, and meandered their way through them, picking and eating at their leisure until they were sated and their fingers and mouths were stained purple with the juice.  Loki fought the urge to smear a purple streak down her cheek, still feeling beneficent at not being rejected out-of-hand as possible future husband material.

“What do you think Thor’s doing right now?” Sif mused.

He shrugged. “Since he hasn’t hunted us down, he’s probably in the training yards. Hitting things,” he added with a laugh. “Father only mentioned keeping Thor in for the morning. By the time he’d had lunch, there wouldn’t be much point in following us all the way out here only to have to turn around and go home again almost at once. Speaking of which – “ he glanced up at the sky, judging the time. “We should start heading back. Don’t say anything to Thor yet about our plans; he’ll want to go charging down to the armoury immediately to pick out an old weapon to smash, and I want to do some research first, see if I can find any other accounts that lend credence to that story.”

“All right.”

They made their way back to their horses, tacking them back up before mounting and turning their heads towards home. The energy of the morning was gone; they took their time going back, setting an easy pace until they clattered back into the stableyard. Loki waved away the groom that came out to take their horses.

“We’ll take care of them ourselves, thank you, Leif.” He swung down from the saddle, Sif following suit, and they led their horses inside, untacking them and companionably grooming them together, cross-tied in the aisle. They parted ways after returning their horses to their cleaned stalls, Loki heading for the royal wing of the palace.  He’d take a fresh look through his own books first, and then go down to the library after supper. Passing the open door to his mother’s chambers, he stuck his head in.

“I’m back, Mother.”

“Oh, good,” Frigga called from within, rising from her loom. “Come in and talk to me.”

Loki stepped into the comfortable, airy rooms, feeling as at home here as he did in his own chambers.

“Did you have a nice day, sweetheart?” She pulled him in close, smelling woodsmoke and green grass and fresh air, and underneath all that, the scent of her own boy which she’d always know no matter what overlaid it. It was a good smell. She buried her nose in his hair, breathing in deep, and kissed him.

“I did. Sif rode down to the lake with me.” He leaned against her comfortably. “I took my otter form again and caught us some fish.”

“Clever boy. Did you have any trouble changing back?”

“None at all.” He looked at her a little wistfully. “I wish you could shift with me. We could do things together.”

Frigga smiled. “I could chase you around the lake. That would be fun. But alas, I am stuck in this one very dull form. I hope I do not disappoint too much.”

“Never!  I didn’t mean that.  And you could never be dull.” Loki said stoutly, and her arm came around him in a one-armed hug. “I like all the things we do together. Magic, and my knife lessons, and talking about books.”

“That’s good.  And I can still chase you…but you have to run first.” She curled her fingers over his ribs, tickling, and Loki sprang away with a yelp of laughter. “Not far enough,” she warned, stalking towards him, and Loki backed away, circling behind a chair.

“What is it with girls chasing me today?” he complained, but his eyes were bright.

Frigga’s eyebrows rose. “Sif?” she guessed.

“I…might have shaken water all over her before changing out of my otter shape,” Loki confessed sheepishly.

“And did you apologise?”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good boy.” Frigga said approvingly. “I’m assuming she forgave you, since you don’t seem upset.”

“No, we’re fine; that was hours ago,” said Loki dismissively. He heard a noise behind him, and made the mistake of taking his attention off of his mother as he turned around to see his father and Thor coming in from the hallway together. It was a move he regretted as his mother caught him up from behind and began tickling him mercilessly.

"Got you!"

“AAHHH!” He kicked and wriggled and squirmed away, taking refuge behind his father, who looked down at him in surprise.

“Are we interrupting something?” Odin asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“Mother’s in high spirits,” said Loki, half breathless. Impulsively he fixed his eyes on his mother, and mouthed “TICKLE HIM.” He cocked his head towards his father and wriggled his fingers in illustration.

Frigga smirked and gave Loki the tiniest of nods.  It was a look that Sif would have immediately recognised.

“I am indeed; come give me a hug, husband.” Frigga held out her arms, and Odin automatically moved forward, although he looked a little suspicious.

“Far be it from me to deny such a request from my beautiful wife.”

Loki watched in anticipation as his father went into his mother’s arms, and his mother slid her hands under his outer robes, turning her face into his father’s neck for a moment with a contented hum. And then Odin jerked and shouted, and Loki broke into the giggles.

“So it’s to be like that, is it?” Odin roared, and Frigga squealed as her arms were pinned and she was lifted bodily from her feet. “Two can play at that game!”

“Odin!  Put me down; the boys are watching!” Frigga laughed, still trying to tickle him but otherwise not fighting it.

“Boys, go away and entertain yourselves until dinner.” Odin ordered, heading into their bedroom.

Thor and Loki exchanged wide-eyed glances.  “Yes, Father,” they chorused, and pushed and pulled each other into the corridor, fizzing with mirth, and closed the doors behind them.

“I never expected that to happen.” Loki giggled again.

“You didn’t expect Father to back down from a fight, did you?” Thor grinned. “Even if it is only a tickle fight.” They made their way to their adjoining rooms.

“Come tell me about your day while I wash up,” Loki said, pushing open his doors. He went into his washroom and began scrubbing at the berry stains on his hands.

Thor lounged against the wall. “Well, we started with accounts. Very boring, you can handle those when I’m king.”

Loki snorted. “The treasurer will handle the day-to-day accounts, but you need to be able to look at his reports and understand them in case he tries to siphon off any money for his own use.” He considered his teeth, and thought of fish breath, and gave his teeth a rub with tooth cloth and paste, the sharp clean scent of the crushed rosemary in it filling the air.

“Father said something along those lines,” Thor admitted. “Then we discussed the current trade re-negotiations with the dwarfs, and he asked my opinion on the various points being discussed. You would have done well with that, Brother, it’s all about using your words as cleverly as possible to get as much out of the other side as you can without them noticing. And then he grilled me on the history of the dwarfs over lunch but afterwards he came down to watch me spar,” said Thor happily. Now what about you?”

Loki rinsed his mouth out. “Went to the lake with Sif; she was hanging around when I went outside and asked to come along, so…” He shrugged. “Did some reading once we got there, skipped rocks, caught some fish for lunch.”  Mischief struck him. “Talked about marriage. You know, the usual thing.”

“What?” Thor started, and stared at Loki casually inspecting his hair in the mirror, tidying it slightly with his comb. “You and Sif? Aren’t you a bit young to start courting?”

Loki turned away from the mirror and brushed past Thor to go into his bedroom, hiding his pleasure in the idea. “Of course we are. Don’t be silly; we were just talking about it in the abstract, about what we might want in a spouse. If we ever did get married.”

“Oh.” Thor sounded disappointed. “What did you decide?”

“I said I wanted someone who was sensible and a hard worker; Sif said a husband should be a good provider. All very romantic,” he said lightly.

“Hm.” Thor thought about it. “Sif is sensible and a hard worker. She’ll stay at the training yard as long as she has an opponent, and then work on her forms by herself.”

Loki thought of the time Sif had put into fashioning her spear, and was quite sure she would have stayed in the water for far longer trying to catch a fish if he hadn’t stepped in. “She is; I’ll give her that.”

“Well, there you go,” said Thor cheerfully. “Just so you know, I would be delighted to have Sif for a sister-in-law some day.”

“You’re not interested in her for yourself?’ Loki asked cautiously.

Thor tried to think of Sif that way, and couldn’t. He shook his head. “It would be like courting my little sister. It would be nice to have her really be.  Besides, I’m probably meant for a political marriage. Sif’s of good family, but Tyr is already loyal to our house.”

That was true, Loki had to admit. Perhaps he’d been wrong about things? “But don’t you think Sif would rather have a big strapping warrior for a husband instead of someone like me?”  He wasn’t even sure why he was asking this, except perhaps the need to hear it reputed. But she didn’t say no, his mind chanted at him.

“You mean an infuriating know-it-all?’ Thor grinned.

Loki hunched himself unhappily. “Is that what I am?”

Thor hesitated, seeing that he’d misspoke. “You are, sometimes, but it’s only because you’re so smart and clever that it can make me feel stupid by comparison. Like today. But you’re so much more. Mother says you’re going to be one of the greatest mages in the Nine Realms, and I say you’re going to be one of the finest warriors as well. And there’s no one else I’d rather have as my brother than you.”

Loki flushed with pleasure, his shoulders coming back up. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“I’m not being kind, it’s the truth,” said Thor loyally. “And you’ll see. One day we shall ride out together across the Nine Realms on adventures far and wide and prove our worth in battle. Skalds shall sing of the deeds of the Odinsons and Sif the Valorous.” Thor sat down on the edge of Loki’s bed, and Loki, deciding that he was clean enough not to need to change clothes, joined him, magicking his boots off and swinging his legs up onto the furs.

Loki smiled. "Sif the Valorous?"

"She would like that, would she not?"

"She would indeed." Loki could so clearly see the pride in Sif's face if she were to earn such a name. Or perhaps it would be Sif the Bold, or Sif the Fierce, they would suit her equally well. Still smiling, he turned the conversation back on Thor.

“So what about you? What qualities would you like in a wife?”

“Someone pretty,” said Thor promptly, and Loki couldn’t even chide him for being shallow, because it seemed a perfectly reasonable request. “And kind,” he added, rather more surprisingly.

“A good quality in a future queen,” Loki said, studying Thor’s thoughtful face.

“And someone who is… comfortable to come home to at the end of the day, someone who will listen to my problems and be able to advise me on them.”

“So, basically Mother.”

Thor smiled ruefully. “We would be lucky to find someone like her.”

“Father’s getting lucky right now.”

Thor scrunched up his nose. “Not an image I want in my head, Brother.”

Loki’s face copied Thor’s. “No, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Tell me more about what you would like in a wife,” Thor said, to distract himself. “There must be something other than ‘sensible and hard-working’.”

“I don’t know; it’s not something I’ve thought about much before.” Loki drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “The things you said, they’re good. And she must be fine with me working magic. That’s the most important thing.” He rested his chin on his knees, thinking. “Someone who doesn’t bore me in conversation. And someone who is comfortable with silence, who doesn’t feel the need to fill every minute with mindless chatter.”

“Still sounds like Sif.” Thor grinned.

“All right, yes, I suppose she does fit some of the qualifications,” Loki allowed magnanimously. “But don’t you dare say anything to her of this. Swear it. On your honour.”

“I swear,” said Thor, but his eyes were twinkling.

“I’m sure Sif will be too busy making her name as a warrior to have any time for romance anyway.”

“Ah yes, of course. You’re probably right.”  Thor nodded, very seriously, an effect ruined by the smirk he couldn’t quite stifle.

Loki hit him with a pillow.

But, his mind said gleefully, she hadn’t said no.

[coneygoil]

The Home We Built Together, part 21

Two young Vikings. An arranged marriage. Hiccup always wanted to win the girl of his dreams, but not like this. Now he and Astrid must learn to live together and maybe one day, learn to love…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9| Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 

Astrid almost didn’t recognize herself these days. She had the same warrior spirit and desired to fight with all her strength for what was right. But what used to be considered right in her eyes wasn’t right anymore. She’d grown soft toward what she used to be hardened by.

A dragon was her friend. The enemy would lick her cheek instead of scorch her face off. A boy who’d she’d been indifferent toward before was now the most important person to her.

How did her life get flipped upside down this quickly?

She’d remarked once in her short life that she would never let anyone kiss her on the lips, but here she was lip-locked and panting with a boy she’d never given one single thought of being with before a contract was signed binding them.

Astrid’s cheeks stained pink as she recalled the night before.

Hiccup admitted his enjoyment for kissing her, and she made her own confession of pleasure as well. There was something unearthly when it came to intimacy, as if you were transported to the highest, most stunning mountain where the altitude made you feel as light as air and your head floated in the clouds. You could lose yourself in it and it felt so good.

“Earth to Astrid!” Ruffnut’s calling broke her free from her memory. “Are we gonna spar or what?”

Astrid shook herself from the feel of Hiccup’s soft hair carding through her fingers and the lovely pressure of his lips against hers. “Yeah,” was all she could mustering in her flustered state.

Ruff shifted back on her right leg, planting a fist on her popped hip. “Did you and Hiccup go further last night?”

“What?” Her jaw fell open and the axe in her hold drooped.

Ruff nodded in approval. “Yep, that face basically tells me you did.” She sidled over to Astrid, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “How far did you guys go?”

“Ruff,” Astrid whined, “do I really have to share my personal details with you?” If she was honest with herself, a tiny part of her wanted to blurt out everything. How nothing had caused her heart to race like the feel of Hiccup’s lips pressed to hers. How a simple touch on her thigh sparked a wildfire in places that had never burned with want before. It was exhilarating and confusing and she longed for more.

Ruff gave her a little shake. “Yes, and don’t leave anything out.”

Astrid sighed and dislodged herself from Ruff’s hold. “Okay.” She swept the fringe of bangs behind her ear, gathering exactly which details she’d disclose. She wasn’t sure how to even describe such matters. “There isn’t much to say. We kissed – A LOT – last night.”

Ruff’s lips puckered in delight. “Ooooo! Was it your first make out session?”

“If kissing for like an hour is? Then I guess so.”

“Like an hour? Whoa, you two must have been hot and heavy.” Ruff eyes glittered. “Did you slip him any tongue? Or did he slip you some?”

Astrid looked horrified. “No!”

“Anh…” Ruff waved it off, “you’ll get there. Did hands roam to certain places?”

Astrid thought back to the delectable memories of where appendages and digits had traversed. “We didn’t really touch any places that were very private.”

“What? No cupping a boob? No copping a feel of the buttocks?”

“No.” Just the idea of those places being explored caused an electrical strike all through her. “It was mostly face caressing and neck holding. Hiccup did slide his hands up and down my arms and shoulders, and at one point his hand made it to my thigh.”

“Okay, that’s a good start. I mean, hand on thigh is the gateway to other places.”

“How do you know so much about this subject?”

“I listen and observe, my dear.” Ruff waggled a finger at her. “Work harder at going farther, got it?”

Astrid rolled her eyes, but inwardly, she was reeling at the idea of crossing more boundaries with Hiccup. She turned her head so Ruff wouldn’t catch the flare up in her cheeks at the musings of what it’d feel like if Hiccup kissed her neck.

“How about taking Hiccup to the hot spring?” Ruff suggested, nodding encouragingly. “Give you an excuse to strip off the fabric barriers and get busy.”

As disturbing as Ruff’s way of suggesting was, Astrid had to admit, it was a promising idea. Villagers would visit the hot spring to bathe or relax in the steamy waters. Chatter floated around the Great Hall of couples using it to set the mood for a romantic rendezvous.

Besides the one late night she’d sneaked a peek at Hiccup’s bare back, she had yet to see Hiccup unclothed. The hot spring would be the perfect excuse for her to finally get a peek at what was underneath that green tunic.

“Astrid, I don’t know about this,” Hiccup voiced his uncertainty as she hauled him out to the hot spring that evening.

“C’mon, Hiccup. It’s not like you’ve never seen me undressed.”

“Technically, I’ve only seen you from the front with bindings on once. All the other times have been your bare back.” He sounded as if he’d just choked on the last two words. “And you have yet to see me.”

She glanced back at him then ducked a grin. “I actually have seen you shirtless.”

“Uh…when?”

“The night you came home late, and I wanted you to hold me. I watched you change into your nightshirt.”

“You blatantly watched without me knowing?” Hiccup gasped dramatically, a hand leaping to his heart. “Scandalous, Astrid!”

Astrid gave his arm a tug. “You’re such a dork.”

They arrived at the hot spring a few minutes later. Astrid hung the lantern on the closest tree branch sticking out over the water. The flickering candlelight washed the bubbling water in a soft glow.

She stepped up to Hiccup, who looked incredibly nervous. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She gathered the hem of his tunic and slowly lifted it off his frame. The cold night air caused goosebumps along his bare skin. Hiccup averted his eyes off to the side.

Astrid’s gaze veered down at his exposed torso and raked upwards, thoughtfully. He was scrawny, no denying that, but who’s to say he wasn’t finished growing yet? He had time, and that’s exactly what she hoped to convince him of. It was her mission to protect him, even from his own deprecating opinions of himself.

“Not much to look at, huh?” Hiccup’s voice cut through her study. “I assume you’d prefer something more buff. Y’know, of the Snotlout variety.”

Astrid shrugged. “Sure, buff is nice to look at sometimes,” her hand rested over his heart, the beat increasing against her palm, “but I like this better.”

“Why?” he asked in disbelief.

She met his gaze. “Because it’s you.”

“I didn’t take you for being attracted to the talking fishbone type.”

“You may be a talking fishbone now, but don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’ll end up taller than the rest of us.”

“I have my doubts, but I won’t shatter your dreams just yet.”

Astrid chose that moment in his linger doubt to shed the top half of her wardrobe. She’d never stood this close to Hiccup when undressing and he stared wide-eyed and mouth gaping as she casually disrobed. The awkwardness had subsided for her a short while back. She didn’t wish for it to linger, especially now that her and Hiccup were finally breaking physical ground in their relationship. She audibly heard him swallow as she kicked off her skirt.

“Hiccup,” she coaxed him out of his trance, “you may want to remove your boots.”

“Right,” he croaked out before clearing his throat and getting to work on shedding his boots and socks as Astrid did the same.

“Now bottoms?” Astrid said, hesitation beginning to creep up on her.

Hiccup blew out a breath from his mouth, his nerves obviously showing. “Not yet.”

Astrid paused her thumbs clipped in her waist band. “Okay. Not yet.”

“Are you keeping your uh…” Hiccup twirled his finger, “bindings on?”

As much as she wanted to push through this ground, Astrid’s nerves were getting the best of her too. “I guess, for now.”

“No rush.” Hiccup’s sentiment made her smile.

They reached out for each other as they waded into the steamy water. They found themselves seeking out one another more and more to touch, hold, or just be close to. The warmth of the water engulfed them, and Astrid sighed at how wonderful the heat was on her bare skin.

“So,” Hiccup bobbed beside her, “why do you like this talking fishbone? Is it the sharp wit? Or all the raw Vikingness bundled up inside this—” He stuck a strong pose.

Astrid scoffed, sending a splash his way. “Not even close.” Hiccup skittered away, looking rather offended. “It’s mainly because it makes you travel-size.”

“What does that even mean?” Hiccup laughed.

“It means I can do this!”

Astrid lunged for him, tossing Hiccup over her shoulder in a blink. She waded toward the edge of the hot spring, effortlessly carrying Hiccup on her.

“Astrid! It’s not fair to manhandle your husband like this. There will be consequences!” He tugged on her braid in a vain attempt to show he was serious. “Now put me down!”

“Put you down?” she questioned, exaggeratedly. “If you say so.” She spun around and tossed Hiccup into the hot spring.

Hiccup sputtered and spit as he resurfaced, hissing about how hot the water was. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes to glare daggers at her. Astrid’s amused laughter rang out into the night. She felt free, as if all their worries and cares had faded into the high heavens. Hiccup drew out a side of her she didn’t think existed and she never wanted it to go dormant again.

“Time to face the consequences!” Hiccup exclaimed. He swam to her, and before Astrid could regain her composure, he’d latched onto her ankle. With surprising strength, he yanked her back into the hot spring.

It was Astrid’s turn to surface, sputtering and wiping the stinging water from her face. Hitting the steamy water sent a shock through the body after standing in the chilly air.

They launched into a splashing war until they were worn out and sweat glistened on their foreheads, and they dissolved into panting laughter. Astrid watched her husband suspiciously as he swam behind her. He snaked arms around her bare waist, pulling her back against his front. He gave her a little squeeze, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Astrid relaxed in his embrace, allowing him to hold her from sinking in the water. It was nice not having to be the first to initiate their physical affection. Ever since she’d discovered his friendship with Toothless, Hiccup had become more at ease with reaching out for her without needing to seek permission. Maybe it was just her imagination, but Astrid felt as if Toothless had brought them closer together.

Astrid’s breath caught at the sensation of Hiccup’s lips on her throat. Every giddy little spark inside her jumped alive. She raised her arm back to curl fingers in his damp hair. This was what her body had begged for, the curious longing being satisfied. Another kiss then another then—

Astrid’s eyes popped open at the sound of footsteps heading their way. Whistling floated through the quiet night air. Someone was coming!

She tore out of Hiccup’s embrace, grabbing his wrist to haul him out of the pool. Hiccup tried protesting, but his ear caught the approaching visitor as well and he rushed to gather up his articles of clothing along with her.

The hot spring was a community pool and most of the time sharing it was a regular thing. But being a young couple and flirting with intimacy in the waters was something they’d wanted to keep to themselves. Besides, Astrid had no desire for another person besides her husband to see her in a state of undress.

Her and Hiccup dashed into the dark cover of the trees. Astrid suddenly stopped. “The lantern!” she hissed, but it was too late. The whistling drew closer, and Gobber emerged from the other side of the pool, lumbering up to the water. They both breathed a sigh of relief. Gobber was the last person they’d want to walk up on their private moment.  

“I’ll come back for it tomorrow,” Hiccup said as they tugged on their clothes.

Astrid lamented their time being cut short in the pool. She smirked to herself, planning to continue what Hiccup had started when they got home. The door had been opened and she would stroll through.

 ***

Writer’s note: Even though Toothless has been introduced and big things will happen resulting from that, the main idea of the story is Hiccup and Astrid’s relationship. I wanted to show our two little budding lovebirds just being carefree and having fun in this chapter XD

Tags: @martabm90 @chiefhiccstrid  @lauracalabresi 

[bellatrixobsessed1]

A Flame For A Cabbage (Part 7)

“This is madness.” 

“Go back to your own universe.” Azula frowns. 

“You can’t just brainwash people into joining your side.” The woman insists. 

“I can and I am.” Azula frowns. “And my boyfriend is helping me do it.” 

“My fiance once helped me commit monstrous crimes against humanity, it doesn’t end well.” The woman argues, her fern green eyes burning into her. 

“There is nothing monstrous about cabbages. If anything, I am helping them achieve healthier diets.” Azula folds her arms over her chest. 

“You’re going about this the wrong way.” The woman says. 

“Fuck you and your eyebrows!” Azula declares. 

The woman narrows her eyes. “I’m trying to keep you from making a mistake. Brainwashing people is unethical.” 

“Brainwashing people is unethical.” Jet mocks in the background. 

“Don’t tell me what’s unethical!” Azula snaps. “You tried to murder your fiance with a spirit canon!” She does not know where from she has acquired this knowledge. 

“I didn’t try to murder my fiance. He asked me for nudes, I misread the text and sent nukes.” She pauses. “Honestly, I think it was kinda hot.” 

“Yeah, I suppose that is kind of sexy.” Azula agrees as Jet mutters something about how it is actually quite horrifying.

“Who are you?’ Azula asks.

“I’m you, but Earth Kingdom.”  The woman declares. 

“Fascinating.” Azula replies. It makes little sense being as this woman is older than she, but somehow, on an instinctual level that it is true. This woman...they are the same person. And if that is true, then she knows exactly how to get her to leave. “Your mother doesn’t love you.” A single tear slips down Azula’s cheek. But it is worth it, the woman shouts, “PROTEIN”, punches a hole through the wall with her foot, looks back, and gives Azula what has to be the most regal and well-mannered middle finger that she has ever seen. 

