#Craggy Island

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1998 – Death of one of TV’s best-loved comedy stars, Dermot Morgan, who played Father Ted.

Death of comedian and actor Dermot Morgan aged 47 from a heart attack. Morgan was one of the most popular comedy actors on Irish and UK TV during the 1990s. His most successful work was in the wildly successful Father Ted series where he played a dysfunctional scheming priest Father Ted Crilly who lived on Craggy Island somewhere off the coast of Ireland. Morgan and the show itself won BAFTA…

[songofapollon]

Homeric Hymn III. TO APOLLO

Translated by H. G. Evelyn-White

TO DELIAN APOLLO

[1] I will remember and not be unmindful of Apollo who shoots afar. As he goes through the house of Zeus, the gods tremble before him and all spring up from their seats when he draws near, as he bends his bright bow. But Leto alone stays by the side of Zeus who delights in thunder; and then she unstrings his bow, and closes his quiver, and takes his archery from his strong shoulders in her hands and hangs them on a golden peg against a pillar of his father's house. Then she leads him to a seat and makes him sit: and the Father gives him nectar in a golden cup welcoming his dear son, while the other gods make him sit down there, and queenly Leto rejoices because she bare a mighty son and an archer. Rejoice, blessed Leto, for you bare glorious children, the lord Apollo and Artemis who delights in arrows; her in Ortygia, and him in rocky Delos, as you rested against the great mass of the Cynthian hill hard by a palm-tree by the streams of Inopus.

[19] How, then, shall I sing of you who in all ways are a worthy theme of song? For everywhere, O Phoebus, the whole range of song is fallen to you, both over the mainland that rears heifers and over the isles. All mountain-peaks and high headlands of lofty hills and rivers flowing out to the deep and beaches sloping seawards and havens of the sea are your delight. Shall I sing how at the first Leto bare you to be the joy of men, as she rested against Mount Cynthus in that rocky isle, in sea-girt Delos -- while on either hand a dark wave rolled on landwards driven by shrill winds -- whence arising you rule over all mortal men?

[30] Among those who are in Crete, and in the township of Athens, and in the isle of Aegina and Euboea, famous for ships, in Aegae and Eiresiae and Peparethus near the sea, in Thracian Athos and Pelion's towering heights and Thracian Samos and the shady hills of Ida, in Scyros and Phocaea and the high hill of Autocane and fair-lying Imbros and smouldering Lemnos and rich Lesbos, home of Macar, the son of Aeolus, and Chios, brightest of all the isles that lie in the sea, and craggy Mimas and the heights of Corycus and gleaming Claros and the sheer hill of Aesagea and watered Samos and the steep heights of Mycale, in Miletus and Cos, the city of Meropian men, and steep Cnidos and windy Carpathos, in Naxos and Paros and rocky Rhenaea -- so far roamed Leto in travail with the god who shoots afar, to see if any land would be willing to make a dwelling for her son. But they greatly trembled and feared, and none, not even the richest of them, dared receive Phoebus, until queenly Leto set foot on Delos and uttered winged words and asked her:

[51] "Delos, if you would be willing to be the abode of my son "Phoebus Apollo and make him a rich temple --; for no other will touch you, as you will find: and I think you will never be rich in oxen and sheep, nor bear vintage nor yet produce plants abundantly. But if you have the temple of far-shooting Apollo, all men will bring you hecatombs and gather here, and incessant savour of rich sacrifice will always arise, and you will feed those who dwell in you from the hand of strangers; for truly your own soil is not rich."

[62] So spake Leto. And Delos rejoiced and answered and said: "Leto, most glorious daughter of great Coeus, joyfully would I receive your child the far-shooting lord; for it is all too true that I am ill-spoken of among men, whereas thus I should become very greatly honoured. But this saying I fear, and I will not hide it from you, Leto. They say that Apollo will be one that is very haughty and will greatly lord it among gods and men all over the fruitful earth. Therefore, I greatly fear in heart and spirit that as soon as he sets the light of the sun, he will scorn this island -- for truly I have but a hard, rocky soil -- and overturn me and thrust me down with his feet in the depths of the sea; then will the great ocean wash deep above my head for ever, and he will go to another land such as will please him, there to make his temple and wooded groves. So, many-footed creatures of the sea will make their lairs in me and black seals their dwellings undisturbed, because I lack people. Yet if you will but dare to sware a great oath, goddess, that here first he will build a glorious temple to be an oracle for men, then let him afterwards make temples and wooded groves amongst all men; for surely he will be greatly renowned."

[83] So said Delos. And Leto sware the great oath of the gods: "Now hear this, Earth and wide Heaven above, and dropping water of Styx (this is the strongest and most awful oath for the blessed gods), surely Phoebus shall have here his fragrant altar and precinct, and you he shall honour above all."

[89] Now when Leto had sworn and ended her oath, Delos was very glad at the birth of the far-shooting lord. But Leto was racked nine days and nine nights with pangs beyond wont. And there were with her all the chiefest of the goddesses, Dione and Rhea and Ichnaea and Themis and loud-moaning Amphitrite and the other deathless goddesses save white-armed Hera, who sat in the halls of cloud-gathering Zeus. Only Eilithyia, goddess of sore travail, had not heard of Leto's trouble, for she sat on the top of Olympus beneath golden clouds by white-armed Hera's contriving, who kept her close through envy, because Leto with the lovely tresses was soon to bear a son faultless and strong.

[102] But the goddesses sent out Iris from the well-set isle to bring Eilithyia, promising her a great necklace strung with golden threads, nine cubits long. And they bade Iris call her aside from white-armed Hera, lest she might afterwards turn her from coming with her words. When swift Iris, fleet of foot as the wind, had heard all this, she set to run; and quickly finishing all the distance she came to the home of the gods, sheer Olympus, and forthwith called Eilithyia out from the hall to the door and spoke winged words to her, telling her all as the goddesses who dwell on Olympus had bidden her. So she moved the heart of Eilithyia in her dear breast; and they went their way, like shy wild-doves in their going.

[115] And as soon as Eilithyia the goddess of sore travail set foot on Delos, the pains of birth seized Leto, and she longed to bring forth; so she cast her arms about a palm tree and kneeled on the soft meadow while the earth laughed for joy beneath. Then the child leaped forth to the light, and all the goddesses washed you purely and cleanly with sweet water, and swathed you in a white garment of fine texture, new-woven, and fastened a golden band about you.

[123] Now Leto did not give Apollo, bearer of the golden blade, her breast; but Themis duly poured nectar and ambrosia with her divine hands: and Leto was glad because she had borne a strong son and an archer. But as soon as you had tasted that divine heavenly food, O Phoebus, you could no longer then be held by golden cords nor confined with bands, but all their ends were undone. Forthwith Phoebus Apollo spoke out among the deathless goddesses: "The lyre and the curved bow shall ever be dear to me, and I will declare to men the unfailing will of Zeus."

[133] So said Phoebus, the long-haired god who shoots afar and began to walk upon the wide-pathed earth; and all goddesses were amazed at him. Then with gold all Delos was laden, beholding the child of Zeus and Leto, for joy because the god chose her above the islands and shore to make his dwelling in her: and she loved him yet more in her heart, and blossomed as does a mountain-top with woodland flowers.

[140] And you, O lord Apollo, god of the silver bow, shooting afar, now walked on craggy Cynthus, and now kept wandering about the island and the people in them. Many are your temples and wooded groves, and all peaks and towering bluffs of lofty mountains and rivers flowing to the sea are dear to you, Phoebus, yet in Delos do you most delight your heart; for there the long robed Ionians gather in your honour with their children and shy wives: mindful, they delight you with boxing and dancing and song, so often as they hold their gathering. A man would say that they were deathless and unageing if he should then come upon the Ionians so met together. For he would see the graces of them all, and would be pleased in heart gazing at the men and well-girded women with their swift ships and great wealth. And there is this great wonder besides -- and its renown shall never perish -- the girls of Delos, hand-maidens of the Far-shooter; for when they have praised Apollo first, and also Leto and Artemis who delights in arrows, they sing a strain-telling of men and women of past days, and charm the tribes of men. Also they can imitate the tongues of all men and their clattering speech: each would say that he himself were singing, so close to truth is their sweet song.