Yes. They definitely are, somehow, the same person.

Except Azula is the better her. Clearly, better. If nothing else, she has much better eyebrows than her swol, Earth Kingdom counterpart. 

With a final desperate look and another, “don’t do this, don’t make the same mistake I did…” the air around her closes in on her and sucks her back into whatever pocket in space that she had emerged from. 

“Yeah, fuck you, you better run!” Jet declares. 

“Jet, she got consumed by the universe.” Azula replies. “I got consumed by the universe.” She adds more softly. She turns back to her brainwashing equipment. If the man strapped to it wasn’t shitting bricks already, he certainly is now that he has witnessed that display. “Now. Where were we?” 

.oOo.

“Ooooor I can make onion and cranberry juice.” 

“Guru Pathik…” Aang grumbles. 

“How abo-ooo-ot…” He makes spazzical jazzhands. “...Onion and sulfuric acid juice!” 

.oOo.

“Thank goodness we're in time!” Sokka shouts.

“In time for what?” Kuei asks. 

Basco glowers at Sokka from the corner. “Nevermind…” boy says.”

TyLee pushes the matter with a, “Yeah. What are you in time for,” she wriggles her eyebrows. “cutie?”

“Uh, I'm kinda doing activites with Suki.” 

“Who?”  TyLee asks. 

“I don’t think that those guys are Kyoshi warriors.” Toph says. 

“How do you know have you ever seen Kyoshi warriors.” Mai asks.

“No but I can smell the emo on you. I know what the clank of Hot Topic jewelry sounds like. Kyoshi warriors don’t recruit emos or anyone who uses axe bodyspray. Trust me, I know. I use axe bodyspray.”

Mai flinches, for she thought that she was the only one emo enough to access the secret interdimensional Hot Topic store. She must eliminate the competition at once. With a flick of her wrist she launches a daggers at the girl. One of them is shaped like a Keanu Reeves, she resents that Toph will not be able to fully appreciate its beauty. 

TyLee decides that productivity is second priority and takes to dancing with Sokka she makes a few jabbing disco motions which Sokka imitates. “Oooh, it's like we're fighting each other!”

.oOo.

“Everyone, stop!” Jet calls. “Hammer time!” 

“What’s hammer time?” Sokka asks asks. 

“Quiet, or I’ll run the Earth King through.” Azula says. 

Sie clears his throat, “mam, that’s a cabbage.”

“Yes.” Azula nods. She finds it most effective to hold enemies at cabbage point. “I assure you all that you don’t want to know what damage I can do with a single cabbage.”

“Okay, but I’m supposed to be the one holding the Earth King hostage.” 

“You are holding the Earth King hostage.” Long Feng says. 

“Then who is this?” Azula asks. 

“Oh I’m just Quin Bohyuk Ching Shang the fourth. I am a hunter of anomalies.”  He pauses. “I am here for…” 

“I won’t let you hurt Basco!” Kuei declares from where Sie has him held at flame point. 

“You have no choice.” Sie declares. “This fight is over.”

Toph and Sokka drop their weapons and TyLee, being ever so cautious, chi blocks them. Momo, tries to fly but the Dailluminati are well aware that the creature is surprisingly and unapologetically jacked. He is also not allowed to be a Kyoshi warrior, for he too wears axe bodyspray. Knowing such, they encase him in stone. But Momo is not afraid, Momo can flex his way out of this if he has the desire. He hasn’t the desire though, he just wants some lychee berries. 

Having no more use for the Earth King, Sie shoves the king away. “Get them all out of my sight.”

“What. An. Asshole.” Azula mutters. “What kind of person does that?” She turns to Jet. “What kind of person holds an Earth King at flame point?” She asks as if she hadn’t fully intended on doing that herself. Jet does not point this out. Jet values his budding relationship with the socially inadequate cabbage merchant. 

Long Feng strides arrogantly into the room with some more Dailluminati agents in tow. “Now comes the part where I double cross you. Dailluminati, arrest the Fire Nation princess!” One of them steps forward, but this is only because he has tripped over Mai’s Keanu Reeves knife. “I said arrest him! What is wrong with you?!”

“It's because they haven't made up their minds.” Sie says. “They're waiting to see how this is going to end.” He casts a squeamish look at the cabbage merchant. He can see the malice in her eyes. She is plotting something. She is always plotting something. But what? 

“What are you talking about?” Long Feng asks. 

But he isn’t quite sure. The cabbage merchant is though. He can see it in that smug expression. He opens his mouth to speak but the merchant talks first. “I can see your whole history in your eyes. You were born with everything, so you never had to struggle, and connive, and claw your way to power. But true power, the divine right to rule, is something you work for.” Yes, indeed the divine right to rule is bestowed upon those who have earned it. The fire princess hasn’t earned it, not like she has. And Long Feng...well he definitely had the strugglys too she can see his whole history in his eyes (she in fact sees everyone’s histories in their eyes, she had once wanted to become a history teacher but she sacrificed that dream for greener cabbages) but he has not had to work as hard as she. And therefore he should not be blessed with the divine right to rule. “The fact is, they don't know which one of us is going to be sitting on that throne, and which one is going to be bowing down.” She adds.

Sie’s look of concern grows. “But I know, and you know.” She sits down on the throne and crosses her legs. “You have no idea who much these shoes hurt my feet.”  

Both Long Feng and Sie seem to deflate.

““Do I still get my ~*really cool~* prize?” Long Feng asks.

“I suppose.” Azula rolls her eyes. “I am, afterall, getting exactly what I want.” 

Long Feng squeals in delight and holds his hand out. 

“Jet.”

Jet steps forward. “Here you go.” He smiles. 

Long Feng unfolds the slip of paper. 

“Wh-what is this?” Long Feng asks. 

“It is dickbutt.” Azula replies. “I drew it myself.”

Long Feng deflates once more.  “You’ve beaten me at my own game.” he remarks as a single manly tear rolls down Sie’s cheek.

Azula smirks, “Don't flatter yourself! You were never even players.”  Her smile fades, for neither was she. 

Bosco grins in the corner. 

Azula swallows. 

They all swallow. 

Basco cackles.

[mogwaei]

Here’s my huge first piece for @dadrunkwriting​ (Thank you @contreparry​ & @midnightprelude​ for the delightful prompts!)

I ended up combining these two and it got out of hand. It’s sitting nearly at 6k words, so you’ve been forewarned! Will be posting this over on my Ao3 as well.

A little background for those who haven’t read The Guardian:

-Maori knows who/what Solas is, but he doesn’t know that she knows

-She has sketchy abilities that no one else is aware of in the Inquisition (Solas knows she can shapeshift and has shared that he can as well)

-Maori hates killing dragons

-Minor spoilers for those who are following my fic ^_^

~~

“I am going to kill the Inquisitor when we get back to Skyhold,” she swore, breath clouding thickly before her mouth. As if to emphasise her immense displeasure, the creature just above them let loose a magnificent roar that shook the pale stone of Etienne’s Ring. “There aren’t dragons in Emprise, Maori! The only hot things there are the Pools of  the Sun! And me when I’m present,” she said, mimicking an Antivan accent. A couple of white clouds puffed to her left and right as her companions laughed quietly behind their cover of the coliseum walls. It wasn’t the greatest protection, since all it would take was for the dragon to breathe into the corridor and waste them to ash. “No dragons, Inquisitor? Because I counted three fucking dragons.”

“I love when she gets like this,” Sera said between stifled giggles as she strung her bow. “Mao, if you can ride the dragon, I’ll show you how to pick locks with a blade of grass! Plus, Quizzie will shite nugs when he hears.” Solas hissed a stream of ghostly vapour between his teeth.

“This is no time for games, Sera!” he whispered, voice barely audible over the whooping of wings. His head popped out from within one of the alcoves, stormy eyes narrowing at Maori. “Lockpicking and bragging rights are not worth being rent apart by a dragon!” Maori looked away from him, hiding a grin.

“Oh, c'mon, live a little Solas!” Bull whispered. He barely flinched like the rest of them as the entire earth seemed to quake with the dragon’s romping above. “If you can ride the dragon, I won’t tell anyone about the raven I saw.” Maordrid’s mood soured instantly. She turned a smoldering gaze on the Qunari and gripped her hilt tightly. He flashed an animalistic grin. He saw me change form Fuck. Fenedhis. Kaffas. Vashedan. You’re getting careless!

They all cursed and ducked back into cover like startled mice as splinters of ice blew into the corridor.

“Ah, so she’s an ice breather,” Maori grumbled. The hivernal chuffed her frustration, obviously trying to find a way to access them.

“Bonus points if you can ride the dragon into something. That way you aren’t technically killing her,” Bull amended, still looking at her with challenge.

“Fenedhis!” At Solas’ sharper tone of voice, they turned their attentions on the elf to see that a massive column of ice had fallen and nearly crushed him. “The dragon will not go away if we simply ignore her. We need a plan.” Sera blew her tongue at him.

“Who thought it was a good idea to bring elfy along? Nothin’ but naggin’.” Solas said something too low to Sera for Maori to hear, but her attention was instead on joining the Qunari warrior behind his large boulder.

“I’ve a plan,” she told him. He raised a brow in surprise at her fervour but an enthusiastic gleam grew in his one eye. “If you charge out, it will give me time to cloak and get behind her. Once she turns her attention to me, help the other two to get out of cover and into position.” Bull nodded and grinned.

“You do have experience killing these things,” he accused, lowering his voice.

“Going to run along and tell your superiors in Seheron?” She drew her hilt and willed the shimmering labradorite blade into existence between them. The spirit within greeted her happily, as always. Bull cast his gaze to the rest of their party on the other side of the path.

“They’d probably be pretty interested in an elf that isn’t the Inquisitor with a history of killing dragons,” he admitted. “But the Boss himself? He doesn’t know you can fly like one.”

“You’re serious about riding the dragon?” she deadpanned. Bull’s thick hand wrapped around her bicep and pulled her out of the path of a falling slab of ice.

“Y'know, if I were talking to almost anyone else, I wouldn’t even bother  and casually mention it to Yin anyway,” he said, unstrapping his great axe with a clank. “But I like you and I can see that rattles you good. Here’s the thing–they’re paying for my services.”

“Are you suggesting I outbid them for your silence?” Bull grinned.

“Up to you. Can’t really outbid a dragon.” She considered him, but then shook her head. Something like disappointment fell across his scarred, grey features as he hefted his axe in both hands.

“Get on with your distraction, Qunari. Or this dragon is going to crush us like ants,” she said. They got to their feet and turned to face Solas and Sera. “We’re going to lure her away from you. Get ready.” Solas’ lips pinched at the corners and his hands clenched a little tighter around his staff, but he nodded his agreement with Sera. With a grim smile, Maordrid cloaked herself and ran up the crumbled path behind Bull who charged out of cover with a fierce roar that startled the dragon.

The fight commenced with a burst of silver magic and a rippling roar that shattered the frozen puddles of the Ring. Raw magic swarmed the hivernal, reaching high up into the sky where the clouds began to swirl in a heavenly maelstrom.

As promised, Maordrid initiated her distraction of the dragon by wrapping ropes of magic around her lashing tail, tethering it temporarily to a rock jutting out of the ground. The dragon let out a confused growl and swung her great head around to look for the invisible pest at her back. Maori dropped her cloak, popping back into visibility. The hivernal’s yellow-ringed eyes snapped to her form immediately. At the same time, Sera and Solas emerged from below, spreading out along the top as fast as they could.

Then there was Bull who’d a bigger death wish than herself. He went straight for her breastbone with a roar to challenge the fierceness of the dragon herself. It, of course, drew her attention back to him. Seeing that she was surrounded, the great winged reptile took an agile leap back, nearly crushing Maordrid who dove straight into the icy puddles to avoid it. The Veil around her sharpened, then grew taut and frigid as the hivernal drew it around her in a protective barrier. The air began to thrum with the telltale signs of a winged attack. Maori pushed herself to her feet, feeling a barrier settle over her skin. Solas was running to the edges of the arena tossing barriers and fireballs like candy. Sera was somehow perched on top of a broken arch, safe from the howling gales that pulled at Maori’s body like wraith’s hands back toward the dragon. Arrows aided by the wind sailed through the air like minnows in a creek, feathering the thick flesh at the dragon’s neck. Magic from the enchanted arrows blossomed across the hivernal’s scales in rippling colours–a well-aimed shot at her foreleg actually crippled the dragon temporarily. Spotting danger, Maori redirected, stepping through the Veil to jab her sword between entrail-encrusted teeth and Iron Bull’s shoulder.

“Your tactics are shit and you are going to die like a cow in her jaws!” she screamed in Qunlat at Bull who was wrenching his axe from the ice where it’d been trapped. The dragon tried to snap her spirit sword in half between her teeth but Maordrid dispelled it and spun away before she could retaliate.

“Say, your tongue is pretty good. One more thing I can add to my reports!” Bull returned. Maordrid growled.

“It’d be a shame if the water were to freeze around your ankles–” Bull turned the dragon’s entire head to the side with the flat of his axe, diverting a lunge that would have put Maori’s entire upper body into her gullet. “I will have trouble keeping a straight face telling the Inquisitor and your Chargers that their pet cow served as a frozen hors d'oeuvre for a dragon.”

“Hey, my offer still stands. Just sayin’--WHOA!” He laughed with abandon as they were both tossed backward by the force of the dragon’s foot slamming into the ground. Next came the familiar whoop as the dragon prepared to lift off. The proximity almost burst her eardrums.

“Throw me!” she shouted, getting to her feet and running back toward Bull. His eye widened with excitement.

“Seriou–”

“NOW!” His arm wrapped around her waist and with a bodily spin, she was airborne. She heard Solas swearing up a storm as she landed on the hivernal’s neck just as the dragon took to the air. Maordrid scrabbled for a hold, sliding down the dragon’s craggy hide. A jerk of the reptile’s body sent her hilt tumbling into the void and to the unknown below. There was no time to mourn its loss, especially since she was still falling herself.

Her hands found tenuous purchase on the dragon’s tail spikes, the force with which she caught them throwing her heart into her mouth and her body into a flagellate motion. Maori risked a glance downward and saw the earth dwindling. She could no longer pick out Etienne’s Ring.

Mere seconds later, they broke the clouds and the only sounds were the leathery slap of wings on wet air and the wind in her ears. She cast a skin-tight barrier around her against the wintry currents threatening to freeze her limbs solid and began her climb up the dragon’s body to seek a safer position. The hivernal screeched, her call muffled by the grey. Maordrid let out an involuntary cry of surprise when her stomach became weightless as the dragon righted herself in the air. She took the opportunity of the horizontal change to climb as far as she could up the bluish-grey spine, digging the tips of her gauntlets and boots into the ridges formed by the scales. Flecks of white danced and swirled past her face and she lifted her gaze to see snow drifting across the rocky landscape of scales and scars. Some caught in her hair and lashes despite her barrier.  

It was almost funny that her worries did not lie in surviving the dragon or cold itself rather than that they were with the furious elven mage and the devious Qunari that awaited her back on solid ground.

Solas was going to kill her.

~~~~

The three of them rushed to the edge of the frozen arena, staring up into the darkening skies after Maordrid and the dragon. Solas laced his hands atop his head, loosing a stuttering breath. His heart fluttered with fear and anger - a very unpleasant mix.

“That was grand! I can’t believe you threw her!” Sera tittered to his right. The Qunari had the gall to laugh.

“Right? Fuckin’ didn’t expect that!” Solas turned on him, a frown twisting his lips.

“Why?” he snarled. “Why would you put her in even more danger?” Iron Bull hefted his axe over his shoulder still bearing a jolly grin. He wished to burn it from his face.

“Sorry Solas, it was in heat of the moment. Plus, she made a pretty convincing argument.” It was pointless to argue with the Ben-Hassrath about this.

An eerie screech echoed down from cloud cover.

“There!” Sera crowed, pointing with an arrow. A jagged shadow appeared in the white, skimming just out of sight before they took a plunge, taking Solas’ heart with it. “She still attached?” The question was answered as the dragon spun mid-fall to reveal the small form of Maordrid crawling her way down its body. A strangled cry escaped him as she came apart from it in a free fall.

“Damn, Mao is badass!” Bull hooted. He watched in abject horror as Maordrid twisted her body and maneuvered her way between the dragon’s deadly limbs. He saw her reach a hand out, placing it against the dragon’s underbelly. There was another flash of silver punctuated by an agonised roar as she opened its belly with an ethereal blade visible even from there. The dragon’s lifeblood seeped from the deep wound, flowing upward, spattering her and drifting between the thick flakes of white that had followed them down from the clouds. His heart rattled painfully against his ribs, watching the tableau of death play out. He wondered how her heart was beating. Was it a blood-thrilling rhythm for battle? A hymn of lamentation for the life she’d taken? Or was it erratic with fear, like his own? Perhaps it was cold and evenly paced, cruelly indifferent to it all.

The dragon began to careen, wings jerking in the throes of its death. Her head whipped from side to side, maw unhinging to pour a stream of uncontrolled magic and ice into the air. Solas cried out once more when it caught Maori in its path, this time knocking her loose and far from its body.

“Shit,” Bull groaned with dread as they dropped toward the Elfsblood river. Sera screamed her own terror, so loud and shrill that it raised bumps along every inch of his skin. Without waiting for them, the rogue began scrambling down the rocks without any heed for the danger that the landscape itself posed.

“Wake up,” Solas begged her. “Wake up, vhenan…”

His heart skipped a beat as her form wavered and smoke unfurled from her body. He blinked and the raven had replaced the elf. She continued to fall with the dragon and he knew something was wrong when she didn’t try to fly to safety.

Limbs shaky and numb with adrenaline, Solas followed Sera, using magic to make the descent less precarious.

~~

They reached Judicael’s Crossing in time to witness the dragon crash into the frozen river just below, sending skyward a geyser of ice shards and water that almost reached the bridge. There was no sign of Maordrid.

It took far too long to find their way down and by then a handful of Inquisition agents who’d witnessed the spectacle had made their way to the riverbank as well. The snow was knee deep on him - ordinarily he’d walk upon it but that would only draw attention - though halfway through the trees he gave up and melted a path as he went.

The air glittered with fibres of ice crystals even in the gloom, making each intake of breath sharp before they melted in his throat. Despite the tranquillity of the wilderness, Solas was anything but, fraying further when the grotesque scene came into view. The dragon’s corpse was hanging half in the water, face down with its wings shredded and broken from the impact. Vivid arterial blood seeped and steamed from multiple wounds in the bright, painterly flesh and had spattered much of the snow on the banks. The water around the body was bubbling, though from what, he could not say.

“Did you see an elf anywhere?” Solas asked a gaping agent standing near the edge. The strawberry-blonde woman blinked rapidly and looked at him, seeming just as surprised at his arrival as she was of the mythical creature’s corpse. “Obsidian of hair and short in stature?” The agent shook her head slowly.

“No, Messere, only the dragon,” she said in a thick Orlesian accent. “Should I have someone search downriver?” He nodded curtly and turned as Bull and Sera joined him, wading through the snow. Sera’s eyes were rimmed with red and she was sniffing too much for it to have been from the cold. Iron Bull had little expression, eye fixating on the corpse behind him.

Solas opened his mouth to speak, though what he meant to say, he wasn’t sure, except that no one present deserved to be the target of his anger.

“She has to be somewhere,” he said, hardly aware of how hollow his voice sounded in his own ears. “The snow is deep…and there’s forest we can searc–”

“Solas–the ice!” Iron Bull pointed a meaty finger to something behind him. He spun, eyes searching and landing on a spot down river that was…glowing? Then he recognised it as magic - fire, to be precise. Solas took off at a run - or so he tried, forcing his body to plough through the snow toward the red-orange splotch. It pulsed once, twice, and then the surface exploded with such a force he felt the wave of heat on his cheeks. Water rained down all around him, but he forged ahead and slid down onto the river, sprinting when he heard desperate gasps and saw blue-tinged hands scrabbling for something to grab onto.

She slipped back under, but his hand plunged into the water, closing around her wrist just in time. He pulled up and her frightfully pale face burst from the freezing depths, bloodless lips parting for another gasp. Vhenan, oh my love, you reckless thing! With his help, she clambered clumsily onto solid ground, leaden arms tangling listlessly with his. Solas ripped his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped her in it. She wasn’t shivering, which was a sign that she wasn’t out of peril yet. Maordrid slumped forward on her knees, head bowed. Was she laughing? How dare–

“B-Beautif-f-ul,” she whispered, peering up at him with winter-silver irises. Even like this, drenched and weak, she was a vision that stole the breath from his lungs. She is so real. A blankness stole over her features and her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Real and in danger. Solas caught her, drawing her into his arms, not caring who saw as he wrapped her body tightly in his cloak.

Sera and Bull came skidding across the ice just as he got to his feet with the unconscious elf in his hold.

“Tell us what she needs and I’ll bluddy do it,” Sera told him, reaching out to brush a knuckle along Maori’s cheek with a tenderness not befitting the rogue.

“A tent. Bedroll, blankets,” Solas managed and Sera was already bolting back across the river toward the Inquisition scouts. While they waited for someone to return with a kit, Solas sat with her, passively warming Maordrid’s extremities as he could. An hour later, the tent was erected and Solas took her inside. Sera refused to leave even when he assured her he had it under control. When she showed no signs of listening, he caved and allowed her to help him undress Maordrid to her smalls and covered her beneath blankets imbued with heat spells after he had checked her over for broken bones and internal bleeding.

He finally got the rogue to leave on some mission to fetch a hot broth for when Maordrid woke, allowing him a moment of respite with his reckless heart. If they weren’t surrounded by agents or in the company of the other two, he would have joined her beneath the blankets - kept her warm with his own body heat. It would not do for someone to walk in and get the wrong idea. The thought repulsed him to his core.

Solas had not doubted her survival. Maordrid had come back from worse, after all. Certainly he feared for her life, but his anger he found was directed at her continuous neglect for herself. She’d no sense of self-preservation and seemed to find a thrill in taunting death. Her excuse would be something along the lines of “It’s for your own good.” It was the only thing predictable about her.

Her disregard had been so concerning that he’d requested she fight from afar rather than engage in dirth'ena enasalin. She’d taken it as an insult, rightfully so, as a true Arcane Warrior should. Ghilan'him banal'vhen, he’d asked of her. Yet…the next time they fought he found her beside him wielding a staff. He remembered her wry grin when he asked what had changed her mind. To give my heart some peace of mind. Plus, did you not want to keep me close? How could I resist a request like that?

How? By simply not caring what I think, he thought now, but perhaps that was unfair to her. He knew that she was not good with expressing her emotions, but never had he doubted her love for him. And it was a kind of love he had never known. Fierce and protective as the dragon she’d slain today while simultaneously terrifying…and ensorcelling. He revelled in the fires of her love. Some day, she might burn him to ash and he would love her for it.

His little warrior was a walking paradox.

“When you wake…” he trailed off as anger, hurt, and frustration swirled through him like the snow by the winds outside. He sighed. “Wake soon, vhenan.”

Then, he waited.

~~~~

She came to in the grips of heat and a white brightness glaring her in the face. Her body felt as though the dragon had sat on her all night. Each limb was stiff, too hot, and tight with pain. Her eyes swivelled in their sockets, trying to get a read on where her body currently lay. A tent, so it would seem. Shit, she thought with dread. Something had gone awry–

Oh. Right. She’d shapeshifted in an attempt to glide away into safety but hadn’t accounted for the drag created by the dragon’s body. She didn’t think the soul-sucking chill of the Elfsblood river would ever leave her.

With a soft groan, she forced her arms to lift her into a sitting position to escape the rude sunlight pouring in through the hole in the tent. Blinking the brightness from her vision, she found that she was alone, but only within the tent judging by the low hum of voices outside. Though her head pounded and her mouth was dry as bone, Maori first donned the clothes she found folded on a stool by a table. A cup of cold tea sat on the corner of it as well as a half-eaten ration of porridge. She swallowed the tea and decided that before she faced the wrath of anyone, she needed to visit the hivernal and pay her respects. She hadn’t meant to take the dragon’s life, but things had spiralled too far from her control to have avoided it.

Maordrid slipped out of the tent with her hood drawn and darted for the nearest wood her eyes landed upon. Only once she was in cover did she turn and take stock of her surroundings. Apparently, her companions had seen fit to take her as far away from the site of the dragon’s final resting place as possible. The head of the Elfsblood river was to her left, just beyond the shattered bridge and its frozen statues.

It would be a long walk to the dragon.

~~

It took little over an hour to make her way down the frozen river, but eventually the colossal stone bridge came into view around a high bluff, as did the great grey-blue corpse of the dragon, her body still laying in the river where she’d fallen. By then, it had begun to snow again and the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. It was as though the world knew that it had lost one of its skyward children, mourning her by the way she had been in life, surrounded by cold and ice.

Maordrid had to stop and lean against a riverside boulder as a sense of shame and sorrow bore down on her spirit. She had murdered a spirit of the natural world. A remnant of a time before mortal beings had taken root in this plane of existence. And for what? A selfish endeavour of hers?

Her feet carried her across the blue vein, but then stalled when a flicker of motion on the treeline caught her eye. Not yet. She relished the tranquil scene of the falling snow, the silver-dusted pines, and the stones riddling the landscape, for once her eyes sought the ancient wolf watching her, she knew it would all be over.

But there was no use delaying the inevitable.

She acknowledged his presence, turning her body to face him. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, ankles hooked, and a stern expression on his noble face. Maordrid reluctantly pushed back her cowl so that he could see her eyes.

“Why do you sneak about like a sordid thief in the night?” His soft voice carried across the wintry stillness, light as the falling flakes of snow around her. She frowned, wondering how long he’d been following her for.

“I would rather pay my dues to the dragon without interruptions,” she answered truthfully. Solas pushed away from his tree and began making his way slowly down the snow, nary leaving a track as he walked. He stopped when he reached the edge of the bank, hiemal eyes cold and filled with an indescribable emotion. Even if she could not read him, she sensed the trap waiting to spring on her. She sighed. “And I know you are upset with me.” Solas scoffed, swinging his head to peer at the dragon’s still form. A muscle in his neck tensed as he clenched his jaw.

“That is one way to put it.”

“Solas, I–”

“What were you thinking, Maordrid?” It was unnerving how he could speak in little more than a whisper and it would cut through the silence of the world like he’d shouted. “Ah, yes, you weren’t. Should I even be surprised?”

“You could do without the insults,” she muttered, then louder so that he could hear, “It was–”

“For our sakes, so you say. As always.”

“Will you allow me to get a damn word in?” She glared at him - he regarded her on his higher ground, looking down at her like a patron upon a supplicant. An Evanuris and his slave. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to dispel the horrible images and memories that flashed to mind. He never owned any. Quit it.

“Of course, let us see what excuses she can spin for this misstep.” She bristled, taking a step forward and meeting his eyes defiantly. Solas tilted his head, looking every bit like a wolf with his fur-lined cloak and features made almost feral with irritation. “Oh! Allow me - I cannot think of a single valid excuse for riding a dragon.” She threw her hands up despite the wrenching ache in her muscles.

“No! I don’t have a bloody excuse! Are you happy that you get to be right once again?” The cloud of white that came out of her nose was not steam, but smoke. The mage tucked his hands behind his back and this time it oozed condescension. “I was not going to offer excuses, Solas. I have an explanation but it seems like you are set on being angry with me. Or is this another attempt to push me away?” This, at least, garnered a reaction from him. Insult, then hurt. Oh, and how she abhorred that look. She wanted nothing more than to take his face between her hands and - no. Not this time.

“I simply do not understand why you acted so recklessly! Careless! I thought we had worked past that!” he said, voice raising just a hair in volume. She did not remember when he had climbed down from the riverbank, but now they were on even ground. “I have asked very little of you - not that I have any right to, but everything that happened yesterday could have been avoided.”

“You don’t know that,” she interjected sharply. “Any one of us could have been injured or worse! It is the way of battle –”

“Is taking the most perilous path possible–?”

“Solas, I had no choice!” He fell silent, a line forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. “In spur of the moment, I had no way around it.” She could see him trying to rearrange the pieces of the situation in his mind, attempting to find some way to box her in again - to gain the upperhand.

“The raven,” he was quick to puzzle out. She nodded.

“Bull saw me shift before, though I’m not sure when,” she said, running her fingers across her face. “Sera joked about riding the dragon and Bull saw it as an opportunity to…coerce me.” Solas’ eyes darkened, but he nodded for her to continue. “Ride the dragon and he won’t tell anyone. Though I suppose there is nothing truly keeping him from spilling what he knows about my abilities. So yes, I am a fool. But I took the chance.” A strange expression formed on his face as he looked back up the river. “What is it?”

“I believe he may have regretted his actions after what happened,” he said, sounding almost…smug. She knew Solas had a borderline hostile relationship with Bull - it had been a damn nightmare travelling from Skyhold to Emprise because of it - but the way his little grin curled his lips chilled her. Again, she was having a hard time reading him, which was…unusual. “As you should your own.” She resisted the urge to throw her hands up again.

“Thank you for the kind reminder, Solas,” she said, hating the way her voice cracked. “I was on my way to reflect on my mistakes alone when you saw fit to intercept me.” She stepped into his intimate space, looking up into his face, baring her own so that he could see the hurt in her eyes. “I regret it all. But what do my words matter to you? You don’t want to hear my ‘excuses’.” At his silence, Maordrid turned from him in anger. “So please excuse me now. I have rites to perform before Iron Bull brings the Inquisition down on my head for…lying by omission. Chances are I will be forced to flee.” She got a total of two steps in before bumping into him, having not even sensed him move.

“I have seen you lie before,” he said, close, but not touching her. His words sent a real chill cascading down her spine. Solas tilted his head, trying to capture her eyes with his. “Would you give up so easily against his claims, should he decide to expose you? You would face down a dragon but not a threat waged on your reputation? I do not understand you.” Maori shook her head, stepping back from him with a steady exhale.

“I have been outplayed. Leliana is already watching me closely, looking for any excuse to pin me down as some kind of criminal,” she confessed.

“I think you are lying to yourself now,” his voice was hedging back into his insufferable condescension once more. As though he knew better. “You have convinced yourself that you cannot talk your way out of it.”

“What a convoluted way of suggesting that I lie to them, Solas.” There was a bout of silence where they simply stared at one another.

“There are many ways to go about doing it.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would be fine with lying.”

“Let us pretend that you are, for a moment.” She stared at him, slightly aghast. He continued unaffected, “He may claim to have seen you shift into a raven - but what proof does he have?” She chewed the inside of her lip, shaking her head slightly. “An outright denial is one option.”

“And what would you do, wolf?” He didn’t react like she expected he might. Cool as the ice beneath their feet.

“Start a rumour about myself of absurd accounts. A dragon, a griffon, a nug…a wolf, whatever takes your fancy.” He smirked, clasping his hands behind his back. Maordrid once more looked to the side, considering. “In fact, I would strongly advise we do that, even if Bull decides not to. As a preventative measure, should he change his mind.” He paused. “You may even come to derive amusement from the way your reputation changes before your very eyes.”

Is that how you felt, once? Not anymore, surely.

“We?” she repeated, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “I did not take you for a gossiper.” His cloak swayed once with the single step he took toward her. His cinereous eyes reduced to slivers beneath his lids as he fixated on her. This close, she could see tiny snowflakes alighting on his lashes and a faint flush on his freckled cheeks from the windchill.

“Tall tales have their uses, and are not always malevolent in nature,” His lips twitched against a smirk. “We can get very creative.” She was not sure if he was still angry with her, but testily, she reached up and twined the leather cords of his amulet around her fingers. When he did not withdraw, she took it as a good sign.

“If we are to stick with the shapeshifting theme…you could shift into your wolf and walk by my side past one of the camps,” she mused, running the thumb of her other hand over the jawbone. “Might they think me an Emerald Knight from the olden days?”

“It would likely be more sinister than that, though I do enjoy the idea,” he said.

“Ah, sinister, is it? I can hear it now, ‘She walks beside Fen'harel! The demon-witch from the Fade is in cahoots with the Dread Wolf!’” Solas cast his head back and laughed heartily, clumps of white vapour curling from his mouth. The next thing she knew, his arms were tugging her to him and his mouth was on hers. The liar’s tongue tasted like mint and gingerroot today.

“That may not go over well with our Dalish Inquisitor or his sister,” he hummed against her lips.

“You were the one who suggested we be absurd. The idea was a good one.” A shadow passing overhead had them both looking up to see a raven flying toward the riverside camp. “Ravens and wolves. In Dalish legend…Dirthamen and Fen'harel.” She gave him a devious look. Oh, how I enjoy this game. “Imagine spreading the rumour that we are two elven gods come to assist the Inquisition.”

“I would rather not involve myself in these rumours,” he said, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her face.

“You wouldn’t need to. Shift, walk with me for a bit, then hide and shift back. No harm to your pristine reputation.” Solas’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “Or, teach me how to shapeshift into a wolf and I will do it myself. Who is she, really? Fen'harel? Dirthamen? If I knew a dragon form, I’d throw an Old God rumour into the pot.”

“I think it is rather set in stone that those two are males, vhenan,” he chided.

“Oh? I will prove to you the power rumour has over even stone.” Solas chuckled and pressed his lips to hers once more, plush and warm, but chaste. She untangled her hands from his necklace to loop them around his neck, pulling him close.

“Will I regret getting involved in your mischief?” he asked over her head, arms moving to encircle her waist.

“So long as you do not mind hearing the undoubtedly racy rumours that are bound to spring up about me,” she said with her own laugh. “Beyond that, you know what is true.” He drew back with a raised brow.

“Do I?” His thumb swept along her bottom lip. “I think you are lying, vhenan.” She smirked, lifting her eyes to the gloomy skies.

“That makes two of us.”

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Visitation

Back at it again with Black Dahlia! I just love writing her and Vinneketh. They’re an awesome broship and I love them <3. Just a brief warning, this story is long. Like, really long. Like over 2000 words long. I got kinda carried away. But, y’know, business as usual. 

Anyway, today on the Black Dahlia series, Black Dahlia visits Vinneketh in Sphynxia, following @cosmicrealmofkissteria‘s Tales of Spynxia story where Vinneketh goes home to get friend support after Demon leaves, and she ends up fixing the loose ends of an old conflict. I also reference a couple of her KISSteria drabbles, and my own story Intervention, all of which you can read in your own time. Enjoy!

Black Dahlia felt the strange vibrating feeling leave her body as she landed in Sphynxia. Vinneketh was there at the moment, had actually been there for a month now, and the Elder had allowed her to use the Star Portal so she could drop off more sleeping potions for him.

Immediately upon appearing in Sphynxia, she was hit by a blast of heat. The sun beat down, and she immediately wondered how Vinneketh was able to stand the heat all his life.

“Black Dahlia!” Speaking of Vinneketh, there he was, waiting for her, along with an older man she didn’t recognize. He was wearing a clean set of black and gold clothing and was smiling brightly. “It is so wonderful to see you again!”

Black Dahlia smiled back and went to embrace her friend, being careful not to jostle her bag of vials. She was happy to see Vinneketh looking so much better—it seemed going home for a while was definitely the right choice. KISSteria simply held too many memories of his beloved husband. “It’s wonderful to see you as well, Vinneketh. You look radiant.”

Vinneketh lightly pushed her shoulder teasingly. “Oh, hush, you.” He turned to the unknown man. “Master, this is Black Dahlia, of the Sisterhood of the Natural Order. Black Dahlia, this is my Master, Radames Fertari.”

Master Radames came forward, dipping his head and smiling at her. “Greetings, Black Dahlia. It is a privilege to meet a Sister of the Natural Order—I have heard many great things about the Sisterhood. It is also a pleasure to meet you at last; Vinneketh has told us much about you.”

Black Dahlia bowed respectfully. “Please, Master Radames, the pleasure is mine.” She smiled. “And I hope Vinneketh has only told you good things.”

Vinneketh looked mildly insulted. “Of course I have!”

Black Dahlia laughed and gave him the small bag. “Good. Anyway, here are your sleeping potions,”

Vinneketh took the bag and looked inside. “Thank you,”

“Remember,” she said, growing serious, “take only a quarter of each vial per night. A quarter. And don’t drink all of it at once.”

“It was only one time, and to be fair, you never told me I was not supposed to drink it all,” Vinneketh pointed out.

Black Dahlia glared at him. Vinneketh sighed. “I won’t forget. Thank you.”

Black Dahlia nodded in satisfaction, and began to turn around. “It was good to see you again, Vinneketh.”

“Wait,” When Black Dahlia turned around, Vinneketh was frowning at her. “You’re leaving already? You just got here!”

“I have duties to perform at the temple, Vinneketh,” Black Dahlia reminded him. “I can’t just stay for a visit.”

“Who says?” Vinneketh challenged. “I’m sure if you asked the High Priestess, she would allow it.”

“You would be welcome to visit for a while, Black Dahlia,” Master Radames added.

Vinneketh grasped her hand. “Please say you will ask, my friend.”

Black Dahlia wanted to refuse… but she couldn’t say no to that face. Gods dammit. “…Fine. I suppose I can ask Red Lotus if I can stay.”

Briefly, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. But then Vinneketh beamed in delight, and she decided the answer was yes. 

-SPYNIXIA-

To Black Dahlia’s delight, the High Priestess gave her permission to stay for ten days. She was even gladder to see Vinneketh’s bright smile when she told him.

Master Radames showed her to her guest chambers, and she thanked him before looking around. They were spacious and rather lavish, designed in light colors, mostly white and gold. They were a bit ostentatious for Black Dahlia, who had spent years living the simple culture of the Sisterhood, but they fit the feel of Sphynxia well. After settling in, Black Dahlia decided to change her clothes, mostly because it was hot—she was sweltering in her black robes.

When she left her chambers to meet Vinneketh for dinner, she was dressed in a white sleeveless dress that fell past her knees with black and gold borders on the hems, and had put her hair in a braided updo to keep it off her neck. As an unintended side effect, her hairstyle left the small black flowers on the right side of her face more visible, but she didn’t mind. And as always, her black dahlia pendant was around her neck, glittering in the Sphynxia sunlight for all to see.

Vinneketh looked at her outfit. “I’ve never seen you in anything that isn’t black,” he remarked. “You look very nice.”

Black Dahlia smiled slightly at her friend, knowing he meant it. “Thank you. Shall we?”

When they entered the dining area, there were already three other people there. They had to be the Warrior Troupe Vinneketh was always talking about. They all looked up when Vinneketh and Black Dahlia entered, and their eyes turned interestedly to Black Dahlia.

“My friends,” Vinneketh said to them all, looking very eager to make the introduction, “may I introduce Black Dahlia of the Sisterhood of the Natural Order.”

One of them, a warrior with wild light brown hair, looked from Vinneketh back to Black Dahlia with an eager look on his face. “This is Black Dahlia?” He grinned. “I was beginning to think she was a myth!”

“Masika,” another one with blond hair with lotus blossoms woven into it said sternly. He turned and inclined his head respectfully to Black Dahlia. “Ignore him. It is an honor to meet the woman Vinneketh has talked about so often, Black Dahlia.”

Black Dahlia bowed her head in return. “The honor is mine—Vinneketh has told me many times of his friends. Vinneketh, won’t you introduce me?”

Vinneketh nodded and led Black Dahlia to the table to introduce her to them. “This is Masika,” the light-brown haired one grinned and waved, “this is Dalila,” the blond one smiled, “and this is Bomani.” Bomani was a muscular warrior with dark brown hair, who nodded respectfully.

Black Dahlia frowned slightly at the name. “Bomani… your name sounds familiar. Have we ever met?”

“I am sure we haven’t,” Bomani responded.

Black Dahlia continued to frown, but shrugged all the same. “Oh well. Perhaps I heard Vinneketh say your name once.”

They all sat down and the meal began. Black Dahlia found herself between Vinneketh and Masika, answering Masika’s extensive questions about the Sisterhood. Dalila occasionally asked a question of his own, while Bomani threw in comments about her answers. When she wasn’t answering questions, she was listening to the four Warriors banter with each other. She was very glad to see Vinneketh smiling and laughing—it was a welcome change.

But she was still having a bit of trouble remembering where she had heard Bomani’s name. Had she heard Vinneketh mention it before? Perhaps he did, and she simply forgot.  

“How do you get your names?” he asked. “Surely you aren’t born with names like ‘Black Dahlia’ or ‘Blue Lion.’”

“No, we aren’t,” Black Dahlia replied easily. “Before our initiation, we undergo a Selection, during which we are chosen by a color and either an animal or flower spirit. In my case, for example, I was chosen by the color black and the dahlia flower. The color and the spirit become our name.”

“What about the name you were born with?” Bomani asked, the first time he asked a question of his own.

“We give it up,” Black Dahlia answered simply. “The name we were born with suggests an identity, a life, that we can no longer have. We must give up our given name, and in doing so give up our former life and identity, so that we may take on our new one.”

“You sound very proud to be part of the Sisterhood,” Dalila commented.

Black Dahlia smiled proudly. “Yes, I am. The Sisterhood is my family.”

Vinneketh spoke up. “The Sisterhood also trains its sisters in combat,”

The three Warriors turned to Black Dahlia, all of them looking interested. “Really?” Dalila asked.

Black Dahlia nodded in confirmation. “That is true. It is part of learning discipline.”

“Do you consider yourself a good fighter, Black Dahlia?” Masika asked.

She had to think for a moment before answering, shrugging her shoulders. “I mean, I suppose…”

“You sparred with me once, remember?” Vinneketh reminded her. “You were incredible.” He said to the other three, “I have seen Black Dahlia’s fighting; she was not using her magic, but I am sure if she was, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“Well now, that’s a bit of an exaggeration—”

Masika smacked his hand down on the table. “It’s settled then. Tomorrow, I challenge you to a duel!” he proclaimed dramatically to Black Dahlia.

Black Dahlia raised an eyebrow at him, then broke into a smile and laughed. “Challenge accepted, good sir!” 

-SPHYNXIA-

Over the next few days, Black Dahlia had quite an enjoyable visit. She dueled with Masika, and although he won, he did admit her skills were impressive. After some pleading (mainly from Masika), she showed the Warrior Troupe a bit of what she could do with her magic by regrowing dead plants around the temple garden, and standing in one place as she did so. The looks of stunned amazement on their faces were just a little gratifying. She also spent time with Vinneketh as they had done in KISSteria, having tea and talking.

“Are you sure you never tire of this?” she asked once.

Vinneketh shook his head. “Of course not! I enjoy talking to you.”

Black Dahlia smiled. “Well, I enjoy talking to you, too,”

Another thing she did was spend some time with Master Radames, who showed her the magic they used in Sphynxia. It was rather different from the Sisterhood’s, as while the Sisterhood drew from the power of nature, Sphynxia drew power with help from their gods. It was interesting, but Black Dahlia preferred her own magic.

She also spent time with Dalila in his admittedly-impressive lotus garden. He had grown them all himself and took very good care of them all. It was very peaceful to sit in the garden and have tea, so she and Vinneketh often had their talks there.

Once again, she was happy to see her friend doing so well. He had come so far from the day he burst into tears in her chambers at the temple. It was clear he still missed his dear husband every day, but the hurting feeling was beginning to lessen.

The only person she didn’t spend time with was Bomani. For some reason unknown to her, he kept his distance from her. And she certainly tried to engage him; she offered to spar with him, asked if he wished to have tea with her, ever asked him if he had any questions about the Sisterhood. But every time, he declined.

Black Dahlia wasn’t sure why he was doing it, but she knew when it had begun: it had begun the evening after her duel with Masika. She was dining with the troupe, and they were asking her about her life in KISSteria.

“Vinneketh told us you almost married the Prince,” Dalila said at one point. “Is that true?”

Black Dahlia nodded, smiling at the thought of her friend. “Yes, it is. Truth be told, I am glad marriage never happened. I adore Starchild, but simply as a good friend, and nothing else.”

Bomani suddenly looked up at the mention of Starchild’s name. “Did you say ‘Starchild’?”

Black Dahlia furrowed her brow in confusion. “Yes. Why?”

“… No reason. I apologize.” Then he looked back down at his plate.

From that moment on, Bomani kept his distance. Black Dahlia was just as confused about that as she was about where she had heard his name.

On the fifth day of her visit, Black Dahlia decided to bring it up to Vinneketh when they were having tea together in Dalila’s garden. “Vinneketh…”

“Yes?”

“Why has Bomani been avoiding me?”

Vinneketh blinked in surprise. “I am not sure. Do you know when it began?”

“It began on my first full day when I was having dinner with you all, I think. Dalila asked if it was true that I almost married Starchild, and…”

Understanding suddenly dawned on Vinneketh’s face, and he nodded. “Ah. I remember that. I understand, now.”

“What does it mean?”

Vinneketh set down his teacup. “Did Starchild ever tell you of the time Demon and I were arguing?”

Black Dahlia thought back to that. “Yes. He told me you smashed two perfectly nice vases while you were at it.”

Vinneketh rolled his eyes at that, but continued. “Well, did he tell you how it began?”

“I… do not think so. He said it wasn’t his business to tell me—so I do not think he knew.”

“He must have told you before we told him, then. It all began because… well, here.”

Vinneketh took Black Dahlia’s hand and guided it up to his forehead. Black Dahlia realized what he was doing—it was a memory-viewing tactic taught to her by the Sisters that allowed them to see the memories of others.

Black Dahlia’s eyes glowed black, red, and purple, while Vinneketh’s glowed gold, and suddenly they were both in Vinneketh’s memories. His astral form, a beautiful golden one, took the hand of hers, which was swirling black, red, and purple, and guided her as they flew through the memories.

And Black Dahlia saw everything.

“One of the reasons I came here was to bring you back to Sphynxia so we could be wed!”

“BUT I LOVE YOU!”

“TAKE YOU FILTHY HANDS OFF OF HIM BEFORE I INCINERATE YOU!!”

“I will not allow you to spill each other’s blood just to gain my favor!”