[165] And now may Apollo be favourable and Artemis; and farewell all you maidens. Remember me in after time whenever any one of men on earth, a stranger who has seen and suffered much, comes here and asks of you: "Whom think ye, girls, is the sweetest singer that comes here, and in whom do you most delight?" Then answer, each and all, with one voice: "He is a blind man, and dwells in rocky Chios: his lays are evermore supreme." As for me, I will carry your renown as far as I roam over the earth to the well-placed this thing is true. And I will never cease to praise far-shooting Apollo, god of the silver bow, whom rich-haired Leto bare.

TO PYTHIAN APOLLO

[179] O Lord, Lycia is yours and lovely Maeonia and Miletus, charming city by the sea, but over wave-girt Delos you greatly reign your own self.

[182] Leto's all-glorious son goes to rocky Pytho, playing upon his hollow lyre, clad in divine, perfumed garments; and at the touch of the golden key his lyre sings sweet. Thence, swift as thought, he speeds from earth to Olympus, to the house of Zeus, to join the gathering of the other gods: then straightway the undying gods think only of the lyre and song, and all the Muses together, voice sweetly answering voice, hymn the unending gifts the gods enjoy and the sufferings of men, all that they endure at the hands of the deathless gods, and how they live witless and helpless and cannot find healing for death or defence against old age. Meanwhile the rich-tressed Graces and cheerful Seasons dance with Harmonia and Hebe and Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, holding each other by the wrist. And among them sings one, not mean nor puny, but tall to look upon and enviable in mien, Artemis who delights in arrows, sister of Apollo. Among them sport Ares and the keen-eyed Slayer of Argus, while Apollo plays his lyre stepping high and featly and a radiance shines around him, the gleaming of his feet and close-woven vest. And they, even gold-tressed Leto and wise Zeus, rejoice in their great hearts as they watch their dear son playing among the undying gods.

[207] How then shall I sing of you -- though in all ways you are a worthy theme for song? Shall I sing of you as wooer and in the fields of love, how you went wooing the daughter of Azan along with god-like Ischys the son of well-horsed Elatius, or with Phorbas sprung from Triops, or with Ereutheus, or with Leucippus and the wife of Leucippus ((lacuna)) . . . you on foot, he with his chariot, yet he fell not short of Triops. Or shall I sing how at the first you went about the earth seeking a place of oracle for men, O far-shooting Apollo? To Pieria first you went down from Olympus and passed by sandy Lectus and Enienae and through the land of the Perrhaebi. Soon you came to Iolcus and set foot on Cenaeum in Euboea, famed for ships: you stood in the Lelantine plain, but it pleased not your heart to make a temple there and wooded groves. From there you crossed the Euripus, far-shooting Apollo, and went up the green, holy hills, going on to Mycalessus and grassy-bedded Teumessus, and so came to the wood-clad abode of Thebe; for as yet no man lived in holy Thebe, nor were there tracks or ways about Thebe's wheat-bearing plain as yet.

[229] And further still you went, O far-shooting Apollo, and came to Onchestus, Poseidon's bright grove: there the new-broken cold distressed with drawing the trim chariot gets spirit again, and the skilled driver springs from his car and goes on his way. Then the horses for a while rattle the empty car, being rid of guidance; and if they break the chariot in the woody grove, men look after the horses, but tilt the chariot and leave it there; for this was the rite from the very first. And the drivers pray to the lord of the shrine; but the chariot falls to the lot of the god.

[239] Further yet you went, O far-shooting Apollo, and reached next Cephissus' sweet stream which pours forth its sweet- flowing water from Lilaea, and crossing over it, O worker from afar, you passed many-towered Ocalea and reached grassy Haliartus.

[244] Then you went towards Telphusa: and there the pleasant place seemed fit for making a temple and wooded grove. You came very near and spoke to her: "Telphusa, here I am minded to make a glorious temple, an oracle for men, and hither they will always bring perfect hecatombs, both those who live in rich Peloponnesus and those of Europe and all the wave-washed isles, coming to seek oracles. And I will deliver to them all counsel that cannot fail, giving answer in my rich temple."

[254] So said Phoebus Apollo, and laid out all the foundations throughout, wide and very long. But when Telphusa saw this, she was angry in heart and spoke, saying: "Lord Phoebus, worker from afar, I will speak a word of counsel to your heart, since you are minded to make here a glorious temple to be an oracle for men who will always bring hither perfect hecatombs for you; yet I will speak out, and do you lay up my words in your heart. The trampling of swift horses and the sound of mules watering at my sacred springs will always irk you, and men will like better to gaze at the well-made chariots and stamping, swift-footed horses than at your great temple and the many treasures that are within. But if you will be moved by me -- for you, lord, are stronger and mightier than I, and your strength is very great -- build at Crisa below the glades of Parnassus: there no bright chariot will clash, and there will be no noise of swift-footed horses near your well-built altar. But so the glorious tribes of men will bring gifts to you as Iepaeon (`Hail-Healer'), and you will receive with delight rich sacrifices from the people dwelling round about." So said Telphusa, that she alone, and not the Far-Shooter, should have renown there; and she persuaded the Far-Shooter.

[277] Further yet you went, far-shooting Apollo, until you came to the town of the presumptuous Phlegyae who dwell on this earth in a lovely glade near the Cephisian lake, caring not for Zeus. And thence you went speeding swiftly to the mountain ridge, and came to Crisa beneath snowy Parnassus, a foothill turned towards the west: a cliff hangs over if from above, and a hollow, rugged glade runs under. There the lord Phoebus Apollo resolved to make his lovely temple, and thus he said: "In this place I am minded to build a glorious temple to be an oracle for men, and here they will always bring perfect hecatombs, both they who dwell in rich Peloponnesus and the men of Europe and from all the wave-washed isles, coming to question me. And I will deliver to them all counsel that cannot fail, answering them in my rich temple."

[294] When he had said this, Phoebus Apollo laid out all the foundations throughout, wide and very long; and upon these the sons of Erginus, Trophonius and Agamedes, dear to the deathless gods, laid a footing of stone. And the countless tribes of men built the whole temple of wrought stones, to be sung of for ever.

[300] But near by was a sweet flowing spring, and there with his strong bow the lord, the son of Zeus, killed the bloated, great she-dragon, a fierce monster wont to do great mischief to men upon earth, to men themselves and to their thin- shanked sheep; for she was a very bloody plague. She it was who once received from gold-throned Hera and brought up fell, cruel Typhaon to be a plague to men. Once on a time Hera bare him because she was angry with father Zeus, when the Son of Cronos bare all-glorious Athena in his head. Thereupon queenly Hera was angry and spoke thus among the assembled gods:

[311] "Hear from me, all gods and goddesses, how cloud-gathering Zeus begins to dishonour me wantonly, when he has made me his true-hearted wife. See now, apart from me he has given birth to bright-eyed Athena who is foremost among all the blessed gods. But my son Hephaestus whom I bare was weakly among all the blessed gods and shrivelled of foot, a shame and disgrace to me in heaven, whom I myself took in my hands and cast out so that he fell in the great sea. But silver-shod Thetis the daughter of Nereus took and cared for him with her sisters: would that she had done other service to the blessed gods! O wicked one and crafty! What else will you now devise? How dared you by yourself give birth to bright-eyed Athena? Would not I have borne you a child -- I, who was at least called your wife among the undying gods who hold wide heaven. Beware now lest I devise some evil thing for you hereafter: yes, now I will contrive that a son be born me to be foremost among the undying gods -- and that without casting shame on the holy bond of wedlock between you and me. And I will not come to your bed, but will consort with the blessed gods far off from you."