“Treasure… I…”

“DO NOT SPEAK! WHATEVER CONFLICT THAT HAS TAKEN PLACE HERE IS NOW OVER!”

“He has his own bed!”

“Can you not see that I am healing him? He cannot be moved!”

“What were you two fighting about?”

“It’s… simply rather… upsetting.”

“What happened?”

“A piece of filth called Bomani,”

“Starchild, what did you do?”

“Nothing. I had a talk with him, is all.”

Black Dahlia blinked, and she was back in her chair in Dalila’s garden. Her eyes were wide in shock from what she just witnessed. Vinneketh was gazing at her with a rather sad look on his face.

Bomani… she at least understood the part he had to play in all of that. She wondered what Starchild had done to shut him up like that. But even so… that still didn’t excuse what he had done.

“… Do you want me to kill him for you?”

Vinneketh immediately huffed and rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Again? Why are you two so—never mind. No, you do not need to kill him. If you must know, Starchild convinced him to end his attempt at a betrothal.”

“How?”

Vinneketh shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me,”

“I’m not so sure,” Black Dahlia said, thinking back to how Bomani had been avoiding her. “If it has all been resolved, why has Bomani been avoiding me?”

Vinneketh did not have an answer for that.

-SPHYNXIA-

The next day, Black Dahlia was back in Dalila’s garden, waiting for Bomani. She knew he would pass the garden, because according to Masika, he always went this way on his way to the training hall.

She glanced over at the teapot. In order to throw off suspicion, she had poured a cup for herself, but in the teapot was not just tea. There was also a potion in there that had been taught to her by one of her teachers: it was a form of a truth potion, but it didn’t force its victims to tell the truth. Instead, it merely exerted a strong influence over them, convincing them they should tell the truth. She had brewed it last night, deciding if she was going to settle this, she needed extra insurance that Bomani would tell her the truth and not lie.

Sure enough, just as Masika said, Black Dahlia heard footsteps and saw Bomani pass the entrance to the garden, weapon in hand. She straightened up and put on a smile. “Bomani!”

Bomani froze and turned to her. She continued to smile pleasantly. “Good morning. I just made a pot of tea, and I insist that you join me.”

Bomani glanced around awkwardly. “I… I would love to, but I must go train…”

Black Dahlia scoffed lightly. “Oh, come on, I’m sure it can wait. Vinneketh says you are always training.”

At the mention of Vinneketh, Bomani was hooked. “Does he?”

“He does. He cares about all his friends. Come, please join me.”

“I… I suppose,”

Black Dahlia smiled victoriously and poured out a cup for him as he came and sat down, gently placing his weapon beside his seat. She pushed the cup towards him, smiling eagerly. “Take a sip. It’s a special brew I learned from the Sisters.”

Bomani gingerly picked up the cup and took a sip, and Black Dahlia watched him swallow. She hid her smile in her own cup. “Well, what do you think?”

Bomani put down his cup and thought for a moment. “It is… good. The Sisters taught you well.”

Black Dahlia’s smile turned a tad genuine at the mention of her family. “I know,”

There was a beat of silence, then Bomani asked, “Does Vinneketh say… anything else about me?”

Black Dahlia had to hide some of her surprise when she heard how he sounded rather hopeful. She didn’t think the potion would take effect that quickly. “Only to say he is glad to have you as a friend. He thinks of you as a brother-in-arms.” At Bomani’s visible disappointment, she decided to take a chance. “Why? What else would he say?”

“I… I do not know… I apologize, I do not know why I asked that…”

“I think I know.” When Bomani looked up at her she continued. “I think you asked because you still love him.”

In the pause that followed, Bomani looked reminiscent of a trapped animal. Hoping the potion would work, Black Dahlia asked, “Do you?”

Bomani’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he answered, looking rather ashamed of himself. “I… yes, I do.”

Black Dahlia set down her cup and leaned forward, deciding that even if the potion was working she still had to be honest with him. “Bomani, I will be honest with you, as long as you will be honest with me. I asked you to have tea with me because I have noticed you’ve been avoiding me. I think it has to do with the fact that I know Starchild, and Starchild told you to end your pursuit of Vinneketh. Is that right?”

Bomani still looked ashamed, but nodded all the same. “Yes… it is.”

“What did he say to you, if I may ask?”

“He threatened to do worse than what he already done, and that he would not hold back… Vinneketh’s mate… either.”

Black Dahlia nodded in understanding. “I see. Well, I know Starchild, and I can tell you that he makes good on his threats. He’s not someone who makes threats lightly, and besides, you did threaten the happiness of his closest friend. Well, closest friend besides me.”

“But I can’t help it!” Bomani burst out. “I… I can’t help how I feel for Vinneketh. It… It isn’t something I can simply wish away.”

“Bomani… you do know neither of you would be happy?” When Bomani looked at her she continued. “I have seen Vinneketh’s memories of your pursuit of him. What you want from him would not be a meaningful relationship. And Vinneketh, as much as he cares for you, would not be happy in a relationship with you. Besides, Vinneketh is married now, and would never betray Demon. Ultimately, you would both be miserable.”

Bomani looked to be contemplating her words. “Then… what do you suggest I do?”

“My advice? Try to move on. There are plenty of other people in Sphynxia. If you spend so much time agonizing over why it isn’t working with Vinneketh, you are keeping yourself from finding someone you truly connect with and love. I think you will find that person.”

Bomani’s face turned hopeful. “You do?”

Black Dahlia nodded, and this time she was genuine. “I do,”

“But… what about Vinneketh? I cannot change what I did for all those years.”

“Ask his forgiveness. I am certain he will forgive you if he sees that you are truly sorry, which I think you are. In fact, I think he’s down at the training hall if you want to apologize to him now.

“I… I think I will do that. Thank you, Black Dahlia.” Bomani looked down at his teacup rather sheepishly. “Also, I never told you why I was avoiding you, which I do apologize for. I… I thought you were spying on me for Starchild.”

Black Dahlia raised an eyebrow at him, then started to laugh. “That’s… That’s kind of funny, actually.”

Bomani started to smile. “I suppose it is silly,”

Laughing, Black Dahlia set down her teacup and got to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go find Vinneketh.”

-SPHYNXIA-

Vinneketh was indeed at the training hall. Black Dahlia allowed Bomani to go in first, and patiently waited until she heard silence. Smiling, she entered the chamber, and found the two Warriors embracing each other.

Over Bomani’s shoulder, Vinneketh saw Black Dahlia, and broke away. “Black Dahlia, I did not see you there.” He smiled. “Bomani was just—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Did you accept his apology?”

Vinneketh glanced at Bomani and smiled. “Yes, I have.” Then he went over to her, and hugged her tightly.

Black Dahlia tensed, then hugged him back. “You really must stop hugging me unexpectedly,” she said aloud.

“That’s not going to happen anytime soon,” Vinneketh said cheerfully. Then Black Dahlia heard him whisper into her ear, “I don’t know what you said to him, but thank you.”

Black Dahlia smiled. “You’re welcome. I simply… helped him to see the truth.”

“Black Dahlia,” said Bomani when they stepped away from each other, “your fighting the other day was very impressive. But Masika is more suited for hand-to-hand combat. I wonder… how would you do with a weapon?”

Black Dahlia smiled hopefully. “Is that an invitation?”

Bomani twirled his double-bladed fan axe and smiled at her. “It is a challenge,”

Black Dahlia’s smile widened. “Well, challenge accepted, good sir. Let me go fetch my staff.” 

[requiemesque]

distraction

from an earlier iteration of chi and achilles, in which chi had inherited a kingdom from mael, and achilles was consort to his languishing queen

           Roses, such as they are grown in cites, never delighted Chimitsu the way they do other women. Too flowery, too sweet, too smooth of stem and scented of perfume and plastic. It wasn’t until she happened upon a briar field of wild roses that she ever tended any affection for the species. An elf explained them to her, those bellicose beauties, and at once she had a selection transplanted from the field to a greenhouse. True warriors, they overtook the glass and woven wood structure with ease, opening its doors and walls to the rain like is falling today as their vines speared the windows and their thorns dug under the flesh of the trees.

           She has to step over puddles of glass when she visits. A smart woman would wear shoes. A real one went without them. Blinking past opaline sheets of rain that latched onto her eyelashes, Chi wanders the ruined rows and runs her hand through the raging vines. Small blurs of red mar the myriad of green and black like blots of blood, her personal distractions. A house of distractions. Her hair is damp, and rain trickles around her ear, down the arch of her throat. She holds her breath like a sigh and tastes fermented storm on her tongue.

           “Quite like a fairytale, this,” breaks a voice into her silence, and her hand falls from the flower it holds, catching bruised on a nearby thorn. “A lady, a lover, some rain and some roses…Ah, shit. You’re hurt.”

           Frowning, Chimitsu shakes her head and prods at the bruise blooming on the back of her hand. She turns to a stone seat, footsteps close behind as Achilles follows her in, and sits to examine the scratch.

           “I’m fine,” she says to the lover catching up. “I was careless. I suppose if this were a fairytale, someone would have to get hurt.”

           Achilles smiles, that roguish slant, and sits beside her on the bench. The air feels warmer with him near, flavored with fresh spices over clear rain.

           “Of course—how else would the hero save the day? Although my queen hardly needs saving, on most days. Give me your hand,” he says, though he takes it without waiting for an answer.

           “Axe swinging woodsmen and wolves hardly get on well.” Chimitsu wrinkles her nose, but manages not to pull back her hand. “It’s a scratch. I’m already healing, so—hhh!”

           She hisses when Achilles presses, and snaps her fangs. He holds up a needlesque thorn between his thumb and forefinger with a wink.

           “But princes and queens do just fine. This little thing was red on my beautiful golden girl—you might have healed right over it and never known until it was infected,” he says, kissing the sore skin. “You seem to get along quite well with woodsmen, by the way. I see no problem.”

           “Well, you aren’t trying to put an axe through my skull,” she says, grazing his temple with her nose as he leans in close and brings his head level with hers.

           “I’d put an axe through my own, first.” Achilles weaves his hands through hers and presses them into the concrete, aligning his chest with hers. “So, what brings you out here in the rain, hm?”

           “I like the way it feels on my skin, and I wanted to see the roses.” Sighing, she closes her eyes and rolls her head to her shoulder as his lips brush her pulse. “These councils are boring, and I have no patience for drivel. I wanted a walk to clear my head. Which…you are making…difficult. Although I can’t say I mind much…”

           “Would you like to continue your walk?” He glances up through his hair, rain glittering in his vision, and smiles. “I would be honored to accompany you, and put off this tryst for warming up after the rain.”

           Chimitsu laughs and gives her huntsman a shove with the heel of her palm. He laughs, too, and falls back, watching her stand and sashay down the unvined pathways. Rolling to his feet, Achilles dusts a few shards of glass and soil off and follows after. He snares her waist and pulls her close as he catches up; she fits warm against his side as if she were made to be there.

           “It’s been a while since we’ve walked together,” she says.

           “And in a place much like this it was, too, yet you’re still more beautiful than any flower I see here. Although…” He reaches up for a low hanging rose, gold as a sunset and stemmed with plentiful thorns. “…I can see the resemblance.”

           “Beautiful, natural, surrounded by thorns?” Chimitsu smirks. “Come now, Achilles, surely you can be more original than that.”

           Plucking the rose out of its thorns with ease, Achilles hands it to his queen and kisses her temple. “I was going to say distracting…”

           That makes her smile, a genuine lilt of her lips. “Oh? I vaguely remember calling you the same, once.”

           “Perhaps that is why we are so well suited together,” he says, taking her hand as they begin to walk and twirling her around. “Just two wild distractions looking for kindred spirits.” He dips her, raindrops splashing form his hair onto her face, and she laughs.

           “Perhaps we are.”

           Leaning up, Chimitsu catches her lover by the hair and brings their lips together. Then, swinging around him, she sweeps away down the path and leaves him almost falling in the mud. He laughs, spurs to give chase, and she runs as the rain pours down around them. When he catches her at last, it is pouring, and no amount of natural heat could keep his queen from shivering in her clothes. Breathless, exhilarated, he kisses her lips and draws her into the shade of a leaning wall covered in ivy. He sits on the ground and drew her between his knees, bowing his head to her neck with a laugh and kissing it as she leans back into him.

           “You taste even better, sweetened by rain, my queen,” Achilles murmurs.

           “And somehow, soaked in it, you’re warmer than ever.”

           “Cold? Keep close, then.” He rests his head on her shoulder and snugs his arms around her waist. “Just watch the rain, love…”

[pantherstormy]

Goosefeather’s Scars Chapter One

*slams head against desk* THIS TOOK THREE HOURS

It’s finally here! The first chapter of my fan story for Goosefeather! I wanted to dive into some character traits and relationships that I headcanon for Goosefeather, and this seemed like a good way to do it. I hope you enjoy!

           Goosepaw trailed after Cloudberry carefully, aware of the faded cats surrounding him. He couldn’t tell if the spirits were from the past or reflecting the future, but that didn’t mean he could be careless. His eyes trailed away from Cloudberry’s flank to a group of transparent kits as they played kit-games. A pang of sadness ran through Goosepaw’s chest as the little cats batted at a moss-ball as clear as they were. He should be curled up beside Moonkit back in the nursery, not on his way to the sacred Moonstone when it would be past his bedtime.

           Lost in his thoughts, Goosepaw tripped over a small stone. He squeaked as he tumbled to the ground, his belly fur covered with dust. Goosepaw opened his mouth to cry for Cloudberry the way he would cry for his mother, but quickly discarded the idea. He was an apprentice, not a crying kit!

           An apprentice of four moons old who should be nestled by his mother’s belly with his father encouraging him to try his first bite of shrew.

           Goosepaw became lost in his thoughts of kithood, his paws suddenly feeling heavy. Rooktail would come by the nursery every morning before he went off to hunt, promising Daisytoe he would bring her something nice. Moonkit always begged to go with him, trying to prove herself by pouncing on Rooktail’s tail and nipping at it with her teeth. Daisytoe would pull her off, commenting how Moonkit was going to be the bravest warrior in the clan, and Rooktail would touch his nose to Goosekit’s forehead and state that Goosekit would have to look out for his sister and make sure that she didn’t get herself killed. Goosekit always chirped in delight at the idea. He was going to be the best medicine cat ever. Helping his clanmates stay healthy, sharing words with StarClan themselves, and maybe even standing by Doestar at gatherings as she would tell the other clans that ThunderClan was the strongest. Whatever would end up happening to him in the future though, Goosekit’s family was always going to be the most important thing to him. His mother, his father, and his wonderful sister would serve the clan together-!

           “-oosepaw! GOOSEPAW!”

           Goosepaw’s eyes flashed back into focus just as Cloudberry came to stand in front of him. She was a kind mentor, and the look in her eyes was sympathy for him. “Maybe you should stay home tonight. You’re still a kit, and I think I may have pushed you too hard.”

           “Don’t worry.” Goosepaw shakily stood up, dragging his tongue over his dirty pelt to clean himself. He was a kit in age, but he was an apprentice now. An apprentice that would make his family proud! “Just tripped over a lil’ rock.”

           Cloudberry’s worry faded a little, and was replaced by a proud smile. She drew Goosepaw closer to her and groomed his pelt herself. The two sat in silence for a bit as Goosepaw closed his eyes, his mentor’s gentle strokes releasing all tension in his body and soothing his mind.

           Goosepaw’s eyes opened when Cloudberry pulled away, the she-cat purring softly. “Come along Goosepaw. They must be waiting for us.”

           The two cats started up the slope again, Cloudberry trailing behind Goosepaw in case he slipped. At one point Goosepaw had started to tumble down after gripping a loose clump of dirt, but Cloudberry had luckily been a soft barrier for him to land in. A laugh was shared between the two, and the rest of the walk was filled with Cloudberry telling Goosepaw nursery stories. Any apprentice would have scoffed at the thought of hearing “kit-tales”, but Goosepaw loved them. Cloudberry’s voice reminded him of Daisytoe, and the stories helped him feel like he was back in the nursery.

           By the time the ThunderClan cats reached Mothermouth, it was almost moon-high. The other medicine cats were waiting for them, but it was clear that they had been waiting for a while. One of the other apprentices was even taking a nap, being curled up at his mentor’s feet. The oldest looking cat there, a black and white she-cat, stepped towards Cloudberry with an irritated expression. “I see you’ve finally arrived Cloudberry. You’ve never taken this long before. Could that be because you have a kit trailing behind you?” Her tone was accusatory, and even though Goosepaw felt upset about not being seen as a medicine cat apprentice, he couldn’t let Cloudberry take the blame. “It was my fault!” He spoke up. “I kept falling and Cloudberry had to keep helping me get back up. I’m really sorry… um…”

           “Echosnout.” The she-cat nearly spat. Her aggression faded slightly when Goosepaw stood up for his mentor. She almost looked a little impressed. “But that doesn’t change why you brought a kit here.”

           “He looks like he should be suckling at his mother’s belly!” A ginger she-cat jeered. “Cloudberry, if you say this is your apprentice, I’ll give you one of my kits.”

           “I guess Daisytoe will have to nurse them then Redthistle, because Goosepaw is my apprentice.”

           Goosepaw felt confusion pulse through his mind. Kits? Redthistle has kits? Medicine cats weren’t allowed to have kits! Wasn’t Redthistle breaking the code?

           Seeing the alarm on her apprentice’s face, Cloudberry bent down and whispered to him. “Redthistle trained as a medicine cat before becoming a warrior. Her mentor recently died so she had to go back to the position. Her mate is currently pregnant with kits that the two decided to have before she became a medicine cat again.”

           Goosepaw nodded slowly, still not understanding what most of Cloudberry’s words meant. It’s probably medicine cat stuff I’ll learn in the future.

           A young white she-cat trotted up to Goosepaw while the mentors were in the middle of a small argument. She immediately touched noses with Goosepaw before bouncing half a tail-length away from him. “Hello Goosepaw! My name is Sagepaw!”

           Goosepaw opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Sagepaw’s rambling. “I’m sorry about what Redthistle said about you. She may seem harsh, but she’s actually very gentle with sick cats! You’ve also met the grumpy grandmother, Echosnout! She can be harsh when it comes to apprentices. I don’t even know how your mentor put up with her! Do you have any siblings? I have two brothers named Finchpaw and Blizzardpaw! I bet if you do have siblings they must be very happy for you to be a medicine-“

           Thank StarClan. Goosepaw thought when Redthistle covered Sagepaw’s mouth with her paw. She was a nice cat, but she could certainly talk.

           “Mouse-brain.” Redthistle laughed, removing her paw. “This is why not many cats want to talk to you. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re saying, but tone it down a little!”

           Sagepaw gave her mentor a big grin, her tail flicking in an amused matter.

           “Are we finished with the chit-chat?”

           Goosepaw almost jumped high enough to reach the stars when the dark brown tom spoke. He had been so quiet and still the whole time, he almost faded into the darkness! The apprentice at the tom’s paws let out a small yawn as he felt his mentor stir. He blinked open his eyes and mumbled out, “is it dawn yet?”

           “No, Hawkpaw.” Echosnout responded, picking up the young cat by the scruff. Hawkpaw let out a squeal, fully waking up at that moment. “Hey let me down! I’m not a kit!” The apprentice’s frantic gaze suddenly went to Goosepaw, his eyes widened. “But that tom is.”

           “He’s an apprentice of ThunderClan, and I do want you to respect that. Do I make myself clear?” Hawkpaw’s mentor spoke as Echosnout set the young cat down.

           “Yes Chiveclaw…” Hawkpaw murmured, shaking his pelt. “Can we go now?”

           “Now that Goosepaw knows everybody here, I’d say so.” Cloudberry agreed, leading the medicine cat patrol deep into Mothermouth.

           Mothermouth was cold. The walls were as cold as Rooktail’s fur when he had slipped into the Sunningrocks stream a moon after Goosepaw and Moonkit were born. Except somehow colder. How cold can it get?

           A shiver tingled through Goosepaw’s body when one of his paws landed on an especially cold pebble. Oh, if only Daisytoe were here! Goosepaw was about to run forward and press against Cloudberry in the darkness when he heard Sagepaw whisper to him. “It’s okay, I’ll warm you up.” Goosepaw felt the she-cat’s body press against his own, warming him up with her body heat.

           “Thank you,” Goosepaw purred softly to Sagepaw, with her returning the purr happily.

           After what felt like days of walking through Mothermouth, the seven cats entered a large cave shining with bright blue light. Goosepaw’s mouth dropped open at the sight, his mind filled with wonder. He could hear the other medicine cats chuckling at his reaction, but that didn’t matter to him. It’s the Moonstone. THE Moonstone! Where we can gain prophecies!

           Cloudberry motioned Goosepaw to follow her, walking up to the Moonstone and lying down. Goosepaw mimicked her actions, noticing that the other medicine cats were all doing the same action and closing their eyes. Before he closed his own, Goosepaw noticed Hawkpaw watching him curiously. Hawkpaw then shut his own eyes, with Goosepaw doing the same.

---

           Cloudberry pressed against a trembling Goosepaw, his eyes wild and fearful as he tried to steady himself. That wasn’t a good dream. That wasn’t a good message from StarClan. All those cats just wanted him to hear them, but he couldn’t.

           The other medicine cats were saying their goodbyes, all splitting off from each other to head to their respective clans. “Are you okay to head back now?” Cloudberry asked her apprentice, gently soothing him with more relaxing licks. “Y-Yes.” Goosefeather nodded. “I want to go home now.”

           As the two were about to head back to the ThunderClan camp, Goosepaw heard Hawkpaw calling for him. Glancing to Cloudberry, his mentor nodded curtly as if to give permission. Goosepaw crawled up the stones again with a grunt, coming face-to-face with the dark apprentice.

           “Goosepaw, we didn’t get to talk much.” Hawkpaw muttered a little sadly. “All the other cats got to speak with you, but I didn’t!”

           Goosepaw tried to respond, feeling very nervous. “Chiveclaw didn’t speak with me either-“

           “That’s not the point!” Hawkpaw cut him off, his eyes glittering with hope. “I want to know you like the others do! You’re the only other tom apprentice here! Can you meet me here tomorrow night? Here at Mothermouth?”

           Goosepaw’s eyes widened and he kneaded the ground with his paws. This was wrong. Wasn’t this against the code? Actually… medicine cats were allowed to meet with each other, and Redthistle has kits… Maybe this was part of the code that he would understand when he was older? “Okay. I’ll try to meet you here tomorrow.” He smiled, suddenly a little self-concious about his kit fluff.

           “Great!” Hawkpaw gave a grin and ran off in the direction of WindClan. All of Goosepaw’s doubt faded away in that moment and he rushed to meet Cloudberry at the bottom of the slope.

           If somebody is that happy, doesn’t that make it right?

The dream sequence doesn’t change from the original novella, so I didn’t want to rewrite it.

The biggest thing I wanted to do with this chapter is to give the medicine cats personalities outside of the normal “wise and understanding” personality. Hopefully I conveyed it well!

Cloudberry: Mother-like and gentle

Echosnout: A perfectionist and mostly very grumpy

Redthistle: Jokester and full of energy

Cliveclaw: Keeps to himself and doesn’t like to talk much

Goosepaw: Awkward and clumsy

Sagepaw: Happy-go-lucky and caring

Hawkpaw: Careless and curious

[scarletraven1001]

The Final Price (Chapter 4)

Chapter Summary: Bulma’s curiosity leads her to make a few startling discoveries, while her and Vegeta’s bond continues to grow stronger. However, evil is always afoot, and Bulma finds herself in a situation where, possibly, not even Vegeta could save her.

Entry for the @tpthvegebulmayhem, Week 3.

Prompt: 1) Twenty mattresses and a pea; 2) Who is trip-trapping on my bridge.

Chapter Warnings: Rated E - Profane language; Crime and Violence.

All Chapters:  1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10

Also on Ao3.

8-8-8-8-8

Chapter 4: The Spirit Bridge

8-8-8-8-8

Note: The original Week 3 entry was more than 17,000 words long, so I have split it into three parts. This is Part 1 of 3. I hope you like it!

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

As a woman of science, Bulma Briefs was a naturally curious person.

Since she was a little child, Bulma had always been the type who would never be content with short answers. There always had to be an explanation… a logical reason behind everything, every concept and every occurrence.

She needed to be convinced… to know exactly how something worked, before she would ever begin to be at peace regarding anything.

It was because of her inherent inquisitive nature, that Bulma was perpetually aggravated about the one thing in her life right then that did not quite make sense.

Vegeta.

He was the only person who thought of and believed in her abilities, spurring her to begin her research into the true embezzlers. It was something that she, in her focus on keeping her mother alive, had all but forgotten, but he somehow knew that she could have had what it takes to find the true perpetrators.

It had let the corrupt ones know that Bulma was still a player in the game, causing them to go after her, leading her into wishing her problems away. Even though her research had never needed to see the light of day after all, it had still been a catalyst in how everything had wrapped up.

There was also the fact that Vegeta always seemed to have a predilection for protecting her. He had saved her from her would-be rapists and murderers, and now kept near-constant vigil with her.

In the three months that she had known him, the Prince had become a steady companion to her, a regular fixture in her life, no matter how deeply he remained firmly hidden in the shadows whenever any other person drew near.

There were times when he seemed so normal, so unapologetically human, that she almost forgot that he was actually a mysterious phantom, a warrior spirit that she had summoned to grant her impossible wishes.

He was a demon of sorts, who seemed to still be biding his time until he finally revealed the final price that he would be taking from her, in return for his services.

She dreaded the moment when he would finally come up to her and ask for his payment, and that, within itself, aggravated her even more, since she had recently realized that it wasn’t her fear of the ultimate consequences of her wishes that she truly dreaded…

Bulma realized that she was terrified of the time when he finally stopped playing games with her, since she knew that upon gaining his price, Vegeta will, undoubtedly, leave.

It scared her witless when she understood that, all that spectacular golden-haired power aside, she did not want him to go.

She was dying to understand him, to know more about him, beyond the small snippets of random memories that he shared with her whenever he was lethargically pumped full of good food.

And ultimately… she wanted him to stay.

At the moment, she was content with having him literally floating with her in their family’s private swimming pool while they snacked on tropical fruits.

“And what is this one?” he asked, picking up a slice of yellow fruit.

“That is pineapple,” she answered. “You’ve had that before.”

“It looks different,” he said, popping the fruit in question into his mouth.

“This was sliced into chunks,” she commented, picking up a small bit of melon. “Bite-sized, easier to eat.”

“Tch,” he sneered. “You Earthlings… too lazy to even bite into food.”

She lowered her sunglasses, peering at him over the top of the rims.

She was on a pool float, wearing a blue two-piece bikini… one that she had purposefully picked out, as she recalled that it made her boobs look amazing.

The Prince was hovering in the air beside her, hand digging into her fruit bowl. He was wearing a pair of shorts and no shirt, an attire that she had coaxed him into, and as she ran her eyes up and down his obscenely defined chest and abdomen, she rationalized that her scheming to have him half-naked was her benevolent gift to mankind.

He was quite the view.

“Oh, don’t give me that, Mr. Prince of a warrior race. You can’t tell me that you didn’t have servants slicing your fruit for you.”

“My servants cooked my meat and peeled my produce. We didn’t have them cut the plants up into chunks,” he sneered, even as he merrily helped himself to another piece.

He was trying to find another slice of mango when he froze, and Bulma stiffened as she watched his eyes glaze over.

She knew what was coming next.

In a flash, he had materialized into his armor, eyes alert, body tense.

“I need to go,” he muttered tersely, before he brought two fingers to his forehead in a now familiar gesture, a second before he vanished into thin air.

Bulma sighed.

The man was a true mystery, one that she wished to unlock. She wanted to know who and what he was, forcefully casting aside her questions regarding why exactly she was so determined to get to know him.

8-8-8-8-8

Vegeta appeared into the middle of the tiny island house, looking around for the old woman who had called to him.

He keenly felt the ki signatures of his men, sensations that he had recently become reacquainted with.

He strode out of the house, noting the pandemonium happening just beyond the shore.

A tall, spiky haired Saiyan floated above the waters. He was wearing an orange martial arts gi and he was soaked in sweat, focusing a small and extremely potent energy ball into his hand, before he, with a strangled shout, blasted the tiny orb into the sea, forcing the placid waters to rise into towering waves of energy.

A few meters up into the sky, Vegeta spied the sparring forms of two disproportionately large men; both wearing the same orange attire as the first man, but while the first was lean, these men are both extremely muscular. For these two, however, one was completely bald headed, and the other had entirely too much hair.

Vegeta powered up, drawing their collective attentions to him.

All activity stopped, and the three hastily flew downwards, dropping down on one knee before him, with their right fists clutched tightly to the left side of their chests, heads down in supplication.

“Your Highness,” the bald one, the highest-ranked of the three, was in the middle.

“Nappa,” Vegeta greeted. “At ease.”

All three stood, facing their Prince.

Their race was gone, and only these three remained as his subjects. Though Vegeta would never admit it aloud, he was glad that they remained loyal to the crown.

“Raditz,” he turned to the man whose thick, dark hair was down to his knees. “I trust your travels went well.”

“Yes, my Lord,” he nodded. “I rushed here as fast as I could from planet Arlia, when I was told that you were back. I am honored to be in your presence once again.”

“And you, Kakarot, how fares your training?” he asked of the youngest one, who had barely been a man when he had last seen him.

“It has been going well, Prince Vegeta,” he scratched at his spiky hair as he went on, “I just need to relearn to focus my long-range attacks.”

“It is understandable that you are out of practice, as you have been at peace for several years,” Vegeta said. “Where is the crone?”

“Here, Prince Vegeta,” a hoarse old voice called out, making all four men turn to look back at the tiny house.

Uranai stood at the doorway, her crystal ball floating beside her as she took her slow steps towards the Saiyans.

“I am glad to see that you have all been reunited now. I am sure that the Prince is delighted to have his team back together.”

“Thank you for gathering us, Uranai,” Nappa said. “When the Prince was released, I felt his ki immediately, but Raditz was off planet, and Kakarot here had rather vague memories of our battles and was thus unable to quickly place the ki.”

“He had been barely more than a young boy at the time,” Raditz said. “Kakarot was only fourteen Saiyan suns old.”

“I am now twenty eight, by Saiyan count, right?” Goku asked. “Because we have been on Earth for nearly thirty years.”

Vegeta did the mental math. He had been imprisoned in the middle realm, within the ball, for fifteen Saiyan suns… thirty Earth years.

“Yes, and it has been thirty Earth years too long,” Vegeta said.

He took a deep breath, passion igniting in his eyes as he commanded. “Prepare yourselves, my loyal Saiyans. Soon, we shall go into war. And this time, we will win.”

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma tossed and turned in bed, unable to shake the feeling that something, at that very moment, was going incredibly wrong.

It was a gloomy evening, cool in temperature, but the darkness was so deep that it seemed even the moon and the stars hid from sight. The blackness was so disconcerting, more so since she was bogged down by worry for her missing non-human friend.

It had been three days since Vegeta disappeared, and she wasn’t quite sure if it was alright to call for him since he had looked so troubled when he last left.

She had waited for him to show up like usual, perhaps popping into existence beside her, or slithering into her bedroom in the dead of night.

She sighed, resolved to go to sleep, even as she offhandedly wondered if perhaps she was just uncomfortable on her new bed.

She had purchased a new, larger one after they came back to Capsule Corp, because she felt like the world owed it to her to let her lay on the largest possible bed after she had been forced to sleep on a narrow, hard cot for months.

She had taken forever to choose her bed, rejecting at least twenty mattresses until she finally settled on what she felt was the perfect one.

She was laying on the most amazing bed this side of West City, and yet, was unable to sleep because a certain pea-brained man had her worried to death over his whereabouts.

She was about to finally give up and just take sleeping pills when a dim flash of light appeared beside her, and she turned in surprise as she watched the form of the flame-haired man begin to form.

She almost heaved a sigh of relief, before she remembered that she was actually rather cross with him.

“What the hell have you been up to?” she asked suspiciously as soon as he was fully-visible before her. “I didn’t see you all weekend.”

Vegeta approached her side, floating gingerly beside her bed. “I have been sorting out some… private matters.”

She frowned, then reached over to flick on her bedside lamp.

A loud gasp was wrenched from her chest at the sight that greeted her.

“Oh my God! What happened to you?” she shrieked, one hand reaching out, as if to touch him, but her hand remained hovering a few inches away from his arm as confusion and alarm warred for dominance inside her head.

It was like Vegeta was there, but not completely. She blinked hard, until she finally accepted that what she was seeing was real.

Vegeta was nearly translucent.

It was like he was nothing but a mere reflection on a glass window, and Bulma was utterly mystified, worry eating at her as she looked at him, even while he himself remained nonplussed.

“Do not fret, woman. I am fine,” he responded, carelessly leaning back until he was floating beside her bed on his back.

“Are you… are you nuts?” she shrilled. “You’re see-through, Vegeta. How do you expect me not to freak out?”

“It is nothing. Besides, this is not the first time.”

Bulma’s eyesbrows shot up. “Yes it is.”

“It is perhaps the first time that I have come to you in this condition. I see now that I should not have done so.”

She felt a tiny pang of pain at this. “You… you regret letting me see you… like this?” she asked, and the hurt must have come through in her voice, since he turned to face her directly, brows lowered together as he spoke.

“I do not regret it. However, I did not intend to frighten you.”

She smiled. “I’m not scared, Vegeta. I’m worried for you… with you like this, I think… are you sick or something? Will you… will you tell me why this happened?”

He kept staring at her as she spoke, and she thought she saw a flash of emotion flit through his eyes, only to be rapidly dashed as he answered.

“This night… I am weak tonight, Bulma. My strength follows a cycle. It would have been wiser for me to remain hidden, alone, and yet… I don’t understand why but… but I wanted-” he shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Vegeta,” she whispered, reaching out, very gently laying a hand on his arm.

He felt cold.

It was a shock, considering that she could still remember the fiery heat of his skin, when she summoned him on that fateful night of the full moon...

“Vegeta, tell me? You wanted… what?” she said gently.

He looked away, crossing his arms tight across his chest.

“I don’t really understand my motives… but I wanted to be here tonight, Bulma.”

Her heart stopped, before it furiously began pumping so strongly that the beats seemed deafening within her ears.

He… he wanted to see her, when he was at his weakest.

She could not comprehend the elation that filled her entire body as she thought that perhaps… perhaps this meant that he felt at home with her.

“I can still destroy this entire planet with a single finger, I simply tire more quickly in this state,” he bragged, and Bulma noticed that, in spite of the bravado behind his words, she could still see a slight flush behind his translucent cheeks.

She was no closer to understanding who he really was… what he really was…

But Bulma now understood that on some level, the spectacularly powerful Prince felt at ease with her.

Perhaps.. Just as much as she felt safe, with him.

“Maybe… maybe you should get some sleep,” she said, moving over, patting the side of her bed invitingly.

He looked down at her hand on the sheets, and though he said nothing, she could sense the war going on behind his eyes.

“Vegeta, it is a very large bed. You could just… lay here. If you don’t feel your best today, maybe some sleep would help,” Bulma said as she began to pull the sheets back.

The Prince looked extremely conflicted, but Bulma noticed that he was floating closer and closer to her side. Before he could change his mind, she reached out and tugged him down to lay beside her.

He lay down with a small sigh. “These sheets really do feel good.”

“They do,” she said, turning so her back faced him as she settled into the comforter.

A yawn left her lips then, and she noted with surprise that she finally felt the desire to sleep.

“Good night, my Prince,” she said lethargically, before her eyes closed, and she was lost to slumber.

8-8-8-8-8

Vegeta never really seemed to need much sleep.

The morning after his night of weakness, just as he did every day, he woke at the break of dawn. He looked down at his chest, sighing in relief as he noticed that he was back to his tangible form.

However, unlike on all other nights, he woke surrounded by the soft scent of exotic flowers, the smell of fresh morning dew, teasing his body into wakefulness as it quieted the typical chaos of his mind.

Her scent… was like a salve for his exhausted, ravaged being.

He turned to his right, seeing the riotous wave of blue that partially covered the creamy white skin of the woman’s beautifully sculpted face.

He reached a hand out, wanting to brush the locks of hair away from her cheeks, before he caught himself, and with a disgusted huff, he rose, flying out of the room through her large, open glass window.

Perhaps, thirty Earth years without contact with anyone, other than the memories of his battles in his head, had made him soft.

It had been thirty Earth years since he was tricked into being trapped in that blasted orb. He, in a desperate attempt to tether himself to the living world, sent out a final ball of ki that contained a small part of his spirit.

He had intended to use that ball of energy to pull himself out of the middle realm, but as he had not fully mastered ki alchemy yet, the ki ball dissipated in an unexpected way that now landed him in this… problematic situation.

He knew what he had to do.

However, whenever he thought of going ahead with the next step, he would be halted by the image of smiling pink lips and light blue eyes, and his resolve would crumble into dust.

Bulma…

He had realized as soon as he gazed at her terrified face as she summoned him, that things had become a tad more complicated than he had originally intended.

He had stupidly indulged his curiosity that first night, when he had claimed that he was asking her for an “initial fee”.

He had not anticipated the electrifying heat of her skin, the exhilarating feel of her lips.

He was not prepared for how his blood roared to life, pumping madly through his veins as he clutched her close, feeding from her mouth as he appeased his hunger with her softness.

It was a mistake.

He thought of his small remaining team of Saiyans, remembering their determined faces, and he knew that for the sake of these few men who still believed in him, he could not afford to make any more missteps.

For the sake of his men… for the sake of all the Saiyans whose spirits are now clamoring for revenge against the man who betrayed them…

No matter how his own soul screamed at him that he needed to protect Bulma… His own personal inclinations be damned…

He must claim his price.

8-8-8-8-8

“Ms. Bulma, your next appointment will be in fifteen minutes.”

Bulma smiled gratefully at her secretary, knowing that the girl must have gone through enormous lengths to squeeze in those precious few moments as her break.

“Thank you, Lazuli,” she said.

The girl turned away with a small nod, leaving Bulma alone in her office.

She needed some spare time for her to be able to concentrate on her new discoveries.

Her curiosity regarding Vegeta, and the circumstances behind their meeting, never ceased to bother her, moreso now that she could not ever seem to get him out of her mind.

Now that she was back in Capsule Corp, she once again had the resources to help her find information, and though she was still unable to find anything about Vegeta, she realized that there was one character whom she could pursue, that could link her back to him.

The old woman who had given her the glass ball.

Bulma did not know much beyond the name that she had been given, but the more she thought about the day she met the old lady, the more she began to realize that their meeting was not by chance.

She was convinced that it had been deliberate, and Bulma used the only thing she remembered from that night to help her find the answers.

The old lady had called herself, Uranai.

The word was common, but fortunately, she had found one peculiar entry in a very old newspaper archive… from two hundred years ago.

She used this as her starting point, and from there, managed to find a contact that had promised to provide her with more information about the mysterious Uranai.

They had found that the old article was referring to a lady who called herself Uranai Kame.

Bulma was expecting an email from this contact, and as soon as Lazuli left, she immediately accessed her personal email.

The first unread email that she saw in her inbox was from her contact, Krillin.

Excitement flowed through her as she opened the attached PDF, and she sucked in a breath at what she saw.

The first page was a very old photograph, a very grainy and shadowy sepia image that showed a lady in her early fifties, wearing a very dark cloak and a stereotypical pointed black hat.

In spite of the clear changes brought by age, Bulma immediately recognized the light hair and small but angular face, and she could have sworn that she could see the eyes turn dark red, the longer she stared at the photo.

It was the old lady Uranai from that night in the dark street. She was absolutely positive.

On the second page was a strange set of coordinates, and Bulma realized that it was the last known location of the old woman.

Bulma nearly ran out of her office, instructing Lazuli to cancel all of her remaining appointments.

This, was more important than all of those meetings, combined.

8-8-8-8-8

The coordinates were leading Bulma to the middle of the sea.

She had taken off in a hovercraft, and as she flew deeper and deeper into nothingness, she was beginning to think that perhaps, the information from Krillin was inaccurate.

A large chorus of sparks in the distance caught her attention, and she realized that the sparks were almost right above the point that she was trying to travel to.

She sped up, turning on her cloaking mechanism as her earlier excitement began to return, and she gasped as she finally understood what, exactly, she had been seeing from a distance.

It appeared to be three large men, floating – flying! –in mid-air, simultaneously firing long rays of energy from… something. Whatever they were using, it must have been miniscule, as she swore that, from her vantage point, it appeared as if they were firing blasts from their bare hands.

She tried to slow down as much as possible, to keep the volume of her already silent car to a minimum.

Her head began to pound in anticipation as she saw a tiny island, in the middle of the vast sea, a ways away from the three men.

The coordinates were correct!

A small house stood in the center, shaded by a single palm tree. She parked her hovercraft behind the house, away from the three floating men, before she encapsulated it, storing the miniaturized vehicle in her pocket as she began to walk towards the house.

Her heels dug into the sand, and she knocked lightly on the back door, not waiting for a response before she tried the door knob.

The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open, walking into the tiny home that had sparse furnishings within a tiny living room, flanked by a kitchen and a narrow set of stairs leading down into what she could only assume was a cellar.

Bulma was about to head back outside to sit in the sand until someone came home, when she stopped dead, hearing a peculiar howling sound coming from somewhere close by.

It sounded as if the sound was inside the house, but the entire interior of the house was within her view, so that seemed rather impossible.

She stood silently, unmoving, listening for the sound again.

Nothing.

“Must have been my imagination, then,” she muttered, turning once again to leave.

Another sound, closer to a growling sound this time, sounded once again, and Bulma stilled as she finally realized that the sound was coming from somewhere beneath her.

Her eyes flew to the narrow set of stairs leading downwards.

Before she could think twice about it, Bulma made her way to the small entryway, peering into the darkness below.

The sounds she heard from within sounded inhuman, but even as she shook in terror, she started making her way down the stairs.

She still wore Vegeta’s amulet around her neck, on a longer chain, so it remained hidden behind her clothes. She clutched it through the cloth of her blouse, ready to scream for him at the slightest sign of danger.

The stairs creaked slightly beneath her light feet, every small sound making her cringe in paranoia.

The cellar grew darker as the growling and howling grew louder, and Bulma, startled, missed a step, catching herself on the narrow banister before she fell, but her abrupt movement made a loud, knocking sound on the steps, and Bulma heard the howling noises come to an abrupt halt.

“Who’s there?” a familiar voice, raspy and tinged with irritation, called from further into the cellar, making Bulma freeze.

She heard steps coming closer, small, slow steps…

“Who is trip-trapping into the cellar? I have told you all to stay away from this place when I am on my Spirit Bridge,” the old voice called.

Bulma sucked in a breath as the footsteps turned a corner, and she saw the tiny woman from before, fading pink hair covered by a pointed hat, flowing robes concealing her short and gnarled form.

“Prince, is that-” Uranai stopped mid-sentence as their eyes met, a small gasp leaving her as her eyes widened, jaw slack in surprise.

“Y-you!” the crone shouted, pointing a finger at Bulma. “What are you doing here?”

Bulma put her hands on her hips, glaring at the old woman. “I was looking for you! I want some answers about that orb, old lady!”

“You should not be here! This is no place for a young, living woman such as yourself!” Uranai said as panic settled onto her wrinkled features.

“Upstairs with you! You’re lucky the spirits did not sense you!” Uranai said as she forcibly pushed Bulma up the stairs, and Bulma, in her confusion, just went along with it, taking the steps two at a time as she felt the sense of urgency in the old woman’s hands.

When they were both on the upper floor, the tiny old woman quickly turned, pushing a slab of wood that Bulma had not noticed there before, to cover the entry into the cellar.

Bulma watched as Uranai huffed in exertion, and as soon as the cover was fixed, she turned back to Bulma, a look of astonishment mixed with the upset in her face.

“How did you even find this place?” she asked, and Bulma straightened, annoyed.

“I have my methods. But you!” Bulma pointed an accusing finger at Uranai. “You! When we met, that was not a coincidence, was it? You planned that meeting! Why? What is going on?”

Uranai cringed, and Bulma stared in defiance as the woman’s gaze flitted around, as if trying to find a way to escape.

All of a sudden, Bulma felt a large, incredibly heavy pair of hands clasp onto her arms at her sides, and she screamed as she felt herself lifted up in the air.

“Aiyeeeee! Let me go! Put me down!” she shrieked, trying her hardest to turn her head to see her attacker as her legs flailed helplessly beneath her.

“Oi Uranai? Who is this?” a loud, deep voice called out, and Bulma stiffened at the gruff tone.

“Who are you? Let me go! Just wait til I get Vegeta, he’s gonna kick your overgrown ass into space!” she screamed indignantly.

The man behind her jostled her a bit, before he addressed Uranai. “Oi. This woman. How does she know the Prince?”

Uranai sighed, seemingly in defeat, before she answered. “Nappa. That woman is the Blue Moon.”

The hands holding her suddenly released her, and Bulma fell to the ground, her butt painfully hitting the floor.

“Oof!” she cried, turning accusing eyes at the man who dropped her.

Her eyes widened as they travelled an inordinately long distance until she reached the top of her captor’s head. The man was humongous, a bald behemoth with arms wider than trees, legs twice as thick, and a torso larger than a buffalo’s.

Behind him stood two other men. Bulma realized that these were the three flying men from earlier, when she saw the long, wild hair of the second man, which she recognized even from her earlier distance.

The third man was tall, with unruly hair, and large round eyes… that looked a tad familiar.

Bulma craned her head, peering curiously at the thinnest man.

She gasped as a distant memory from her teens resurfaced, and she scrambled to her knees, not quite believing her eyes.

“Goku?” she asked, a bit uncertain.

Surely, it wasn’t possible…

The man in question perked up, looking at her questioningly, before his own eyes widened comically.

“Bulma?! You’re the Blue Moon?” the spiky-haired man exclaimed, pushing past the two other men as he ran excitedly to her.

“I can’t believe it! It’s been a while! Wow, you look so different!”