[331] When she had so spoken, she went apart from the gods, being very angry. Then straightway large-eyed queenly Hera prayed, striking the ground flatwise with her hand, and speaking thus: "Hear now, I pray, Earth and wide Heaven above, and you Titan gods who dwell beneath the earth about great Tartarus, and from whom are sprung both gods and men! Harken you now to me, one and all, and grant that I may bear a child apart from Zeus, no wit lesser than him in strength -- nay, let him be as much stronger than Zeus as all-seeing Zeus than Cronos."

[340] Thus she cried and lashed the earth with her strong hand. Then the life-giving earth was moved: and when Hera saw it she was glad in heart, for she thought her prayer would be fulfilled. And thereafter she never came to the bed of wise Zeus for a full year, not to sit in her carved chair as aforetime to plan wise counsel for him, but stayed in her temples where many pray, and delighted in her offerings, large-eyed queenly Hera. But when the months and days were fulfilled and the seasons duly came on as the earth moved round, she bare one neither like the gods nor mortal men, fell, cruel Typhaon, to be a plague to men. Straightway large-eyed queenly Hera took him and bringing one evil thing to another such, gave him to the dragoness; and she received him. And this Typhaon used to work great mischief among the famous tribes of men. Whosoever met the dragoness, the day of doom would sweep him away, until the lord Apollo, who deals death from afar, shot a strong arrow at her. Then she, rent with bitter pangs, lay drawing great gasps for breath and rolling about that place. An awful noise swelled up unspeakable as she writhed continually this way and that amid the wood: and so she left her life, breathing it forth in blood.

[362] Then Phoebus Apollo boasted over her: "Now rot here upon the soil that feeds man! You at least shall live no more to be a fell bane to men who eat the fruit of the all-nourishing earth, and who will bring hither perfect hecatombs. Against cruel death neither Typhoeus shall avail you nor ill-famed Chimera, but here shall the Earth and shining Hyperion make you rot."

[370] Thus said Phoebus, exulting over her: and darkness covered her eyes. And the holy strength of Helios made her rot away there; wherefore the place is now called Pytho, and men call the lord Apollo by another name, Pythian; because on that spot the power of piercing Helios made the monster rot away.

[375] Then Phoebus Apollo saw that the sweet-flowing spring had beguiled him, and he started out in anger against Telphusa; and soon coming to her, he stood close by and spoke to her: "Telphusa, you were not, after all, to keep to yourself this lovely place by deceiving my mind, and pour forth your clear flowing water: here my renown shall also be and not yours alone?"

[382] Thus spoke the lord, far-working Apollo, and pushed over upon her a crag with a shower of rocks, hiding her streams: and he made himself an altar in a wooded grove very near the clear-flowing stream. In that place all men pray to the great one by the name Telphusian, because he humbled the stream of holy Telphusa.

[388] Then Phoebus Apollo pondered in his heart what men he should bring in to be his ministers in sacrifice and to serve him in rocky Pytho. And while he considered this, he became aware of a swift ship upon the wine-like sea in which were many men and goodly, Cretans from Cnossos,10 the city of Minos, they who do sacrifice to the prince and announce his decrees, whatsoever Phoebus Apollo, bearer of the golden blade, speaks in answer from his laurel tree below the dells of Parnassus. These men were sailing in their black ship for traffic and for profit to sandy Pylos and to the men of Pylos. But Phoebus Apollo met them: in the open sea he sprang upon their swift ship, like a dolphin in shape, and lay there, a great and awesome monster, and none of them gave heed so as to understand11; but they sought to cast the dolphin overboard. But he kept shaking the black ship every way and make the timbers quiver. So they sat silent in their craft for fear, and did not loose the sheets throughout the black, hollow ship, nor lowered the sail of their dark-prowed vessel, but as they had set it first of all with oxhide ropes, so they kept sailing on; for a rushing south wind hurried on the swift ship from behind. First they passed by Malea, and then along the Laconian coast they came to Taenarum, sea-garlanded town and country of Helios who gladdens men, where the thick- fleeced sheep of the lord Helios feed continually and occupy a glad-some country. There they wished to put their ship to shore, and land and comprehend the great marvel and see with their eyes whether the monster would remain upon the deck of the hollow ship, or spring back into the briny deep where fishes shoal. But the well-built ship would not obey the helm, but went on its way all along Peloponnesus: and the lord, far-working Apollo, guided it easily with the breath of the breeze. So the ship ran on its course and came to Arena and lovely Argyphea and Thryon, the ford of Alpheus, and well-placed Aepy and sandy Pylos and the men of Pylos; past Cruni it went and Chalcis and past Dyme and fair Elis, where the Epei rule. And at the time when she was making for Pherae, exulting in the breeze from Zeus, there appeared to them below the clouds the steep mountain of Ithaca, and Dulichium and Same and wooded Zacynthus. But when they were passed by all the coast of Peloponnesus, then, towards Crisa, that vast gulf began to heave in sight which through all its length cuts off the rich isle of Pelops. There came on them a strong, clear west-wind by ordinance of Zeus and blew from heaven vehemently, that with all speed the ship might finish coursing over the briny water of the sea. So they began again to voyage back towards the dawn and the sun: and the lord Apollo, son of Zeus, led them on until they reached far-seen Crisa, land of vines, and into haven: there the sea-coursing ship grounded on the sands.

[440] Then, like a star at noonday, the lord, far-working Apollo, leaped from the ship: flashes of fire flew from him thick and their brightness reached to heaven. He entered into his shrine between priceless tripods, and there made a flame to flare up bright, showing forth the splendour of his shafts, so that their radiance filled all Crisa, and the wives and well-girded daughters of the Crisaeans raised a cry at that outburst of Phoebus; for he cast great fear upon them all. From his shrine he sprang forth again, swift as a thought, to speed again to the ship, bearing the form of a man, brisk and sturdy, in the prime of his youth, while his broad shoulders were covered with his hair: and he spoke to the Cretans, uttering winged words:

[452] "Strangers, who are you? Whence come you sailing along the paths of the sea? Are you for traffic, or do you wander at random over the sea as pirates do who put their own lives to hazard and bring mischief to men of foreign parts as they roam? Why rest you so and are afraid, and do not go ashore nor stow the gear of your black ship? For that is the custom of men who live by bread, whenever they come to land in their dark ships from the main, spent with toil; at once desire for sweet food catches them about the heart."

[462] So speaking, he put courage in their hearts, and the master of the Cretans answered him and said: "Stranger -- though you are nothing like mortal men in shape or stature, but are as the deathless gods -- hail and all happiness to you, and may the gods give you good. Now tell me truly that I may surely know it: what country is this, and what land, and what men live herein? As for us, with thoughts set otherwards, we were sailing over the great sea to Pylos from Crete (for from there we declare that we are sprung), but now are come on shipboard to this place by no means willingly -- another way and other paths -- and gladly would we return. But one of the deathless gods brought us here against our will."

[474] Then far-working Apollo answered then and said: "Strangers who once dwelt about wooded Cnossos but now shall return no more each to his loved city and fair house and dear wife; here shall you keep my rich temple that is honoured by many men. I am the son of Zeus; Apollo is my name: but you I brought here over the wide gulf of the sea, meaning you no hurt; nay, here you shall keep my rich temple that is greatly honoured among men, and you shall know the plans of the deathless gods, and by their will you shall be honoured continually for all time. And now come, make haste and do as I say. First loose the sheets and lower the sail, and then draw the swift ship up upon the land. Take out your goods and the gear of the straight ship, and make an altar upon the beach of the sea: light fire upon it and make an offering of white meal. Next, stand side by side around the altar and pray: and in as much as at the first on the hazy sea I sprang upon the swift ship in the form of a dolphin, pray to me as Apollo Delphinius; also the altar itself shall be called Delphinius and overlooking12 for ever. Afterwards, sup beside your dark ship and pour an offering to the blessed gods who dwell on Olympus. But when you have put away craving for sweet food, come with me singing the hymn Ie Paean (Hail, Healer!), until you come to the place where you shall keep my rich temple."