Bulma stared.

She had met Goku when she went on a mountain trek with her friends, fifteen years ago, when she was fifteen.

Goku had been a helpful older boy, leading her and her friends to the easiest paths, befriending them before he suddenly disappeared as they reached their destination.

Bulma almost didn’t recognize him, since Goku looked younger than her now.

“We came in because we thought we felt Prince Vegeta arrive,” the long-haired man said from behind Goku. “Now I see why something felt different.”

“It was her, Raditz, that’s why,” Uranai said, before she motioned for everyone to follow her into the tiny living room.

It looked rather ridiculous… three large, muscular men, squatted over a low table, flanking the shriveled old lady, all facing Bulma.

Bulma took a deep breath, before she spoke.

“What was that down there Uranai? And who are you guys? How do know me? And how were you all flying?” she asked, voice rising in volume as she felt her confusion mount.

Uranai regarded her carefully. “That down there, is the Spirit Bridge… a portal into the netherworld. I am the custodian of the portal. And you…” Uranai paused, fixing her red eyes on Bulma. “I know of you, because you share a spirit link with the Prince, whose soul has been under my watch for over a decade.”

Uranai coughed, gesturing at the three men. “These three, are Saiyans. They are Prince Vegeta’s warriors.”

Bulma swallowed. “And where is Prince Vegeta?”

Nappa spoke, brows drawn together in confusion. “We actually believed that he was with you.”

Uranai nodded. “He left today, saying he was about to get ready. You see Bulma… the Prince needs something from you… and we thought he was about to claim it today.”

Bulma stilled with realization. “The price? He needs to take it from me now?”

A bright, angry aura suddenly appeared, and all four jumped back as the red glow licked menacingly at them, moments before they cleared and revealed the golden form of the extremely livid Prince.

“Woman! What are you doing here?” he demanded. His fists were clenched tightly, eyes blazing, his voice a hair-raising, angry growl that had the three Saiyans cowering before him.

“My Lord!” Nappa said, scrambling to supplicate and get on one knee before him, his bald head down. “She just showed up. We were about to ask her to leave.”

Vegeta focused his intense green eyes on Bulma, and she cringed back, an apologetic grimace on her face.

“Vegeta,” she said gently, and she felt the eyes of Uranai and the three Saiyans turn sharply to her.

“I just…” Bulma stuttered. “I was searching for Uranai. I… I had a few questions…”

Vegeta swooped down and puller her up by her forearms, lifting her until she stood straight up before him.

He pulled her in with one hand, splaying her flush against his body, while he brought one hand up, two fingers raised to his forehead.

She felt that quick, dizzying sensation that made the bottom drop out of her stomach, a second before she found herself on solid ground, inside her bedroom, alone with the furious prince.

“Let me hear those questions,” he commanded as he released her, gently pushing her down to sit on her bed, while he backed away, leaning against a wall, arms crossed across his chest.

“You’re angry,” she muttered, casting her eyes down, not able to look at him as she saw the furious slant of his eyes grow narrower.

She heard him sigh, before she felt the furious aura surrounding him fizzle out. She heard his light footsteps as he approached her, sitting beside her on her bed.

He sighed. “That island is dangerous, Bulma. If you had been any other Earthling, the portal would have devoured you.”

She looked up, peering into his now dark eyes. “Why? Why me? I went there to ask Uranai why she gave me the ball that held you. I don’t understand… I want answers.”

She turned so her whole body was turned to him, and she slowly reached out until her hand covered his that were resting on his knees.

He turned his hand slightly, letting their fingers twine softly, and Bulma felt an incredible thrill at the feel of his gloved fingers gently linking with her own.

That feeling, was another thing that she needed to understand.

“I… Vegeta. I have grown fond of you. Maybe a little too much,” she whispered hesitantly, and she felt him stiffen slightly as she continued. “I just needed to know… more, before I get into a situation that I couldn’t get out of. I know that… there are a lot of things that you wouldn’t tell me but, can I just have… anything?”

Vegeta looked hard at her, before he too turned his body so he faced her on the bed. “Bulma. I will tell you all I can. But do not ask me for more, as I can tell you nothing beyond this.”

Bulma nodded, anticipation filling her as he took a deep breath, before he began. “I am the Prince of an extinct race. We were called the Saiyans, and we inhabited a planet called Vegeta-sei, a few light years away from Earth.”

She sucked in a breath. She had suspected, from his earlier slip-ups, that Vegeta was not from Earth. His powers, his strange behaviors, and the complete absence of literature for any possible legends behind his glass orb, now made so much more sense.

He continued. “Those three men you met back there, along with I, are the last of our kind. We were betrayed by an evil being thirty Earth years ago, who had not just destroyed our home, but also trapped me in the ball. We are here, waiting for the perfect time to take our revenge.”

“You got mixed up in this because of an earlier complication. We needed someone who wanted to free me, and since you needed a wish, your desire for the wish made it seem to the powers-that-be like you desired to release me. I do, however, need that final price from you still, since I need it to lead my remaining people to victory.”

Bulma nodded. She knew that what he was telling her was just the beginning, but she had agreed not to ask for more than what he could tell her.

There was one question that nagged her though, and unable to stop herself, she asked, “Why haven’t you claimed the final price, then? If you need it?”

He stilled, and she thought she saw a haunted look enter his eyes as he responded. “Because I am not quite ready, yet.”

He brought his two fingers up to his forehead then, and before Bulma could stop him, he disappeared.

She spent the rest of the remaining day mulling about his words, trying to figure out what he meant when he said that he wasn’t ready to ask her for the price yet.

He may have given her some answers… but he just made her come up with even more questions, as well.

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma was up to her neck in work, after her impromptu ditching from the day before. She was barely getting by, and not even Lazuli’s fastidiousness helped with the mounting paperwork and twice as many appointments, due to her regular ones and the previous day’s cancelled ones all being squeezed into one day.

She was dying to get to the last appointment of the day, a four o’clock meeting with the head of a refrigeration company.

The last of the paperwork finally petered down, and she looked at the clock in her office with exhaustion, relieved to see that it was finally three fifty-nine in the afternoon.

“One last meeting and I’ll be home free!” she sing-songed, and exactly as the clock struck four, her phone rang.

“Ms. Bulma,” Lazuli greeted. “Your four-o’clock is here.”

“Please send them in, and you can go on home,” she instructed, to which, Lazuli hummed in acknowledgement.

The blonde assistant was definitely not the friendliest or liveliest person, but she got the job done to a ridiculously efficient degree. If Bulma didn’t know better, she’d think Lazuli was a robot.

Her door swung open, and Bulma raised her head to greet her visitor, only for her voice to lodge painfully in her throat.

On the surface, the man was absolutely nondescript. He was rather short, pale, with narrow eyes and a bald head with a large purplish birthmark on his temple. He wore a pristine white outfit, and he was smiling politely at her as entered her office, a pleasant greeting on his lips.

However, something about his manner, his aura, if she could even say that, made her uneasy, but she stubbornly quashed the uncomfortable feelings aside as she smiled back, indicating the chairs before her desk so he and his assistant could sit and be comfortable as they discussed their business proposal.

The assistant was tall, with long greenish hair and a very handsome face. Bulma smiled at him as well, finding it strange that she was so uneasy around such an attractive man. She’d usually be more comfortable with an attractive visitor, but right now…

She felt for Vegeta’s amulet through her blouse…

“Don’t be silly, Bulma. It’s just a business meeting. You’re being paranoid,” she scolded herself as she mustered up a professional smile, leaning back on her chair as she regarded her guests.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Bulma Briefs, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending a hand to each of them as they sat.

“The pleasure is all ours, Ms. Bulma. My, but do you look stunning! The magazines do you no justice,” the shorter man said. “My name is Frost. And this,” he gestured to his companion, “is my assistant, Mr. Zarbon.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bulma,” Zarbon said, extending a small box filled with chocolates to her. “We have brought you some pastries, hopefully so we can come upon a sweet deal.”

“Oh, thank you, you really shouldn’t have,” she smiled, placing the box before her on the desk. “Now, I received a fantastic proposal from Chiller Corp. about a possible refrigeration deal with some capsule tech. Mind enlightening me on the exact details, gentlemen?”

They spoke about the deal for more than half an hour, and Bulma’s feeling of unease slipped away as she became engrossed in what was rapidly appearing to be a very lucrative deal proposal.

She was about to make a suggestion to one proposed clause, when her stomach suddenly released a very loud, extremely embarrassing growl.

“Oh my God,” she laughed, face flaring red. “I am so sorry, I haven’t eaten all day, my body is just trying to remind me!”

Zarbon was quick to raise a hand in placation. “No worries, ma’am, we understand!” he said with a chuckle. He motioned to the box of sweets on her desk. “Perhaps you should have some of these pastries.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly…”

“Please, Ms. Bulma, we insist. They are absolutely divine, and we feel terrible for taking so long here that you can’t take your meal!” Frost said, nudging the box closer to her.

She looked at the food, and her stomach grumbled at her once again.

“Ah, what the heck, right? I am famished,” she said, opening the box and taking a round, chocolate-coated piece.

She popped the pastry into her mouth, groaning gratefully at her first mouthful of food all day. “Gosh, you were right, this is delicious! Where did you buy these, I might have to place a bulk order.”

“We got it far from here, Ms. Bulma,” Frost said, and Bulma couldn’t help but feel like something about his tone had suddenly seemed strangely different.

Zarbon himself, was grinning, and Bulma, suspicious but with no idea why, simply went back to discussing their deal.

It was not until a few minutes later, when she felt an abrupt spell of nausea take over her, that she paused, placing a hand against her forehead as the dizziness persisted.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Bulma?” Frost asked when she cut herself off, mid-sentence.

“No, I…” she stopped as she realized that her words seemed slurred. “I am just not feeling well. I guess I am actually more tired than I thought,” she tried to excuse herself.

She tried to push herself up onto her feet, but her arms gave way as she tried to brace herself on the table so she can stand.

“Lazu…” she began, thinking of calling her assistant, before she remembered that she had asked the blonde woman to go home.

“Perhaps you should take a seat, Ms. Bulma,” Zarbon said, going around to her side of the table to help her sit comfortably once again.

“Thank you. I’m sorry… I’m not sure what is happening…” she began, panicking slightly when she looked at the tall man, only to realize that she was beginning to see double.

“Don’t worry about it Ms. Bulma, we understand,” Frost said, coming up to stand beside Zarbon.

Bulma stared at him confusedly, when she saw his smile widen into a smirk, and she swore that she saw small fangs peeking out from under his lips.

“After all,” Frost began, his voice now lower, more of a hiss than actual words, “we know fully well how Namekian root affects Earthlings. In just a few more moments, you will lose consciousness. Isn’t that right, Zarbon?”

Bulma’s blood froze in her veins.

“They drugged me?!” she thought, as she tried to lift her hand so she can clutch at the amulet at her chest.

Her limbs refused to move.

Frost watched her, before his eyes narrowed in on her chest.

The amulet had peeked out through the buttons of her blouse, and Frost smirked menacingly as he reached forward, slipping his fingers through the gap so he could hold the amulet between his fingers.

“What do you know? Look, Zarbon, the Prince gave her a keepsake,” Frost snickered, before he viciously pulled at the trinket, snapping the chain as he pocketed the amulet.

Zarbon smirked. “This may turn out to be even more interesting than we thought,” he said. “Perhaps we should begin cloaking before we take her with us.”

“I believe you are right,” Frost said, and Bulma, with progressively heavier eyes, watched as he raised his arms, making small beams of energy surround them in a circular shield.

She tried to keep her eyes open, to speak, to scream, but nothing in her body worked right, and she realized with dread that there was nothing more she could do to fight off the drowsiness that the drug had her under.

“Stop fighting it, Ms. Bulma. Don’t you worry, we will still be here when you wake up,” Zarbon crooned, and his aggravating face was the last thing she saw before the all-encompassing darkness of unconsciousness took over.

8-8-8-8-8

To be continued…

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[ravenwytchbytch]

The Beggar Princess

CH III: Ensnared

Niklaus was pensive as he paced back and forth in the stables, his rage knowing no content. When he had first stormed into the stables he had taken the stable master and boy by surprise it had soon turned to fear with their master’s growing rage. Klaus had dismissed them at once, but luck would not permit him a moment alone, as his brother Elijah was not long behind him. His breathing heavy with a frantic look on his face and eyes.

“Don’t start Elijah. Just don’t.” Klaus hissed between his clenched teeth. Klaus could not explain to Elijah what had gone on in his mind that he would threaten Lady Caroline, he hardly knew himself. In truth, she was the epitome of a perfect lady. Well spoken, intelligent, demure, and unnervingly breathtaking. 

“You must go to her and apologize to her.” Elijah stern tone only encouraged his brother’s rage.

“I will not be forced to apologize to some-” Elijah steps were quick. Elijah’s fist had connected sending Klaus stumbling back his cheek reddening. The blow had left Klaus stunned for the briefest of moments. The burning sting on his cheek the only proof that he had been struck by his brother. 

“She is not just some low-born you rutted around with years ago or these ladies in court that seek fortune.” Elijah clasped Klaus’ shoulders, “She is the rightful heir of Serion. We may refute it, but enough nobles in this realm have decided that it is enough of a claim to rip this kingdom apart!”

Klaus could not hold his outburst, “It must be so easy brother to dictate others’ lives when yours is your own to control!”

Elijah remained silent but stern in the face as he pushed away from him.

“My life is not my own or do you forget your highness?” 

Klaus knew all to well of his father’s distaste for Elijah but he would not let it damper his rage. Klaus’s lips pressed into a thin line his brow creased “Get out of my sight.”

Elijah bowed with grace but his face remained dark, “As you wish, your grace”

His brother disappearing figure brought forth another wave of emotion, frustration. Sliding against the stable post he sunk to the damp dirt floor, only the soft neighs of the horses seem to penetrate through his stubborn thoughts.

He knew he had acted irresponsibly and now situation would be tense with Caroline. This type of rash and hasty behavior was not him; he would have expected Kol to behave like this, but not himself.

From the view of the stable, he could see the sun falling behind the West Tower not too far along the South Tower bell rang in threes signaling the end of the day and the creeping evening.

Preparations for the evening festivities were ending and the celebration was to begin soon, and his father would not take kindly to any tardiness or absence from his children

Caroline was meticulous on any plan of action. Katherine and her ladies were dressed to distraction but not to outshine. Caroline’s outfit was a fitting style, a long golden dress with an empire waist and a one shoulder long sleeve made from sheer chiffon embroidered with golden leaves. Her golden hair had been braided while wet to make her golden locks twist into long tumbling curls. Pinning the hair with yellow pearl encrusted pins until she appeared like she was a water sprite, innocent and youthful none would ever suspect her true intentions.

Katherine had fussed all evening with her own dress a dark red off the shoulder gown that’s bodice hugged tightly against her bosom. The asymmetrical skirt hung low from behind and showed more leg than what was appropriate. It was a style more fitting in Cirala and would surely draw the attention of the guest.

“My lady.” Katherine knelt beside her lady her demeanor reserved, “We must make haste or risk offending the King.”

Caroline glanced passed her friend, staring at her glowing reflection once more. Caroline was determined to have everyone’s attention tonight. She motioned for her ladies to follow her as she turned from her reflection.

As far as her chambers were from the great hall, Caroline and her party could hear the festivities at full swing. The music merrily and enticing even had a few of her ladies eagerly chattering for a delightful dance amongst the younger noblemen. Yes, the celebration of her engagement had begun: drinks, food, and merriment would show no end. Despite the pleasant facade, Caroline was none too eager to spend an evening amongst her betrothed or his family, or the whole of court, a sentiment well shared by Niklaus himself. 

A dour and dark look graced his face as he watched his younger brother debauch himself amongst the crowd of wonton ladies he kept in his company. Rebekah seemed to hover close by Elijah, who had yet to greet him since their afternoon quarrel. 

Niklaus ignored the seductive looks of one of his brother’s lovers as he bowed before his father. Dark haired with only a slight graying at his temple, the war had taken its toll on his father, aging him far more than someone his age. That was something his vain father could not stand and so styled himself and his family in lavish clothes. A dark red doublet with golden embroidery, his hands and neck were adorned with the crown jewels, his favorite of adornment, the symbol of his rule, the ring of Serion worn by all the Kings of Serion. His leather breeches and dark boots were also garishly embroidered with gold sprig design.

Niklaus could not deny his father’s influence as he wore a dark olive doublet with silver lining and crescent pattern moons. His dark collared cloak rested on his broad shoulders with silver embroidered trim and silver broach that clasped at his shoulder. Niklaus would admit that while his father was foolish in his choice of appearance he was right when done correctly the person could be admired and intimidating.

The music had silenced as the herald announced his betrothed, “Duchess of Grent, the Lady Caroline Forbes.”

The music resumed and many of the nobles had their attention on his bride even he could not hold back the shocking spectacle that his bride-to-be presented. Nothing had changed as far as he could tell but her beguiling appearance and tender bright blue eyes seemed to only make her look like a helpless lamb. Almost as if his eyes had called her attention to him she turned to murmur something to her ladies before she broke away from her large entourage and brought only the Lady Petrova trailing behind her.

Caroline had slowly weaved through the crowd of guest who greeted her with a passing introduction. It was the familiar voice that had Caroline standing in frozen shock. Tyler Lockwood, an old family friend, and her longtime childhood crush was mere footsteps away. The desire to run into his arms was oddly strong. Caroline could not help but admire the handsome man before her; chiseled cheeks and strong mouth that tempted her at the moment. Had it not been Katherine’s gentle nudge she might have lost herself completely. Once the shock of surprise abated bewilderment took hold. After what was he doing here of all events? His family had been the first to declare against the new royal family. They were loyalists as far as she knew.

“Care! I can’t-” he seemed to choke on his words an apprehensive look crossing his brow.

“Lord Lockwood, what a joy to see you here.” Caroline tightened her hand in Katherine’s as she heard the all too familiar and irritating voice.

True to her nature Rebekah arrived at the most inopportune time, her eyes giving a sick gleam of mischief as she stared at the trio.

“Princess Rebekah, you look ravishing.” Tyler Lockwood’s words had stung Caroline more than she would have cared.

“Yes, but not as fetching as you Lady Caroline.” A mocking twinkle of her voice only made Caroline smile wider, “everyone in your household is dressed quite colorful.”

“Cirala fashion is renowned.” Katherine did not hide the mocking tone in her voice, “Though very few could comprehend the artistry.”

“I see, I didn’t realize vulgarity was an acquired taste?” Rebekah sniped back.

“Please excuse Lady Petrova, despite what you might think; our tongue is still new to her. Pardon us for any offense.” Caroline bowed in mocked humility giving Katherine a pinch on her forearm, “If you will excuse us, my lady, I wish to greet His Grace and Prince Niklaus.”

“Speak of the devil,” Rebekah smirked as Niklaus stopped behind Caroline.

“Sister,” Caroline turned to face him, her smile wilted quickly as his eyes seemed to scan over her, “my lady.” He took her hand in his own, surprisingly his hands were softer than she expected of a renowned warrior such as himself.

“I hope you are in better spirits this evening your grace.” Her soft touch and gentle voice sounded musical to him.

Niklaus noticed his sister watching for his reaction; surely Elijah had brought her into the fold of the events that had transpired in the early afternoon.

“I am touched by your concern my lady.” he brought her hand to his lips. Cursing himself for enjoying the sweet scent on her skin. “Come, my father wishes to toast for our union.” He pulled her close placing his hand on the small of her back as he pulled them away from the two.

Caroline could only nod as she was overwhelmingly perplexed at his sudden mood change, she had half expected a sourer greeting than these lovers touch. Trying hard to focus on the many curious looks by the court Caroline tried hard to focus on being as charming as possible.

Resting on the top platform in his throne lounged King Mikael. Caroline could not help but focus on the ring that rested on his hand. A burning fire sat in her stomach as she kept it at bay.

“Your majesty.”

“Arise, Lady Caroline, come sit beside me as we feast in celebration. “ 

Caroline nodded following Klaus beside his father. He gave her a dashing smile before pouring her drink but it wasn’t his charm that drew her attention. It was the fiery stare of Lord Lockwood. It frightened her and yet she was thrilled. As far as she recalled his temperament was always written on his face a sweet flaw in his courtly appearance.

“-a toast to this joyous union!” The joyous cheer in unison broke her attention.

“Darling,” he whispered into her ear a frightening chill tumbled down her back, as he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“To peace!” he shouted to the cheering crowd.

Caroline could hardly speak as she felt the warm soft feel of lips against her own. A gentle but controlled kiss that drew joyful laughter and louder appraisal. As swiftly as it had happened their lips parted, she felt dazed for a moment, yet sobered at the set of dark eyes that stared at her with a sense of betrayal. 

“Will you dance, my lady?” Niklaus asked softly his fingers wrapping around a loose lock of hair.

“Of course.” she responded flatly still distracted by the dark pair of eyes staring in their direction.

Katherine watched as her lady walked in arm with the prince. Katherine was no fool she could tell her lady was in distress but she could not afford to stray from her mistress plan.

“Lady Petrova.” Elijah’s voice startled the brunette as she gathered the appropriate demeanor for the noble lord.

“Lord Elijah, what an honor.” she attempted to curtsey but he gestured her to halt.

“There is no need.” his eyes seemed glued onto her face almost searching for something.

“I see you were able to speak with his highness. He is in a more amiable mood with my lady.” she laughed lightly her gaze not on the dancing pair but on the sitting oaf of a king. 

“I do believe so.” his voice was tight and hard. Obviously, it was not the case but she needed to put herself in front the King.

“Is there something the matter Lady Petrova? Am I keeping you?” He was far more focused on her than she thought.

Katherine smiled placing a gentle touch to the lord’s forearm, “No my lord. I am just always on alert for my mistress’ needs.”

Alas, the music had ended but unfortunately for Katherine, the couple had decided to greet those in the room.

“Would you care to dance my lady?” the question was innocent enough but for someone like the noble lord, it sounded almost indecent.

“I’m afraid my lord I am not much of a dancer.” she flushed in false embarrassment. 

“I can show you.” he mumbled slightly clearing his throat in an attempt to clear away his embarrassment of such a proposal.

Katherine for the first time the evening met his gaze staring into his dark eyes admiring his genuine embarrassment. Against her better thought, she placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Another time my lord, if you’ll excuse me.“ 

Katherine spotted Caroline with a sigh of relief the pair were once again rejoining the King.

“It won’t work.” Princess Rebekah biting tone stopped her in her place.

Katherine kept her composure. “What do you mean your highness?”

“Don’t play innocent. I’m not as naive as the rest and I see right through you.” her brows furrowed, “Stay away from Elijah, he is far more trusting to trash, like yourself, than he should be.”

Katherine stumbled back as the blonde pushed past her a snobby look on the princess’ face as she exited the hall.

“I do believe your lady has offended my sister in some way.” Klaus teased as they had watched the slightly tense moment. 

“Lady Katherine is new to the ways of our people. I do apologize for any offense she may have given.”

“No offense, it just seems she’s caught the eyes of a certain person.” he chuckled as he tore at the piece of loaf in hand.