[502] So said Apollo. And they readily harkened to him and obeyed him. First they unfastened the sheets and let down the sail and lowered the mast by the forestays upon the mast-rest. Then, landing upon the beach of the sea, they hauled up the ship from the water to dry land and fixed long stays under it. Also they made an altar upon the beach of the sea, and when they had lit a fire, made an offering of white meal, and prayed standing around the altar as Apollo had bidden them. Then they took their meal by the swift, black ship, and poured an offering to the blessed gods who dwell on Olympus. And when they had put away craving for drink and food, they started out with the lord Apollo, the son of Zeus, to lead them, holding a lyre in his hands, and playing sweetly as he stepped high and featly. So the Cretans followed him to Pytho, marching in time as they chanted the Ie Paean after the manner of the Cretan paean-singers and of those in whose hearts the heavenly Muse has put sweet-voiced song. With tireless feet they approached the ridge and straightway came to Parnassus and the lovely place where they were to dwell honoured by many men. There Apollo brought them and showed them his most holy sanctuary and rich temple.

[524] But their spirit was stirred in their dear breasts, and the master of the Cretans asked him, saying: "Lord, since you have brought us here far from our dear ones and our fatherland, -- for so it seemed good to your heart, -- tell us now how we shall live. That we would know of you. This land is not to be desired either for vineyards or for pastures so that we can live well thereon and also minister to men."

[531] Then Apollo, the son of Zeus, smiled upon them and said: "Foolish mortals and poor drudges are you, that you seek cares and hard toils and straits! Easily will I tell you a word and set it in your hearts. Though each one of you with knife in hand should slaughter sheep continually, yet would you always have abundant store, even all that the glorious tribes of men bring here for me. But guard you my temple and receive the tribes of men that gather to this place, and especially show mortal men my will, and do you keep righteousness in your heart. But if any shall be disobedient and pay no heed to my warning, of if there shall be any idle word or deed and outrage as is common among mortal men, then other men shall be your masters and with a strong hand shall make you subject for ever. All has been told you: do you keep it in your heart."

[545] And so, farewell, son of Zeus and Leto; but I will remember you and another hymn also.

[novaursa]

Can you please do Jacaerys x male reader who is daemon oldest son, we’re Jace admires reader and they fall in love

Valyrian Hearts

- Summary: Jacaerys makes a confession that changes your world, and his.

- Paring: male!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Note: The reader is Daemon's oldest son.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog

The wind was fierce on Dragonstone, whipping against the castle walls and through the narrow corridors with the sharp bite of sea salt. The air was thick with the scent of ash and brine, and the deep rumble of dragons echoed through the craggy cliffs like thunder. You had grown accustomed to the sound, the heartbeat of the ancient island that now housed your family—though it seemed larger now, fuller. Daemon had brought you here with his daughters, and with Rhaenyra's brood, the keep was filled with the footsteps of children and the murmur of voices plotting the future of the realm.

Jacaerys was among them, his presence always a steady one. You had known him most of your life, seen him grow from an awkward boy into a young man with the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. You had never thought much of it, not until recently.

You stood on the blackened stones of the courtyard, Vermithor’s massive form looming behind you. His bronze scales gleamed in the dim light of the afternoon, and you ran a hand over his side, feeling the heat of him seep into your skin. He huffed, a great cloud of steam escaping his nostrils, and you chuckled, whispering soothing words in High Valyrian.

“Y/N.”

You turned at the sound of your name, or rather, the closest approximation to it since your family had taken to calling you by your title more often. Jacaerys stood a few paces away, his dark eyes bright in the grey light, a hesitant smile on his lips.

“Jace,” you greeted, stepping away from Vermithor. “What brings you out here?”

“I thought I might join you,” he said, gesturing awkwardly to the dragon behind you. “I’ve never seen Vermithor up close.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. “I thought you’d be more interested in Syrax or Caraxes.”

Jacaerys shook his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “They’re both magnificent, but there’s something about Vermithor… He’s a legend.”

You glanced back at your dragon, who was watching Jacaerys with an almost curious expression. “He’s old, and wise. He’s seen more than most of us ever will.” You paused, then added, “Do you want to come closer?”

Jacaerys hesitated, then nodded. You held out a hand, and he took it, his grip warm and firm. Together, you approached Vermithor, and you felt a thrill of pride as your dragon lowered his massive head, allowing Jacaerys to place a tentative hand on his snout.

“He’s… incredible,” Jacaerys breathed, his eyes wide with awe.

“He is,” you agreed softly, watching the way his fingers brushed against the bronze scales, gentle and reverent. “He’s the largest living dragon after Vhagar.”

“I wish Vermax would grow like this,” Jacaerys said, a note of longing in his voice.

You chuckled. “Give him time. He’s still young.”

Jacaerys smiled, but there was a wistfulness in his gaze that made your chest tighten. You squeezed his hand, and he looked up at you, his expression suddenly vulnerable.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “I… I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here,” he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “For being… you. You’re strong, like your father, but you’re kind, too. You’ve always been kind to me, even when you didn’t have to be.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Of course I’m kind to you, Jace. You’re family.”

“I know,” he said, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “But it means more to me than you know.”

Something in his tone made your heart beat faster. You had always seen Jacaerys as a younger brother, someone to protect and guide, but now, standing so close, his eyes locked on yours, you realized there was more to his gaze than simple gratitude.

“Jace, I—”

Whatever you were about to say was lost as he stepped closer, his hand still clasped in yours, his body radiating warmth in the cool air. You could feel his breath against your cheek, and the intensity of his gaze made your stomach flutter.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of the sea. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your mind racing. This was Jacaerys, the boy you had watched grow up, the son of your father’s wife, the cousin you had sworn to protect. But the way he looked at you now, the way his hand tightened around yours, it was clear that his feelings were not those of a boy, but of a man.

“Jace…” you began, struggling to find the right words.

He shook his head, cutting you off. “I know it’s wrong. I know you probably don’t feel the same, but I had to tell you. I had to…”

You could see the fear in his eyes, the worry that he had ruined something precious between you. And in that moment, you knew that no matter what you said, no matter how you felt, you could never hurt him.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never thought of us like that.”

He nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I understand.”

You lifted your hand, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t.”

His eyes widened, hope and disbelief warring in his expression. “Really?”

You smiled, a small, tentative thing. “Really.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, the world around you fading into the background. Vermithor rumbled softly, a sound that seemed almost approving, and you laughed, the sound breaking the tension between you.

“Come on,” you said, tugging Jacaerys towards the keep. “Let’s get out of this wind.”

He followed you without question, his hand still in yours, his expression dazed and hopeful. As you walked, you couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold, but for now, with Jacaerys by your side and the warmth of his smile chasing away the chill, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time.

Peace.

The great hall of Dragonstone was bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight as preparations for your departure were underway. The air was filled with the rustle of servants moving to and fro, packing provisions and laying out maps of the Vale and the North. You watched from the side, arms crossed, as Rhaenyra discussed the details with Daemon. Her voice was firm, her gaze fierce. The realms you were venturing to were not just allies to be gained but key players in a war that loomed over the horizon like a dark storm.

Jacaerys stood beside you, his face a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He had been assigned this task to prove himself, to show that he was worthy of the mantle that would one day be his. You knew the weight of that expectation well. You felt it every time your father looked at you, every time he spoke of the Targaryen legacy.

"Are you ready for this?" you asked, your voice low enough that only Jacaerys could hear.

He glanced at you, his expression softening. "I think so. I’ve been to the Vale before, but never the North. There’s so much riding on this.”

You nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. “It’s a lot to bear. But you’re not alone in this, Jace. We’re doing this together.”

He smiled at that, a small, genuine smile that lit up his eyes. “I know. And that makes it easier.”

The hall began to clear as Rhaenyra and Daemon dismissed the attendants, leaving just the two of you and a handful of guards. Rhaenyra approached, her eyes lingering on you with a mixture of pride and worry.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice carrying a note of warning. “Take care of your cousin. The North is no place for mistakes.”

“Neither is the Vale,” Daemon added, his gaze sharp. “Don’t underestimate the Eyrie. The Arryns have a long memory.”

You nodded, meeting their gazes steadily. “I will. We will.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, and she reached out, pulling you into a tight embrace. “Be safe, both of you,” she murmured, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “And come back to me.”

You hugged her back, feeling the familiar ache of leaving, even if only for a short time. “We will,” you promised.

After a few more words of advice and caution, Rhaenyra and Daemon took their leave, and the hall emptied, leaving just you and Jacaerys. He shifted beside you, glancing at the packs of supplies that had been set out for the journey.

“Do you think they’ll listen to us?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with uncertainty. “The lords of the North and the Vale?”

“They will,” you said firmly. “If we show them the strength and resolve of our house, they’ll see that allying with us is their best hope.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching. “And if they don’t?”

“Then we make them see,” you replied, your tone brooking no argument. “We’re Targaryens, Jace. We don’t bend.”

Jacaerys let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “I wish I had your confidence.”

You turned to face him fully, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You do, Jace. You just need to believe in yourself. You’re stronger than you think.”

He looked down, his gaze fixed on where your hand rested against him. When he looked up again, there was something different in his eyes, something intense and unspoken.

“Y/N, I…” He hesitated, then shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Never mind.”

You frowned, not quite understanding. “What is it?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. “It’s nothing. Just… thank you. For being here. For doing this with me.”

You studied him for a moment, wondering what it was he wasn’t saying. But whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t ready to share it. So you simply nodded, squeezing his shoulder before letting your hand fall away.

“We should get some rest,” you said. “We have a long flight ahead of us.”

He nodded, but neither of you moved. The silence stretched between you, heavy with things unsaid. Finally, he took a step closer, his gaze locked on yours.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “I’m glad it’s you by my side.”

Something tightened in your chest, and you found yourself unable to look away from him. The world seemed to shrink, the flickering candles and dark shadows of the hall fading into nothingness. It was just the two of you, standing there, the distance between you suddenly feeling like an insurmountable chasm.

“Jace, I—”

Before you could finish, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. It was quick, almost hesitant, and when he pulled back, his eyes were wide, his expression a mix of fear and hope.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, his cheeks flushing. “I shouldn’t have—”

You silenced him with a kiss of your own, your hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck. It was a deeper kiss, more certain, and he melted into it, his hands gripping your arms as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other’s. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you charged with an intensity that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“We’re doing this together,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Whatever happens, we’re doing this together.”

He nodded, his hands still clutching your arms. “Together.”

You stayed like that for a while, just holding each other, the world outside the castle walls seeming distant and unimportant. Whatever awaited you in the North and the Vale, you would face it together. And for the first time, you felt like you truly understood what that meant.

It wasn’t just about duty or loyalty. It was about him. About you. About whatever it was that had been building between you for so long.

Tomorrow, you would take flight, carrying the hopes and dreams of your family with you. But tonight, in the quiet of Dragonstone, all that mattered was the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of his body pressed close, and the knowledge that, whatever the future held, you wouldn’t face it alone.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Overworking ✧

Plot : Your husband come home late again, and he’s too tired to argue.

The luminescent glow of the wall clock cast stark shadows flickering across the empty living room signaling midnight had long since passed.

Yet the apartment remained engulfed in stifling silence absent your husband Kento's reassuring presence filling the vacant spaces.

Your fingers drummed with steadily mounting agitation as each excruciating minute trickled away unanswered while you waited up alone on the worn couch.

It wasn't like Kento remaining entrenched at Jujutsu High working ungodly overtime hours was anything new lately, but tonight the resentment coursing your veins felt particularly acidic.

Gnawing into your composure with each pulse thundering that he'd once again prioritized his job over coming home to you like some insensible workaholic slowly squandering the precious remaining moments of your lives together.

So when the solitary echoes of his key scraping into the lock finally jarred the stillness, you shot upright immediately.

Chin raised in taut defiance while mustering the courage to confront him directly instead of meekly accepting Kento's feeble apologies and hollow justifications justifying this madness again.

The second your husband's hulking silhouette emerged in the threshold, you pounced without preamble.

"You're late. Again..."

Uttering the terse observation in clipped tones from between gritted teeth while actively assessing Kento's condition for the first time.

Disheveled tie dangling askew with his usually impeccable shirt and slacks wrinkled in haggard disarray. The sallow olive complexion only accentuating the bruised insomnia shadowing the heavy-lidded sag framing those rich bourbon irises clearly drained from sheer exhaustion.

Still, you braced awaiting the standard reflexive dismissal waving away your protective concerns as irrational hyperbole yet again.

Sure enough the indomitably stern furrow pinched across Kento's brow deepened in that telltale scowl preceding the well-worn rebuttal.

"Not now...I'm too tired to get into this tonight."

Immediately you recoiled from the uncharacteristically curt growl dripping in ill-concealed exasperation as he brushed past you towards the kitchen.

Clearly reaching the limits of his endurance and primed to counterattack like a wounded grizzly any impudent challengers foolish enough to pester further.

But the spark of indignation glowed red-hot behind your breastbone entirely eliminating any instinct for retreat tonight.

Not when Kento seemed hellbent on self-destructing through pursuing this flagrantly unsustainable pace.You swiftly followed at his heels hurling the accusations rapid-fire without filter.

"Why are you running yourself into the ground like this?! Working around the clock until you completely burn out or end up hospitalized?!"

Already his broad shoulders visibly tensed beneath the withering barrage while you mercilessly drove each rhetorical javelin home without allowing quarter.

No longer willing to stay passive as the man you cherished most wasted away before your eyes.

"And what about me? Do I not even factor any considerations about how I barely see you anymore besides like this - just discarded afterthoughts at the end of every grueling day?!"

Your throat constricted choking back the scorching bitterness now spilling unchecked across your blurred vision while Kento whirled to face your naked desperation head-on once more.

Every haggard line etched across those beloved Nordic features now seemed to deepen into craggy ravines utterly foreign and unrecognizable from the stalwart protector who'd stubbornly staked his entire existence upon safeguarding your shared sanctuaries.

"You think I revel in being away from my home drained like this? That I enjoy even a single second not by your side every night?!"

His roar simultaneously blasted both palms down upon the kitchen island's laminate surface with a percussive crack shuddering the tiles beneath your sock feet.

Unleashing the full tempest of Kento's frustrations that had evidently been steadily amassing into their own maelstrom these endless evenings alone.

"Every second sacrificed I'm away is to ensure you want for nothing! That our home remains secure from any potential threats! So you can live in peace while I handle these burdens!"

The wounded snarl flayed your viscera more savagely than any blade ever could. Shattering your ribcage wide open and laying your vulnerability bare before the man you'd always relied upon to shelter your most tender places from harm.

Before he instantly softened registering the mute horror stricken openly across your ashen features.

"Kento...that's not on you. If that's how you see it then...then I'm the one who failed."

But it was already too late to capture the venomous barb lancing out beyond your control.

The gaping void abruptly swallowing every lingering scrap of light still flickering behind your husband's visage surgically excised the very last remnants of air from your lungs.

You stood there paralyzed in that vacuum watching Kento physically recoil as if struck directly across that chiseled jawline.

Entire body tensing while the pitiless overhead fluorescents seemed to bleed away what little remaining color tinged those hauntingly cavernous pits now boring directly into your soul with singular uncompromising focus.

"Is that what you really believe...?"

The softly uttered words sliced you more lethally than any razor-edged steel forged by mortal hands ever could.