Caroline smiled while glancing at the approaching brunette her eye downcast, a sign of her growing annoyance. Caroline took a large chug of the red wine before her the evening had proven to be a bit more unbelievable than she would have thought. Prince Niklaus was behaving himself like an infatuated man, to the delight of the court and his father. 

With small jokes, quick but intimate touches or gestures, truly a romantic sight but for all his effort Caroline remained wary of his motives. One did not act one way and then the other way without some motive behind it. She humored him of course but she was far too experienced in the game; after all, she had had far more practice at this than he had.

Klaus kept a close eye on Elijah and his siblings despite the distracting conversation he made with Lady Caroline he noticed his solemn brother’s constant glances to the Lady Petrova. 

‘He has a type I’ll give him that.’ He thought silently amused at his brother’s fondness for the less fortunate.

Klaus returned his attention to the blonde beauty sitting beside him her elegant demeanor made her a fitting match alone to be a crowned princess, but it was something else about her, something he couldn’t put a finger. There was something just beneath the surface of regal elegance that made her irresistible and that was something that vexed him far more than enthralled him.

“Your highness?” Caroline stared at him one brow raised.

“I’m sorry my lady.” he fought to gain some composure, “could you repeat yourself?”

“I only said that my journey here was quite long and the wine here so rich that I find myself a bit faint.” she bit her lower lip gently as her eyelashes fluttered softly, “Would you grant us leave?”

“Of course,” he rose from his seat offering her a supportive arm, “I will escort you my-”

“I don’t want to bother you with such my lord and I’m certain our guest will find it rude if we both disappear for the night.” she took a hold of his arm as she rose, “good night, my prince.”

The last phrase sounded seductive to him as moved from the table. His father to absent-minded in his drink, to notice his bride-to-be taking her leave. Typical of a ruler whose glory days were far behind him.

Katherine had signaled to her other companions their time for merriment was at an end. Caroline remained silent for most of their walk to their chambers only stopping to once again smile at any drunken noble stumbling out in the corridors.

“I am sorry my lady.” Katherine began with a heavy tone, “I’m afraid I was unable to do as you ordered.”

“Dear friend,” Caroline said with the lightest of tone, “you’re far less observant than I. You did exactly as I commanded.”

Standing at the doors of her chamber was valet of the King, he gave a quick bow before he turned to Katherine.

“May I speak to you lady in private, Lady Caroline?” his attention focused on Katherine still.

“Why yes, you may. Do not linger for too long Lady Katherine.” Caroline motioned to one of her ladies to open her chamber door.

As she moved to the entrance Caroline shot a quick glance. Katherine’s eyes had lit up for a moment a positive sign of a job well done.

Caroline fought hard to keep herself from laughing out loud because now the real game had begun.

(A/n: Sorry for the late update I wanted to write a longer chapter. Again sorry for the errors. I hope you enjoy and review!)

[shannaraisles]

Her Beacon And Her Shield - Chapter 22

"What a surprise to see you here, Inquisitor. I was not aware that my betrothed's brother was of a mind to force her to play host to a heretic."

Amelia turned, unsurprised to find Lorent standing near her, glowering from behind his black mask. She wouldn't put it past him to be somehow involved with the plot to kill the Empress; between the lure of power through his betrothed and the opportunity to severely limit the Inquisition, it was exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to her ambitious brother. She was not, however, going to rise to his bait.

"Congratulations on your betrothal, Lord Trevelyan," she answered with polite civility. "Quite a prestigious match for an heir from the Free Marches."

"Far more so than your own marriage," he pointed out, taking a glass from a servant as they passed.

Amelia, too, took a drink from the tray, thanking the elf with full eye contact and a warm smile, which seemed to confuse him. "In terms of power and influence, yes," she agreed with her brother's comment, hiding a smile at his momentary confusion with a sip from her glass. "I had no idea you were in negotiations with the royal house of Orlais."

"The Grand Duchess approached me," he boasted proudly. "I was, as you no doubt recall, forced to travel through Orlais last winter. It was her kindness that allowed me to travel in some comfort. The betrothal was finalized today, in fact. We ... share ambition. I have reason to believe our association will be very profitable for us both."

Ah, Lorent. He was a goldmine, and he didn't even know it. "I am delighted you have finally found someone you can give Father that grandchild with," she told him, her smile easy to feign. Despite the disownment, they were still blood. "How is he? I'd heard that his health is failing."

Even masked, she saw the confidence on his face falter. For all his faults, Lorent loved their father deeply, the old man's favorite child. "He is not improving," he said quietly. "He caught a summer chill that has left him weakened. I fear another will take him to the arms of the Maker."

Amelia felt her expression grow sombre. "Do you have anyone who knows how to make Mother's heal-all?" she asked seriously. "It may not help, but it would likely comfort him."

Lorent shook his head. "You were the only one of us she taught," he said, just a hint of anger in his voice. "Any servant who might have known, Father dismissed after her death."

"If I can find ink and parchment, I can give you the recipe tonight," she offered easily enough. It was a small thing, one that cost her nothing to give, and if it could give an old man some comfort in his last months, then it was worth a minor inconvenience.

"Why would you do that?" Lorent asked, his eyes hard with suspicion.

She gave him a hard stare. "Because he's my father, Lorent," she reminded him. "As many differences as we have, I do not want him to suffer needlessly." She glanced away, catching Vivienne's gesture - the enchanter wanted to speak to her. "Please excuse me. I will make sure you have that recipe by the end of the evening."

Satisfied that she had left her brother in a state of confused suspicion for now, she slipped from his side, forcing herself to keep a measured pace as she navigated the groups of nobles to reach Vivienne. The First Enchanter took the glass out of her hand, replacing it with another.

"Don't drink the mulled wine, darling, it's at least three times stronger than the Antivan red," she advised. "You don't want to lose your wits at the Winter Palace."

"Thank you for the advice," Amelia said gratefully, making a mental note only to drink the Antivan for the rest of the evening. "And for the timely intervention."

"I didn't think you would want to spend your evening being pestered by your odious brother," Vivienne agreed. "Whatever did he say to make your face fall like that?"

"My father's dying," Amelia told her softly.

"Oh, my dear, I am so sorry." Vivienne's hand covered hers with a light touch. For once, her reaction seemed utterly genuine. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I need ink and parchment," she said in a low tone. "There's a potion my mother used to make that might at least comfort him."

"That is easily done, my dear."

And so it was. Within a matter of minutes, with just a quiet word to one of the many elven servants wandering the room, Amelia was ensconced at a table, scribbling down the recipe for her mother's heal-all. It wasn't a particularly powerful potion, but the scent of it was a huge part of her childhood, a beloved fragrance that always reminded her of her mother. As she was sealing the parchment with the signet ring on her finger, she became aware that she was not alone.

"What is it, Cole?"

The strange spirit-boy stood close by her shoulder, his fair hair slicked down over his eyes. "There is a door that does not open," he told her. "Whispers and worries, friends who did not return. Clues dropped for sharp eyes to find where faces do not see, protection requested where words do not speak, and blood spilled above the place where Dorian dances. I don't like it here."

She sighed softly, regretting the necessity of his presence with them. So many people, all focused on their own wants and desires, could not be good for the sensitive spirit he embodied. "I know," she assured him as gently as she could. "This is a dangerous place for all of us."

"The faces talk even when they aren't moving," he whispered furtively. "Silk on satin on skin, always wanting, chaste but chased. Too many."

His very being seemed hemmed in, as though his senses were under siege. She offered him her hand, surprised when he ignored it to seize the other hand instead, palm to palm over the mark beneath her glove. "Are you all right, Cole?"

"They have faces inside their faces, lying with a layer that tells the truth," he told her, stroking the Anchor through her glove. It seemed to calm him. "I don't know how to help them."

"Then help me instead," she suggested. "This place is full of whispers and secrets. Find them, and tell Leliana what you learn. She'll be able to make sense of it all."

"Help you," he repeated softly. "Yes. Yes! Secrets and whispers for the spymaster who sees all. I can do that."

"Stay out of trouble, Cole."

She let him fade from her perception, hoping she'd done the right thing as she rose to return to Vivienne. The enchanter dismissed her conversational companion with an imperious wave of her hand, turning to smile at Amelia as she approached.

"How can I help you, my dear?"

"I need to get this to Lorent," Amelia told her, gesturing with the sealed parchment. "And a little advice. Who should I be speaking to?"

"I can take care of that, darling," Vivienne assured her, taking the parchment from her hand. "As to the ball ... speak to the Council of Heralds. Six of them are here tonight; the seventh is ... indisposed. His absence will complicate the negotiations." Her eyes dulled for a moment, seeing some inner pain, before she brightened once more. Vivienne didn't need a mask to hide. "The Council are the highest ranking players of the Game. They see everything. They might know something we can use."

"The Council of Heralds," Amelia repeated. "Thank you, Madame."

Thus armed, she began her first circuit of the ballroom, pausing when asked; knowing that each pause, each seemingly innocent question, was a means to study her, to try and determine the reason for her presence. Some tried to draw her into an open acclamation of support for Celene or Gaspard; others tried to trick her into revealing some subtle weakness they might be able to exploit. Others stopped her purely so they could say they had personally spoken with the Inquisitor herself, but eventually she made it to the outer rooms. Leliana was waiting for her in the vestibule.

"I was hoping I would catch you," the redhead said, drawing her over to an empty chaise. "What did the Duke say?"

"He points the finger at Ambassador Briala," Amelia told her, taking a seat. "And something interesting came from Lorent. It appears that Grand Duchess Florianne was the one to propose their marriage. He also says that he shares her ambition."

"Which would suggest that the Duchess yearns for power," Leliana mused thoughtfully. "I had wondered why she was not staying close to Celene. I have never seen her more than a few steps from her cousin's side at any other time. And the ambassador is up to something, but we can't focus on either one just yet."

"We need more information," Amelia agreed. "I've asked Cole to snoop about. He'll bring what he discovers to you."

Leliana nodded. "The best place to strike at Celene is from her side," she said, her tone pensive. "Did you note who else was by her side?"

"The dark-haired woman," Amelia said, her own tone wary. "You recognized her?"

"Empress Celene is fascinated by mysticism," the spymaster told her. "Foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead, that sort of rubbish." Amelia snorted derisively; Leliana nodded in agreement. "She has an occult advisor - the unmasked woman who observed you so closely as Celene spoke. She is an apostate, and she has charmed the Empress and key members of the court as if by magic. I've had dealings with her before."

The dark way her spymaster spoke warned Amelia that those dealings were not good memories for her friend. "What sort of dealings are we talking about here, Leliana?"

Leliana lowered her eyes. "You recall that I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight?" she asked softly. "King Alistair was not the only other companion on our journey. Taleyn drew together Qunari, Dwarves, Elves, even a golem; warriors, rogues, and mages. One of those mages was Morrigan, a witch from the Korcari Wilds. She is ruthless, and capable of anything."

"How can Celene openly keep an apostate in the Imperial court?" Amelia asked, confused by the contradictions of the Orlesian court. Their reaction to her suggested that mages were something to be feared and sneered at; yet they welcomed Vivienne, and this apostate, it seemed.

"The Imperial court has always had an official position for a mage," Leliana explained. She should know - she'd practically grown up at the court herself. "Before now, it was little better than court jester. Vivienne was the first to turn that position into a source of real political power. When the Circles rebelled, technically every mage became an apostate. The word lost much of its strength."

"I see. And you think this mage - Morrigan - is controlling the minds of the court?" Amelia asked. It was not an impossible scenario, just an extremely worrying one. "If she is, that's powerful blood magic, Leliana."

"And not out of the realms of possibility where she is concerned," Leliana said firmly. "She is worth investigating. Can't be sure of anything here." The redhead sighed - the task before them seemed monumental. "Both leads point toward the Guest Wing. It's a promising place to start - I will coordinate with Cole and our spies to see if I can find anything better." She rose, and Amelia rose with her, their sojourn over for now. "I will be in the ballroom, if you need me."

Nodding, Amelia let her go on her way, catching Cassandra's eye for a moment. The Seeker shook her head - she hadn't seen anything noteworthy yet. Reassured, the mage continued on her circuit of the Empress' guests, allowing herself to be drawn into short, inconsequential conversations that told her nothing of the looming danger and too much about the Orlesian love of scheming and politics. It was a relief to step into the almost empty Hall of Heroes, allowed to listen to her own thoughts for once. Gaspard pointed the finger at Briala, but Lorent's words suggested that Florianne might be involved in all this, and Leliana's suspicions about the mage Morrigan were downright scary. She'd walked into this expecting to narrow her choice down from three, only to have the list of suspects expand to six.

"Fancy do, isn't it?"

She glanced up at the familiar tone, finding Blackwall looking up at the statues beside her. "I see you escaped the ballroom," she commented mildly.

He huffed out a laugh. "Escape is a good word for it," he agreed. "I was under siege in there. Too many questions about my conquests."

"So you left Cullen to field all that by himself?" Her husband had developed quite a crowd of hangers-on, all a little too interested in the state of his marriage.

"He can handle it," Blackwall told her confidently. "By the time I left, he'd already had nine different ladies and six gentlemen ask him to dance. I definitely overheard at least two indecent proposals, too."

"Sweet Andraste," she muttered, half-horrified, half-amused. "I'll have to rescue him at some point."

"You've work to do," the Warden reminded her, lowering his voice. "Leliana passed on Cole's message. This seems a fair bet for the place where faces don't see. I'll take a look. You keep being visible."

Amelia shot her friend a grateful look. "Thanks, Blackwall," she smiled, feeling that smile freeze on her face as she spotted Lorent entering the Hall. He had no reason to be here, unless ... Of course. He was following her.

Blackwall frowned. "What is it?" he asked, his low voice concerned.

She shook her head. "I seem to have picked up a tail," she told him softly. "Don't worry about it. See if you can find that drop point."

"Aye, my lady." He nodded to her. "Take care."

With this wish ringing in her ears, she stepped away, skirting around a pair of elves who gave her a dirty look, and out into the staterooms that had been made public for tonight's festivities. This was where the Council of Heralds was to be found, but as yet none of them would speak to her. The situation for them was not yet dire enough to warrant an invitation to the Inquisitor. But at least they were civil with her, even as they rejected her attempt to converse with them. Her main concern was Lorent; he was following her, no doubt looking for something he could use to have her removed from the palace. It was flattering that he considered her so much of a threat, but it did pose a problem; Leliana had suggested the Guest Wing, but the moment she tried to enter, Lorent would no doubt raise a fuss. A sweep of the room from which she could access the garden, however, offered her a solution in the shape of the Iron Bull, who was scowling by the window.

"You got anything that needs killing?" the Qunari asked as she reached him. "Because the nobles keep messing with me, and they think I don't know they're doing it. This keeps up, I'm going to wear somebody's skull as my fancy little mask."

"Going that well, is it?" she responded pleasantly, aware that Lorent had placed himself between her and the Council members, apparently not having realized that she'd already tried and failed with them. "I have a slight situation I need some help with. No killing, though."

"That situation the pissant who followed you in?" Bull asked mildly. "He's not very discreet."

"That's the one," she agreed, smiling a little at his description of her brother. "Do you think you can keep him busy until I come back in from the garden? What he doesn't see won't hurt him, after all."

A slow smile crossed the mercenary's gray face. "You want me to mess with a noble? My pleasure, boss." He put down his bowl of nuts, moving purposefully over to the indiscreet Lord Trevelyan as Amelia slipped out into the garden. The last thing she heard before the door closed behind her was, "So, Lord T, what do you think of redheads?"

She barely had time to glance about the garden, however, before she was hailed by a trio of ladies who seemed to have gone out of their way to appear identical to one another.

"My Lady Inquisitor, may we have a word? It's very important."

As she turned her attention to them, they curtsied. Her knees tried to curtsy back, but were overruled by her brain, which insisted on a bow as another of the ladies spoke. "The Empress has sent us with a message for you."

"I am always honored to hear from Her Majesty," Amelia said politely, adding in the back of her mind, Even when her messengers have terrible timing. She had no idea how long Bull could keep Lorent busy, after all.

"Oh, she is the honored one, Inquisitor," the third lady spoke, swiftly followed by the first once more.

"Empress Celene is eager to assist the Herald of Andraste in her holy endeavor," she said warmly.

"She will pledge her full support to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated," the second of the trio intimated.

And there it is, Amelia thought. She'd wondered how long it would take for Celene to try and place her problem into the Inquisition's lap. "That's a generous offer," she said aloud, to the approval of her audience.

"The Empress believes wholeheartedly that the Inquisition is our best hope for peace in these difficult times," the first lady said confidently.

The third continued on for her. "She looks forward to cementing a formal alliance."

"As soon as Gaspard is out of the way," the second added.

"But we have taken enough of your time," the third lady trilled merrily.

"Please enjoy the masquerade, Inquisitor," the first encouraged, and with another curtsy in unison, the trio swept through the door and out of sight.

Amelia hid her sigh as she turned her attention to the garden. All she needed now was for Ambassador Briala to offer to scratch her back, and she'd have a hat-trick. At least she could depend on Lorent not to do the same - he'd rather die than suggest she could possibly help him. Now then ... the Guest Wing.

She wandered the garden, indulging her curiosity in the convenient door opposite as discreetly as possible. It was locked, and there were too many eyes around to risk asking one of her rogue friends to try their luck with it. Circling around behind Varric as he fielded questions from his multitude of admirers, she sipped from her glass, studying her surroundings. So if Cole's words that do not speak referred to the Grand Library, she might be able to kill two birds with one stone. The trouble was, how was she supposed to get to the place above where Dorian dances? Dorian was here in the garden, and above him was a balcony, but ... Her eyes focused on the sturdy lattice trained with roses that stood against the wall beneath the balcony. That had potential.

With a nod to Varric, she moved to join Dorian. Her Tevinter cousin was a stunning combination of totally at his ease, and so on edge that he twanged. "This is all so familiar," he declared as he took the wine glass from her hand. "I half expect my mother to materialize from the crowd and criticize my manners."

Amelia laughed softly. "What if she were actually here?" she teased him. "Where would we be then?"

"Short one mage, after he's dragged out by his earlobe," he informed her, lowering his voice to add, "There was some kind of scuffle on the balcony a short while ago."

"I'm having difficulty picturing that," she laughed again at his comment on his mother, dropping her own voice to a whisper to respond to his intimation. "I need to scale the lattice to get up there."

"Picture me a young boy of five years, then," Dorian suggested playfully. "She certainly always has." He took a sip of wine, using the action to cover the movement of his lips. "Varric and I thought as much. Give us a moment, and you'll have your distraction."

"I owe you," she murmured, raising her voice as she stepped away. "Try not to get too drunk."

Dorian sighed exaggeratedly. "You ask so much of me," he declared, making significant eye contact with Varric across the garden.

As Amelia stepped away, her dwarven friend launched into The Tale of the Champion in full oratory style, drawing the attention of most eyes in the garden. Those who weren't enthralled by Varric's storytelling were gently touched with Dorian's personal modification of the spell Sleep. They remained upright, their eyes open, but their minds were taking a short nap. At Dorian's nod, she turned her attention to scaling the lattice as quickly and quietly as possible, silently thanking the Maker for her leather gloves at the discovery that the trained roses had half-inch long thorns.

Once up there, she was quick to get out of sight of a casual glance from below. In front of her, a door stood open, through which she could see a small portion of the library. Words that do not speak, indeed. But there was nothing to find. What few papers there were seemed to relate to the books that lay open beside them. In frustration, aware that she was running out of time, Amelia began to search frantically behind the books on the shelves, tipping them toward her in the hope of finding something concealed behind. She hadn't been expecting one of those books to strike a hidden switch and make an entire section of the bookshelves slide silently out and across to reveal a secret study. Luck was still with her, it seemed.

It took only a moment of searching to turn up Cole's secret - a letter from Celene to one Lady M, making mention of some unpleasantness in the royal wing and requesting magical protection. So Celene was aware of the danger in her palace tonight, though she seemed to believe it originated with Gaspard, and had taken steps for her own protection. Despite Leliana's dark suspicion, it would appear that this Morrigan could be tentatively removed from their list of suspects.

Now then, as to this scuffle ... She slipped from the library, skirting carefully along the wall until she was directly above where Dorian stood. A gentle spell warmed the lock of a second door until she could force it, conjuring a small light to see by once inside. It was a storage room, disordered but not cluttered. The only real sign of the scuffle Dorian had heard lay in the blood-stained documents that had been left in the corner. Amelia picked them up, scanning the words quickly. They seemed to be Gaspard's official negotiation requests, complete with a warning to Celene about Briala. Odd, that they didn't seem to have ever reached the Empress. What had she received in their stead?

Sliding both documents into her tunic, she dismissed her light and stepped back onto the balcony, peering cautiously over the stone railing to catch Dorian's eye. He checked the garden's inhabitants, and nodded to her to come down. A minute or so later, she was safely back on the ground, and Dorian's erstwhile sleepers awakened as Varric's audience burst into rapturous applause. Better yet, Lorent was still caught in Bull's clutches when she slipped back inside, the Qunari tossing her a grin as he continued to harangue her brother on the merits of all redheads.

Blackwall caught her attention as she passed back through the Hall of Heroes, gesturing for her to join him. "My lady," he said quietly, handing her an open cylinder seal. "Saw one of the elven servants drop this. Then a masked elf read it and left it where it lay. Think she intended one of us to find it."

"So that would be Ambassador Briala, then," she said warily. "Let's see what she wants us to see." Opening the message, she frowned. "Four servants have gone into the servants' wing in the last two hours," she paraphrased. "This is asking Briala for help."

"Help with what?" Blackwall asked, but before she could make a guess, the great bell sounded, summoning all guests back to the ballroom for toasts.

"Oh, hell," she swore, digging the other documents out of her tunic. "Here, get these to Leliana. I have to go and play nice again."

"Good luck, my lady."

She left him there to make his own way into the ballroom, moving herself to join the parade of nobles filing dutifully back in answer to the bell. There were more people here than she had realized, dispersed as they had been throughout the rooms left public for the gathering, and any one of them could be the assassin she was searching for. It was so frustrating! They had been here almost three hours now, and all they had to show for it was a handful of documents that only proved what she already knew - that the three players in the peace talks were up to something, each working to their own agenda. At this rate, the assassin would be able to strike freely, and all she'd be able to do was stand by and watch. Yet, as she stepped into the vestibule among the crowd of nobles, her uncanny luck came through for her yet again.

"Well, well ... what have we here?" a cultured Ferelden voice said by her ear. "The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the Faith, delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of Blessed Andraste Herself." Amelia turned her head to meet a glinting, yellow-eyed gaze. "What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial court, I wonder? Do even you know?"

"Lady Morrigan." Amelia inclined her head as she put a name to the striking woman before her, stepping out of the flow of bodies at the apostate's invitation. "We may never know why I am here. Courtly intrigue, and all that."

"Such intrigues obscure much, but not all." The other woman looked her over, those unsettling eyes of hers sharp with intelligence. "I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane. You have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace. Perhaps you and I ... hunt the same prey."

"I don't know," Amelia said, her tone appraising. She still wasn't certain this woman wasn't an enemy. "Do we?"

Morrigan laughed at her dissembling. "You are being coy."

Amelia let herself smile. "I am being careful," she corrected lightly.

She saw Morrigan's opinion of her rise at this. "Not unwise, here of all places," she conceded sagely. "Allow me to speak first, then." She gestured for Amelia to walk with her a little way from the slowly moving nobles. "Recently I found and killed an unwelcome guest within these very halls. An agent of Tevinter. So I offer you this, Inquisitor." She withdrew a small piece of metal from her bodice, pressing it into Amelia's hand. "A key, found on the Tevinter's body. Where it leads, I cannot say, yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. You can."

Amelia barely glanced at the key, tucking it into her tunic as she recalled the letter she had read from Celene to this Lady M. "You left Celene alone once already this evening," she pointed out. "Was that wise?"

"I must return to her anon, but she is safe enough, for the moment." Those yellow eyes studied her thoughtfully. "T'would be a great fool who strikes at her in public, in front of all her court and the Imperial Guard. Would it not?"

"So I keep hearing." But Corypheus did not seem the type to care about losing his agents. All he cared about was the success of his ventures. Amelia wasn't holding out much hope for a calm resolution to the situation. "What's your interest in protecting Empress Celene? Are you her bodyguard?"

Morrigan's laugh was mocking. "Do I seem a bodyguard to you?" she asked, though her amusement soon fled. "If anything were to happen to Celene, eyes would turn first to her occult advisor, even if they knew otherwise. There are sharks in the water, and I will not fall prey to them. Not now, not ever."

"Why did you kill the agent?" Amelia asked then, though she thought she knew the answer. The Venatori were not the sort to leave witnesses alive if they could help it. "He might have had useful information."

"I would not have slain the man on sight, had he not attacked me on sight," Morrigan defended her actions easily. "Why, undoubtedly I caught him in an illicit act. I did not know from whence he came until after the battle, and regret only that I could not capture him alive. What intentions the Imperium has here, I suspect you know better than I."

"Where did this battle take place?"

Morrigan seemed impressed by the pointed question. "In the servants' garden," she answered. "I believe his intent was to enter the Grand Apartments."

The servants' wing, where four servants had entered and not come out. A door that does not open, Cole had said, and now she had a key. One thing was now certain in her mind - Morrigan was not her enemy tonight, no matter the woman's motivations. The intuition Cullen had so much faith in was sure of that. "I might find the time to try a door or two."

The apostate mage nodded graciously. "Proceed with caution, Inquisitor," she warned. "Enemies abound, and not all of them aligned with Tevinter. What comes next will be most exciting." She turned to rejoin the milling guests. "Oh ... and do give my greeting to Leliana. The little bard must be so pleased to see an old ... friend."

Amelia watched her go, hearing the second bell ring to hurry along the guests. At least she had her list of six narrowed down to five; perhaps even four? This all seemed a little too involved for Lorent's machinations. Despite his forthcoming marriage to the Grand Duchess, there seemed little for him to gain from an unstable Orlais, and her brother never acted where there was no clear advantage for him. Still, his betrothed did seem to have some involvement, and he had mentioned that he shared her ambition. Did that ambition include removing both Celene and Gaspard from the line of succession, thereby gaining the throne of Orlais for themselves? Five suspects, then, with two acting in tandem. But she had no proof.

A few minutes conferring with Leliana and Josephine during the toasts, however, laid a plan in place. Once Leliana's agents had managed to conceal the Inquisitor's weapons and armor near the door to the servants' wing, she would take a small party to investigate. Since that was going to take time, Josephine insisted that Amelia do another circuit of the ballroom, directing her to a few interested parties who genuinely wanted the Inquisition's friendship. She laughed, she made witty conversation, she flattered, she danced, but finally she found a moment to check in with her husband.

Cullen was, indeed, under siege. His position in the ballroom had been chosen for the view it offered of all the entrances and exits, but unfortunately it made him very visible to the guests. Beauty drew Orlesians like nugs to shite, and the Commander of the Inquisition was beautiful. The fact that he was married did nothing to dissuade his crowd of admirers. They were relentless, and more than a little free with their hands. Amelia was privileged to witness one such exchange as she approached.

"Did you just ... grab my bottom?"

The richly dressed marquis to his left spread his hands innocently. "I'm a weak man," was his only excuse.

Cullen frowned, embarrassed, edging a little further away from the man. He was deeply uncomfortable with all this unwelcome attention. "I am a married man, marquis," he pointed out in disapproving tones.

"Do you have a mistress, commander?" another man - a comte - asked curiously.

"He doesn't need one, my lord," Amelia said as she inserted herself into the gathering around her husband. Cullen's expression went from disapproving to relieved, pleased to see her well and even more pleased to hear her defending him.

"Inquisitor!" The curious comte was utterly unfazed by the arrival of the commander's formidable wife. "Your presence at court is quite ... stirring. Perhaps you have need for a mistress?"

Amelia laughed at the shameless question, gently laying her hand on Cullen's arm as he bristled. "You can see my husband, my lord," she said with charming understatement. "Does it seem to you that I need someone else in my bed?"

The group laughed - the comte with wry understanding, the others at his public rejection. Cullen was not laughing, however, swallowing down half his drink in one gulp as Amelia drew him away from his admirers and into the shadow of a nearby window drape.

"You shouldn't encourage them," he complained quietly, relaxing as she ran her hands down his arms. "I don't know who any of them are, and they won't leave me alone."

"I take it you're not enjoying yourself?" she teased fondly.

He sighed. "At this point, the headache I'm developing is preferable to the company," he groaned, only exaggerating a little to incite her sympathy.

"Believe me, a headache would be a gift if it meant I didn't have to speak to these preening ninnies," she assured him, happier when he finally cracked a smile. "I don't suppose you'd save a dance for me?"

"No, thank you." He finished what was in his glass, twisting to set it aside.

"Oh." She blinked, unaccountably stung by his polite rejection, dropping her gaze down to study the gold buttons on his tunic. She knew he wasn't much of a dancer, but did he really prefer being ogled by all those strangers to dancing with her?

Cullen's eyes widened as his ears caught up with his mouth. "No! I didn't mean to -" he let out a frustrated huff. "Maker's breath ... I've answered that question so many times, I'm rejecting it automatically." His gloved hand gently tipped her chin up until she met his apologetic eyes. "You know I'm not one for dancing," he reminded her, his voice intimately soft. "But I have very much enjoyed watching you dance tonight."

"You're not enjoying their attention?" she asked uncertainly, the flicker of her eyes alluding to his eager crowd of admirers not too far away.

He snorted with laughter. "Hardly."

He dipped his head, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that left her in no doubt on that score. He hated being here, hated being under scrutiny, hated that she was in so much danger ... but he loved her. She clung to him, startling herself with how much she needed that kiss. There was so little here she could take confidence in, but Cullen was definitely worth that confidence. He tasted of the wine he had been drinking, but his words were the true intoxicant.

"Yours is the only attention worth having," he promised her in a tender growl.

She smiled, her head reeling from that kiss. "I have to investigate the servants' wing," she told him softly. "I won't be long."

His fingers delicately stroked against her cheek as he released her. "Be careful, Ame."

Stepping away, Amelia scanned the crowd, her eyes feeling itchy all of a sudden. She was so tired. It had been an interminably long day, and already past midnight with a full night's work ahead of her. One thing at a time, though. She needed a group to come to the servants' wing with her. She nodded to Sera, who abandoned her private amusement to join her.

"Meet me in the Hall of Heroes," she told her friend quietly as they walked toward the vestibule. "Made any new friends?"

Sera laughed derisively. "Not likely," she declared in a merry tone. "I'm watching them all watch you. They're all glances and titters, not sure if they're allowed to like you yet. Pathetic."

Amelia smiled along with her, reaching up to stifle an unexpected yawn. "Any - oh!" Her hand snapped out as she stumbled, saved from a humiliating fall by Sera's vice-like grip on her arm.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?" the elf teased as they righted her. "Holy Inquisitor going arse over tit in front of all these nobs, not good."

"No, not good," Amelia agreed, blinking to try and clear her vision. Things were a little blurry for some reason. "The wine's stronger than I'm used to, I suppose. Thank you, Sera. But you go on ahead."

"If you're sure ..." Sera eyed her warily for a moment. "Pretentious room full of statues, here I come."

Chuckling at her friend's parting shot, Amelia made her way into the vestibule, walking with exaggerated care. Her weariness was starting to hit her, it seemed; her legs felt leaden, her eyes having difficulty adjusting to the change in light level away from the ballroom. She was having such difficulty focusing that it was only the firm hand on her elbow that prevented her from walking straight past Cassandra.

"Are you all right, Inquisitor?" the Seeker asked in concern, reaching to steady her as she swayed on her feet.

"I'm fine," Amelia insisted, barely hearing the slur in her own words. "Just tired, that's all. There was something ... something I wanted to ..."

She swayed backward, caught from another fall by Cassandra's hands on her arms. The room was spinning, her vision darkening as her knees buckled, her fingers gripping her friend's tunic weakly. The taste on her lips was back, a potent blend she suddenly recognized just a few moments too late. Andraste's arse, was her last thought as she pitched forward into Cassandra's arms, the world abruptly going black.

 "Inquisitor!"

[readbookywooks]

The Valiant Little Tailor

One summer’s morning a little tailor was sitting on his table by the window; he was in good spirits, and sewed with all his might. Then came a peasant woman down the street crying: ’Good jams, cheap! Good jams, cheap!’ This rang pleasantly in the tailor’s ears; he stretched his delicate head out of the window, and called: ’Come up here, dear woman; here you will get rid of your goods.’ The woman came up the three steps to the tailor with her heavy basket, and he made her unpack all the pots for him. He inspected each one, lifted it up, put his nose to it, and at length said: ’The jam seems to me to be good, so weigh me out four ounces, dear woman, and if it is a quarter of a pound that is of no consequence.’ The woman who had hoped to find a good sale, gave him what he desired, but went away quite angry and grumbling. ’Now, this jam shall be blessed by God,’ cried the little tailor, ’and give me health and strength’; so he brought the bread out of the cupboard, cut himself a piece right across the loaf and spread the jam over it. ’This won’t taste bitter,’ said he, ’but I will just finish the jacket before I take a bite.’ He laid the bread near him, sewed on, and in his joy, made bigger and bigger stitches. In the meantime the smell of the sweet jam rose to where the flies were sitting in great numbers, and they were attracted and descended on it in hosts. ’Hi! who invited you?’ said the little tailor, and drove the unbidden guests away. The flies, however, who understood no German, would not be turned away, but came back again in ever-increasing companies. The little tailor at last lost all patience, and drew a piece of cloth from the hole under his work-table, and saying: ’Wait, and I will give it to you,’ struck it mercilessly on them. When he drew it away and counted, there lay before him no fewer than seven, dead and with legs stretched out. ’Are you a fellow of that sort?’ said he, and could not help admiring his own bravery. ’The whole town shall know of this!’ And the little tailor hastened to cut himself a girdle, stitched it, and embroidered on it in large letters: ’Seven at one stroke!’ ’What, the town!’ he continued, ’the whole world shall hear of it!’ and his heart wagged with joy like a lamb’s tail. The tailor put on the girdle, and resolved to go forth into the world, because he thought his workshop was too small for his valour. Before he went away, he sought about in the house to see if there was anything which he could take with him; however, he found nothing but an old cheese, and that he put in his pocket. In front of the door he observed a bird which had caught itself in the thicket. It had to go into his pocket with the cheese. Now he took to the road boldly, and as he was light and nimble, he felt no fatigue. The road led him up a mountain, and when he had reached the highest point of it, there sat a powerful giant looking peacefully about him. The little tailor went bravely up, spoke to him, and said: ’Good day, comrade, so you are sitting there overlooking the wide-spread world! I am just on my way thither, and want to try my luck. Have you any inclination to go with me?’ The giant looked contemptuously at the tailor, and said: ’You ragamuffin! You miserable creature!’

’Oh, indeed?’ answered the little tailor, and unbuttoned his coat, and showed the giant the girdle, ’there may you read what kind of a man I am!’ The giant read: ’Seven at one stroke,’ and thought that they had been men whom the tailor had killed, and began to feel a little respect for the tiny fellow. Nevertheless, he wished to try him first, and took a stone in his hand and squeezed it together so that water dropped out of it. ’Do that likewise,’ said the giant, ’if you have strength.’ ’Is that all?’ said the tailor, ’that is child’s play with us!’ and put his hand into his pocket, brought out the soft cheese, and pressed it until the liquid ran out of it. ’Faith,’ said he, ’that was a little better, wasn’t it?’ The giant did not know what to say, and could not believe it of the little man. Then the giant picked up a stone and threw it so high that the eye could scarcely follow it. ’Now, little mite of a man, do that likewise,’ ’Well thrown,’ said the tailor, ’but after all the stone came down to earth again; I will throw you one which shall never come back at all,’ and he put his hand into his pocket, took out the bird, and threw it into the air. The bird, delighted with its liberty, rose, flew away and did not come back. ’How does that shot please you, comrade?’ asked the tailor. ’You can certainly throw,’ said the giant, ’but now we will see if you are able to carry anything properly.’ He took the little tailor to a mighty oak tree which lay there felled on the ground, and said: ’If you are strong enough, help me to carry the tree out of the forest.’ ’Readily,’ answered the little man; ’take you the trunk on your shoulders, and I will raise up the branches and twigs; after all, they are the heaviest.’ The giant took the trunk on his shoulder, but the tailor seated himself on a branch, and the giant, who could not look round, had to carry away the whole tree, and the little tailor into the bargain: he behind, was quite merry and happy, and whistled the song: ’Three tailors rode forth from the gate,’ as if carrying the tree were child’s play. The giant, after he had dragged the heavy burden part of the way, could go no further, and cried: ’Hark you, I shall have to let the tree fall!’ The tailor sprang nimbly down, seized the tree with both arms as if he had been carrying it, and said to the giant: ’You are such a great fellow, and yet cannot even carry the tree!’

They went on together, and as they passed a cherry-tree, the giant laid hold of the top of the tree where the ripest fruit was hanging, bent it down, gave it into the tailor’s hand, and bade him eat. But the little tailor was much too weak to hold the tree, and when the giant let it go, it sprang back again, and the tailor was tossed into the air with it. When he had fallen down again without injury, the giant said: ’What is this? Have you not strength enough to hold the weak twig?’ ’There is no lack of strength,’ answered the little tailor. ’Do you think that could be anything to a man who has struck down seven at one blow? I leapt over the tree because the huntsmen are shooting down there in the thicket. Jump as I did, if you can do it.’ The giant made the attempt but he could not get over the tree, and remained hanging in the branches, so that in this also the tailor kept the upper hand.

The giant said: ’If you are such a valiant fellow, come with me into our cavern and spend the night with us.’ The little tailor was willing, and followed him. When they went into the cave, other giants were sitting there by the fire, and each of them had a roasted sheep in his hand and was eating it. The little tailor looked round and thought: ’It is much more spacious here than in my workshop.’ The giant showed him a bed, and said he was to lie down in it and sleep. The bed, however, was too big for the little tailor; he did not lie down in it, but crept into a corner. When it was midnight, and the giant thought that the little tailor was lying in a sound sleep, he got up, took a great iron bar, cut through the bed with one blow, and thought he had finished off the grasshopper for good. With the earliest dawn the giants went into the forest, and had quite forgotten the little tailor, when all at once he walked up to them quite merrily and boldly. The giants were terrified, they were afraid that he would strike them all dead, and ran away in a great hurry.

The little tailor went onwards, always following his own pointed nose. After he had walked for a long time, he came to the courtyard of a royal palace, and as he felt weary, he lay down on the grass and fell asleep. Whilst he lay there, the people came and inspected him on all sides, and read on his girdle: ’Seven at one stroke.’ ’Ah!’ said they, ’what does the great warrior want here in the midst of peace? He must be a mighty lord.’ They went and announced him to the king, and gave it as their opinion that if war should break out, this would be a weighty and useful man who ought on no account to be allowed to depart. The counsel pleased the king, and he sent one of his courtiers to the little tailor to offer him military service when he awoke. The ambassador remained standing by the sleeper, waited until he stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, and then conveyed to him this proposal. ’For this very reason have I come here,’ the tailor replied, ’I am ready to enter the king’s service.’ He was therefore honourably received, and a special dwelling was assigned him.

The soldiers, however, were set against the little tailor, and wished him a thousand miles away. ’What is to be the end of this?’ they said among themselves. ’If we quarrel with him, and he strikes about him, seven of us will fall at every blow; not one of us can stand against him.’ They came therefore to a decision, betook themselves in a body to the king, and begged for their dismissal. ’We are not prepared,’ said they, ’to stay with a man who kills seven at one stroke.’ The king was sorry that for the sake of one he should lose all his faithful servants, wished that he had never set eyes on the tailor, and would willingly have been rid of him again. But he did not venture to give him his dismissal, for he dreaded lest he should strike him and all his people dead, and place himself on the royal throne. He thought about it for a long time, and at last found good counsel. He sent to the little tailor and caused him to be informed that as he was a great warrior, he had one request to make to him. In a forest of his country lived two giants, who caused great mischief with their robbing, murdering, ravaging, and burning, and no one could approach them without putting himself in danger of death. If the tailor conquered and killed these two giants, he would give him his only daughter to wife, and half of his kingdom as a dowry, likewise one hundred horsemen should go with him to assist him. ’That would indeed be a fine thing for a man like me!’ thought the little tailor. ’One is not offered a beautiful princess and half a kingdom every day of one’s life!’ ’Oh, yes,’ he replied, ’I will soon subdue the giants, and do not require the help of the hundred horsemen to do it; he who can hit seven with one blow has no need to be afraid of two.’

The little tailor went forth, and the hundred horsemen followed him. When he came to the outskirts of the forest, he said to his followers: ’Just stay waiting here, I alone will soon finish off the giants.’ Then he bounded into the forest and looked about right and left. After a while he perceived both giants. They lay sleeping under a tree, and snored so that the branches waved up and down. The little tailor, not idle, gathered two pocketsful of stones, and with these climbed up the tree. When he was halfway up, he slipped down by a branch, until he sat just above the sleepers, and then let one stone after another fall on the breast of one of the giants. For a long time the giant felt nothing, but at last he awoke, pushed his comrade, and said: ’Why are you knocking me?’ ’You must be dreaming,’ said the other, ’I am not knocking you.’ They laid themselves down to sleep again, and then the tailor threw a stone down on the second. ’What is the meaning of this?’ cried the other ’Why are you pelting me?’ ’I am not pelting you,’ answered the first, growling. They disputed about it for a time, but as they were weary they let the matter rest, and their eyes closed once more. The little tailor began his game again, picked out the biggest stone, and threw it with all his might on the breast of the first giant. ’That is too bad!’ cried he, and sprang up like a madman, and pushed his companion against the tree until it shook. The other paid him back in the same coin, and they got into such a rage that they tore up trees and belaboured each other so long, that at last they both fell down dead on the ground at the same time. Then the little tailor leapt down. ’It is a lucky thing,’ said he, ’that they did not tear up the tree on which I was sitting, or I should have had to sprint on to another like a squirrel; but we tailors are nimble.’ He drew out his sword and gave each of them a couple of thrusts in the breast, and then went out to the horsemen and said: ’The work is done; I have finished both of them off, but it was hard work! They tore up trees in their sore need, and defended themselves with them, but all that is to no purpose when a man like myself comes, who can kill seven at one blow.’ ’But are you not wounded?’ asked the horsemen. ’You need not concern yourself about that,’ answered the tailor, ’they have not bent one hair of mine.’ The horsemen would not believe him, and rode into the forest; there they found the giants swimming in their blood, and all round about lay the torn-up trees.

The little tailor demanded of the king the promised reward; he, however, repented of his promise, and again bethought himself how he could get rid of the hero. ’Before you receive my daughter, and the half of my kingdom,’ said he to him, ’you must perform one more heroic deed. In the forest roams a unicorn which does great harm, and you must catch it first.’ ’I fear one unicorn still less than two giants. Seven at one blow, is my kind of affair.’ He took a rope and an axe with him, went forth into the forest, and again bade those who were sent with him to wait outside. He had not long to seek. The unicorn soon came towards him, and rushed directly on the tailor, as if it would gore him with its horn without more ado. ’Softly, softly; it can’t be done as quickly as that,’ said he, and stood still and waited until the animal was quite close, and then sprang nimbly behind the tree. The unicorn ran against the tree with all its strength, and stuck its horn so fast in the trunk that it had not the strength enough to draw it out again, and thus it was caught. ’Now, I have got the bird,’ said the tailor, and came out from behind the tree and put the rope round its neck, and then with his axe he hewed the horn out of the tree, and when all was ready he led the beast away and took it to the king.

The king still would not give him the promised reward, and made a third demand. Before the wedding the tailor was to catch him a wild boar that made great havoc in the forest, and the huntsmen should give him their help. ’Willingly,’ said the tailor, ’that is child’s play!’ He did not take the huntsmen with him into the forest, and they were well pleased that he did not, for the wild boar had several times received them in such a manner that they had no inclination to lie in wait for him. When the boar perceived the tailor, it ran on him with foaming mouth and whetted tusks, and was about to throw him to the ground, but the hero fled and sprang into a chapel which was near and up to the window at once, and in one bound out again. The boar ran after him, but the tailor ran round outside and shut the door behind it, and then the raging beast, which was much too heavy and awkward to leap out of the window, was caught. The little tailor called the huntsmen thither that they might see the prisoner with their own eyes. The hero, however, went to the king, who was now, whether he liked it or not, obliged to keep his promise, and gave his daughter and the half of his kingdom. Had he known that it was no warlike hero, but a little tailor who was standing before him, it would have gone to his heart still more than it did. The wedding was held with great magnificence and small joy, and out of a tailor a king was made.

After some time the young queen heard her husband say in his dreams at night: ’Boy, make me the doublet, and patch the pantaloons, or else I will rap the yard-measure over your ears.’ Then she discovered in what state of life the young lord had been born, and next morning complained of her wrongs to her father, and begged him to help her to get rid of her husband, who was nothing else but a tailor. The king comforted her and said: ’Leave your bedroom door open this night, and my servants shall stand outside, and when he has fallen asleep shall go in, bind him, and take him on board a ship which shall carry him into the wide world.’ The woman was satisfied with this; but the king’s armour-bearer, who had heard all, was friendly with the young lord, and informed him of the whole plot. ’I’ll put a screw into that business,’ said the little tailor. At night he went to bed with his wife at the usual time, and when she thought that he had fallen asleep, she got up, opened the door, and then lay down again. The little tailor, who was only pretending to be asleep, began to cry out in a clear voice: ’Boy, make me the doublet and patch me the pantaloons, or I will rap the yard-measure over your ears. I smote seven at one blow. I killed two giants, I brought away one unicorn, and caught a wild boar, and am I to fear those who are standing outside the room.’ When these men heard the tailor speaking thus, they were overcome by a great dread, and ran as if the wild huntsman were behind them, and none of them would venture anything further against him. So the little tailor was and remained a king to the end of his life.