Rendered more agonizing by the bone-deep undercurrent of absolute loss now permanently severing whatever fraying lifelines still tenuously tethered you both to this point.

"Then you need no longer waste your evenings awaiting my return."

Even bereft of any inflections or venom lacing each syllable, the impassive delivery could do nothing to blunt the lacerations shredding your essence with every concise proclamation.

Feet already rooting to the very earth beneath while he turned without another glance disappearing beyond the hallway's shadows.

Leaving you adrift in a desolate, lightless world now devoid of anything to cling to beyond the scalding moisture already streaking down your hollowed cheeks.

You wasted away countless lifetimes in that void before somehow resurfacing in your shared bedroom consumed in numbness.

Numbly pulling drawers open on autopilot to shovel what meager belongings you could feasibly remove in a single bag while the man you loved lay entombed just beyond that dividing wall.

Unable to so much as utter a farewell...

The muffled sobs rattling your chest gradually gave way to an eerie calm overtaking your senses while automatically gathering those final essentials together.

Your motions felt disembodied and almost dreamlike - existing outside yourself surveying these mechanical preparations from some detached astral plane.

Until the bag's feeble weight balanced over one shoulder snapped you back into a razor-sharp presentience abruptly ricocheting off those cavernous bedroom walls now closing in all around with smothering permanence.

With nothing left delaying that precipice you couldn't avoid crossing no matter how desperately your psyche recoiled and retreated to those warm familiar shadows where he eternally waited.

You didn't look back or allow even the faintest broken whisper to escape while swiftly departing through the living room's archway into the vacant corridor beyond.

Each purposeful stride carrying you farther away from Kento and whatever fragile tapestry still barely clinging between your existences rapidly began unraveling behind.

At least until those first frigid droplets pelted the nape of your exposed neck signaling the night's deluge opened completely from the heavens above.

But still you pressed onwards, feet mechanically propelling you through the lobby then bodily out into the torrent with skull bowed in vacant resignation.

Allowing the punishing currents to immediately drench and plaster every stitch of fabric clinging to your skin in icy shackles now without a single conscious thought towards seeking meager shelter from nature's fury.

That was until the deafening roar erupting from behind shattered the hypnotic trance entirely.

"Y/N!!"

You staggered dumbly whipping about to find Kento's towering silhouette materializing from the building awash in halos of harsh illumination cutting through the downpour's veil like blazing searchlights.

His expression contorted into something primal and harrowing beyond lucid recognition while frantically scanning every inch of your drenched form now paralyzed before him.

Disbelief and heart-rending desperation etched behind the searing intensity now searing directly into your very marrow from those rich ember irises that had always been your touchstones in life's tempests.

Igniting reflective sparks to life where your soul's pilot light had nearly extinguished entirely under those scouring torrents unleashing in merciless retribution.

Suddenly Kento surged across the tarmac in two strides with his sodden blazer already stripped away to immediately drape the swathe of fabric around your trembling shoulders.

Immense oak-trunk arms effortlessly enveloping you against the indomitable wall of his chest while frantically trying to shield you from the punishing onslaught still pounding relentlessly all around in biblical wrath.

Yet not even those granite bastions offered sanctuary as chilling pinpricks numbed your entire body beyond feeling or substance now.

Leaving you a hollowed-out husk vaguely conscious of Kento's remorseless whiskey rasp shredding past your ear canal over the din of the downpour lashing against every exposed surface in scourging waves.

"Y/N...I’m sorry. I was just tired, please I never meant it. It’s just… work have been more exhausting lately, and I’m on the edge sometimes. I lied, I want you to wait for me above all else."

Each gut-punching admission brutally lacerated past all your remaining defenses as he clutched you so fiercely against his pounding sternum those shuddering heaves transmitted into your own rhythms.

Until his soaked bangs completely plastered across those raw features allowing you to drink in every agonized fissure.

"But please, don’t go. I’m begging you"

The desolate cries finally shattered every carefully regimented barrier you'd armored around that hollowed-out vacancy eating away at your soul's foundation.

Each raw and utterly shattered syllable pouring from Kento's very essence jolted those tiny embers still flickering no matter how decimated or waterlogged beyond hope of revival.

So when he finally wilted into that hushed horrific reverie while cradling your face in his battle-calloused palms like spun glass, you instinctively leaned into those colossal furnaces emanating from his gaze consuming you whole once more.

Offering the only meager benediction left within you to bestow while reaching up to reverently brush away those crystalline rivulets streaking his granite features that held more significance beyond nature's downpour.

The frantic thrum of both your racing pulses immediately surrendered into perfect intuitive synchronicity once more.

Gently guiding Kento back through the torrent from that lightless brink he'd pulled you away from towards sacred sanctuaries still smoldering eternally where your twin beacons would never be extinguished again...

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 13.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death

story playlist

The tailwind brought them over the bay and the Gullet with ease, the gargantuan body of Vhagar looming over Driftmark as they passed over the island. 

Aemond looked at the churning seas below them, the mood of the tides changing like a coin flip. A few Velaryon ships were going to port in Dragonstone as they approached the ancient isle, no doubt rife with supplies and workers of importance to the pretender’s cause. 

“Dracarys, Vhagar,” he hummed low, his form prone to the saddle as his dragon unleashed molten fire from her maw, bathing the Velaryon ships in her cleansing flame. 

Sunfyre trilled from the clouds above, settling upon the craggy cliffs of the mainland that overlooked Dragonstone. Vhagar, once dispatching the remainder of the ships, followed. The older dragon settled in the soft grasses, smoke trailing from her nostrils. 

Aemond descended from his perch on her back, looking to his brother, who was staring over the water to the island. 

“Your predictions of the weather patterns were right,” Aegon said, gesturing to the unobstructed view of Dragonstone from their vantage point. There wasn’t a low hanging cloud, nor fog. The hulking bulwark of a keep was as visible to the two brothers as they were to it— moreso, visible to the denizens inside. “They should be able to see us loud and clear, I’d wager. I suppose all of your effort in being the scholarly worm paid off.” 

“They’ll have to look from two sides, however,” Aemond responded as he watched over the skyline as a fleet of ships came into view. “The signal of smoke from the Velaryon fleet burning is as good of an indication as any.” 

The ships flew the flag of the Triarchy, three sigils to represent the Three Daughters— the cities of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They crossed the narrow sea with a vengeance, wishing to give the Sea Snake a message in salt, sea, and blood. 

The alliance between the infamous Triarchy and the King didn’t come without a price— the Stepstones would be awarded to them after the war was finished, as well as a sizable amount of coin. 

The Stepstones were an easy give, as the blasted shore of rocks and stone were nothing more than a watery graveyard, fought over for too long. Its debated governance, or lack thereof, had haunted the council room before Aegon was even born. It seemed an easy enough decision to give the islands to someone who actually had the means and knowhow to manage it— in Aegon’s mind, at least. Aemond knew it would be an issue to deal with in the future.

The two brothers watched as the foreign fleet encircled the passage of water between Dragonstone and Driftmark, skirmishing close with some of the smaller Velaryon vessels. The proximity of the two opposing forces would make it difficult for any of Rhaenyra’s dragonriders to dispatch the Triarchy— not without severe losses to the supply and size of the Sea Snake’s brigade. 

It was a delicate balance now, the Triarchy cutting off supplies and passage to Dragonstone, while keeping Driftmark at heel. The former was effectively sealed off, dragon flight being the only way off of the island. 

This is where Aemond’s careful planning of the weather and their positioning across the cliffs came into play— it was a clear message, a threat. The giant mossy colored dragon, coupled with the distinctive golden dragon, were a side unmissed on the crags. 

The missive was unmistakable in its intention; ‘We are watching.’

“Although,” Aegon looked to the ancient stronghold, built upon a volcano that housed and borne fire-bellied beasts. “It would be easier if we just…” he slammed his hand into his other fist, making a crude explosion sound.

“You’re the one who stopped me from going down that route,” Aemond’s tone was flat, unamused by his brother’s antics. “We made our choice— we play the long game now.”

“Suddenly showing restraint now, Aemond? How unlike you,” his brother sneered. “You’d burn the entire continent if someone gave you passage to do so.” 

Aemond shoots Aegon a look, violet eye sharp like a dagger. His jaw clenched, followed by an acute sting of pain in his eye socket, the nerves within lighting like a mass of torches. A storm swirls inside of his head, words flowing from his mouth on their own. “It’s difficult…” he swallows, looking almost sheepish as he speaks, a look that doesn’t quite suit him. “It is difficult to show restraint. To quell myself.” It isn’t exactly what he wished to say— the vulnerability was too much.

He screamed to himself, the searing agony of his socket drilling it into him. She is a few moments away upon Vhagar and I cannot get her. I have the largest dragon in the world and I’m still powerless when it matters. Powerless, powerless. It was moments like these where he felt like a child with no dragon again, two-eyed and physically whole but grasping at any semblance of his heritage, of his bloodline. He was bereft of it except for name and likeness alone.

“We’ll get her back, brother. I promise you that– as your King. And… as your brother too, I suppose.” Aegon didn’t look at his younger sibling, he didn’t need to, he could feel the torment swirling within him. It was familiar to all of them.

—

“Undefended! You left the city undefended whilst you two traipsed to Dragonstone to… taunt Rhaenyra? Primp yourselves like benign peacocks?” Otto was as furious as his two grandsons had ever seen him, apples of his cheeks red with anger. “I expected this foolishness from you, Aegon, but not you Aemond. You’ve been taught better than this!” 

Aemond let his grandsire rant and rave, only cutting in when the older man stopped to regain his breath. “To clarify, the city wasn’t undefended. The queen was watching over upon Dreamfyre. I’m sure the smallfolk were pleased to see their queen among them, defending them so stalwartly.” 

“The smallfolk? What would they do if Rhaenyra and Daemon came upon their two dragons and took the city after slaughtering your sister? How do the smallfolk amount to dragons with lords atop them, Aemond?” 

Aemond closed his mouth, looking over at his skulking brother. Even though he wore the crown and held the power of the Kingdoms in his hands, he was still so easily torn down by a tongue lashing from his grandsire. Aegon was turned away, collapsed into himself as he bit at his already stubby nails. 

“Thank you for your insight, lord hand. I will see you at first light for the council meeting. I suspect we’ll have much to discuss in terms of next moves now that Dragonstone has been cut off.” the prince, in so many words, dismissed his grandsire.

Otto narrowed his gaze but said nothing, leaving the two brothers alone. 

Silence stretched between them until Aegon looked to his brother. “Do you think I’m foolish?” 

“Depends on the situation.”

“You see I am trying, don’t you? I am the fucking King and yet I am still treated like less than a lecher by him, by them.” 

Aemond began to loosen his riding gloves, finger by finger. “The plan was well executed, Aegon. I think you may find that there are many people grateful for their King’s valiance,” he said, glancing towards the open balcony that overlooked the sprawling city. 

Aegon considered him for a moment, locking eyes with his brother before his expression softened. “War isn’t only fought by lords. I’ve spent enough time in those streets to know. Once, when I was coming back from the Silk, I saw a mass of people tear a raper limb from limb. ‘Twas deep in Flea Bottom, no lords or guards or laws there, only the code and anger of those who live there,” he paused, “A dragon can kill thousands— but thousands can kill a dragon, too. Their unrest shouldn’t be underestimated.”

The prince looked at Aegon, blinking slowly. The king did have a unique perspective on the smallfolk, and mayhaps he cared more for them than the monarchs that came before him. It may prove to be useful in the future, if Aegon was ever given the breadth to make his own choices. Aemond thought his brother sloven and foolhardy at best— inept, brainless and sinful at worst— but the few days of his reign had changed his view ever so slightly. He was still lazy like a fat tom cat, and yet, a fat tom cat may still catch as many mice as any other cat. He just may have a different way of doing it. 

—

The lucidity was too much. It was too bright, she wanted to go back to sleep. 

Bright, too bright. Shera sobbed silently, tears falling across her cheeks without any toil. Stars and figments of candle flame danced before her eyes, igniting a phantom pain in her eye that she thought gone. Her suffering that stemmed from Driftmark didn’t manifest in nerve pain in her eye like Aemond’s, but rather pain in her throat and her seizing episodes. She just wished for darkness and Aemond. 

“P-pl… please let me go back… to the weirwood,” she mumbled. “He was waiting… for me…”

Her hand was in Jacaerys’, held together by a sash that bound them as husband and wife. It was colored with red and gray thread, the color of their two houses. 

Shera felt… exposed. Exposed and cold, like a terrible draft was whistling through her, using her bones like windchimes. 

The room was barren, save for Rhaenyra and the two newlyweds. It was dark, too, the only light dancing from candles and dragon heralded sconces. The brightness that tortured Shera was her nerves on fire, a deep throbbing pain coming from her scar. The man who had officiated had left, the only semblance of his presence being the words that continued to echo in Shera’s mind. 

The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.

It felt like a curse— a curse she knew was coming, a curse she had been waiting for. Something she thought thwarted by giving into her heart’s throes with Aemond.

How silly of an idea to avoid fate.

Her stomach was in knots, or mayhaps not there at all. “Jacaerys,” Shera whispered, a familiar feeling of weightlessness catching up to her. “I’m going to fall,” she squeaked, “Please don’t let me fall.” her plea wasn’t out of want for comfort, but rather necessity.

The prince untied the sash and supported Shera with a hand on the small of her back. “Like this?” 

“My… my hip,” she continued. “It is where… where Moongeist holds himself.” she lamented to be touched any further, her skin on fire and writhing with each misplaced caress. But she would hate to fall, legs crumbling beneath her like a newborn fawn. She felt like a tortured child, her feelings all too large for such a small body to handle. Her mind went back to the basest of needs— she wanted Aemond, she wanted Helaena, she wanted Moongeist. 

Jacaerys adjusted his hold with a confused and slightly anguished look. “Mother,” he addressed Rhaenyra, who looked on in stoic concern. “She needs… she needs a cane, or… or something.” 

Rhaenyra’s face didn’t crease in traditional consternation, her features unmoved. There was only a twitch of her brow and the dilation of her pupils that gave away the inner turmoil. “Go fetch the maester. He will have something made up for her, surely. I will escort her to your chambers.” 

Your chambers. Your chambers. No, not hers. Jacaerys’ chambers. The realization and panic washed over her as unforgivingly as a riptide. Was she expected to consummate the marriage?

“N-no, please,” Shera blubbered as Jace helped her into the arms of his mother. “I want to go home, I want to go home.” 

There was a solemn hollowness in Rhaenyra’s voice as she helped Shera walk down the corridors. “You are home now, dearest,” her voice was fauxly soothing, “I know it is difficult. I wouldn’t have wanted this for you— not… not like this,” there was something inherently warm about her touch that broke through any outward reservation, her hand caressed Shera in a way that could only be described as maternal. “I will do everything in my power to see to your comfort. You’re safe now, Shera.” 

Her body and mind were at odds with one another. Her brain told her that this wasn’t right, it wasn’t— it was all a facade, it had to be. Her body, however, leaned into Rhaenyra’s hold, her gentleness stirring something long dormant inside of Shera. 

She never really had a mother, in truth. Her life was riddled with surrogate mothers like Alicent and whomever her father had assigned to take care of her when she was a babe. Alicent did her best, of course, but there was always a fine line separating Shera from her own borne children. The nursemaids and stewardesses alike at Winterfell never had a gentle touch or affectionate words— not like a real mother would. Out of Shera’s myriad of issues, the mother-shaped hole in her heart was the least of her worries, easily pushed and locked away like a bad memory. 

But times like these— times where Shera’s constitution of mind and body were being tested, broken past her already fragile limits, the hole turned into a chasm, swallowing up the earth beneath her feet and making any further pain unbearable. 

As Rhaenyra sat Shera down on the feather-filled bed, she pushed a stray auburn lock from her face. 

Shera grasped at her hand, holding it with both of hers. “P-please, don’t go,” she whispered, her voice broken and far-away. She hardly recognized it as her own, thinking it more alike to that of a young child. “P…please, I do not… I don’t wish to be alone… n-not yet.” 

“Jacaerys will return quickly, dearest, you won’t be alone for long,” Rhaenyra replied, letting the frightened woman hold her hand, head cocked in slight confusion.

“N-no, no,” she cried, squeezing tighter upon the queen’s hand— a plea, a cry of a child long gone, forgotten. “Please.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for long enough that Shera thought she might’ve left, even if she was still holding her hand. A soft breath left her nose as she shifted, sitting down next to her now good-daughter and wrapping both arms around her, taking her into an all-enveloping embrace. 

No more words were exchanged, only the sound of Shera’s wheezing breaths, shaking body wracked with sobs filled the room. 

Jacaerys did return to his chambers, with the cane in hand, but upon seeing his weeping wife and mother, he bowed his head out and didn’t return that night. 

Rhaenyra stayed with the poor girl all eve and into the early hours of the morning, shifting Shera into a lying position on the bed and covering her with a blanket. It gave her some despair to see her cry herself into exhaustion and eventual sleep. 

As the queen left the room, her mind was flooded with thoughts, swirling like tumultuous waves. 

Have I done the right thing? Am I righteous in my choice? 

She passed her son in the halls, Jacaerys bowing his head to her. “Is she… alright?” he asked, eyes dark as he already knew the answer.

“You know her better than I,” Rhaenyra looked back to the closed chamber doors. “Is that… her normal air?”

“No, it isn’t her usual demeanor. She is very… morose, of course, but this– what exactly are you letting Daemon give her to render her so?” his tone took a turn, almost accusatory in its nature. 

The queen was taken aback by the snap in his words– it was unlike him, always the dutiful and polite son. Courtiers walked by them in the hall, their gazes averted, but she knew they were staring, listening. She pulled Jacaerys into an alcove. “Daemon has been dealt with for making such rash decisions without my consent,” she hissed, “You must trust in me, Jacaerys— as your mother and your queen. This is just one of the many pieces moving on the board, moving towards my ascension, to my throne.” 

“Shera is just a pawn, then? A means to an end? And by marrying her to me, am I not the same?” Jace folded his arms over his chest, moving back from his mother. “Am I merely fodder for your fight against the usurpers? Usurpers, amongst whom is your dearest childhood friend? You and Daemon talk so openly of war, but you had cast the first stone with Shera’s… abduction!” 

“What would you have me do? Ask kindly for my birthright back? Chalk it up to a misunderstanding and give them pats upon their backs and a place at my court?” Rhaenyra scoffed. A thorn lodged in her heart at Jace’s implication of Alicent, a ghost who had haunted the queen’s very thoughts since she heard news of Aegon’s crowning. “My father was a great King in many ways, his reign one of peace— but he was blind with inaction. I will not stay my hand when the time comes to strike. I will have my throne, in fire and blood if I must.”

Indignation flashed in Jacaerys’ deep brown eyes— but like a storm, it dissipated into calm waters and clear skies. “You’re right, mother,” he murmured, bowing his head. “Your grace.” 

— 

Shera finally felt well enough to walk by herself. Although, her legs felt cold and wobbly without Moongeist. It was midday, the skies clear around the island. The sun was even shining, warming her skin just a touch.

The maester upon Dragonstone had prepared a walking cane for her— an instrument hewn from dark gnarled cherrywood. The exterior was a deep brown, whilst the inside was a deep, bloody red. She had worn small grooves on the top of the handle with her nails, exposing the inner layer of cherry, the color staining her fingertips sanguine. 

Rhaenyra had instructed Shera’s handmaidens to dress her in a more Valyrian-style wardrobe to ‘help her adjust’. She felt like an impostor wearing the garments, usually tailored in red, black and gold, coupled with intricately braided hairstyles, fashioned to her head with a dragon pin. A small veil was afforded to her after much pleading, one that only concealed her eyes and left her nose and mouth barren. Her choker was replaced by looping golden chains, imbued with rubies. 

Shera’s nails laid in the indents of her cane as she arrived into the dining hall. The Queen apparently likened to having her family lunch with her at least once a week— a tradition that became more sparse when the war began. 

She slunk into the hall as quietly as possible, the scattered sounds of Viserys and Aegon playing, as well as Lucerys and Joffrey conversing animatedly about swords and dragons, muffled the noise of her cane hitting the stone floor. She settled into her seat next to Jace, who looked irritated, a mood that befell him more often than not as of late, as he tried to serve in his mother’s war council, but was met with blockage after blockage from the other courtiers— something that Shera didn’t hear the end of for at least a fortnight. 

Despite the newly wed couple’s proximity to one another, Shera sleeping next to Jacaerys each night, they weren’t intimate in any way. They had come to an understanding, knowing their souls were each entwined with another’s. They didn’t need to muddy the waters any further with meaningless sex. 

That being said, they did confide in one another to some extent. Or rather, Jacaerys would vent his frustrations of the day, of the bickering of the council, of Daemon’s recklessness, of his own mother’s discounting of his skill— and Shera would listen intently. 

“Wife,” Jace murmured, clasping a hand over Shera’s as she took her seat. His jaw was clenched, bone grinding against bone. “Thank the Gods you’ve come.” 

“Has something… happened?” she whispered, glancing around the table. The children were unphased— but the older ones had an air of ice around them. Baela had both hands on the table, head angled downward as she bore holes through a wall. Rhaena was despondent, looking down at her hands. 

Daemon, however, was lazed. He leaned back in his chair, inspecting a singular grape as if he had no care in the world. “Shera,” he said, not meeting her gaze. Rather, he addressed her with such informality that it made her cringe. “A Valyrian vision you look to be. Mayhaps we should send her into the Dragonmont to bond with a dragon, since she now looks so much the part.” 

“A sheep changes wool rather easily,” she began picking at some fruit on her plate, stabbing her fork into a juicy piece of cantaloupe. 

“Ah, yes. Our wolf in sheep’s clothing, is it? Or mayhaps, a wolf in dragon’s clothing, better yet,” he squeezed the grape until it burst between his fingers.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cut in, hand up to stop him from saying anything further. “How are you doing this morn, Shera?” 

“I’m… well,” Shera kept her eyes down at her plate, wishing to shrink into nothingness. 

“Enjoy the fruit while it lasts,” Baela piped up. “They’re blockading the island.” 

What? Blockading? Her mind raced with the possibilities, but she stayed quiet. 

“I’m sure we can go without such frivolous things like fruit,” Jace scoffed, pushing his plate away. 

“Fruit, grain, most meat, silks,” Daemon drawled. “I don’t understand why we don’t stop the situation.” 

“Do we wish to go toe-to-toe with Vhagar? Sunfyre can be easily dispatched by Syrax, but do you believe Caraxes can survive her?” Rhaenyra snapped, placing down her cutlery on the table. 

“That hoary old bitch is cumbersome,” he continued, dismissing any shred of Rhaenyra’s concern as if it were nothing. 

Vhagar. Sunfyre. Something bubbled in Shera’s chest at the mention of the two dragons, who were undoubtedly with their riders. She continued to stare down at her hands, trying to contain a smile, biting her lip until it bled. 

“Cumbersome she may be, but her jaws could snap any of our dragons with ease. Mayhaps Caraxes and Meleys may pose a threat to her but…” the queen’s voice trailed off, her fingers drumming on the table. 

“… there’s been no news from grandmother, nor Driftmark, your grace,” Baela sighed. “The ships appear to be… dispatching any ravens attempting to cross the Gullet.” 

“We will just have to wait, then. They cannot fare forever against Corlys’ fleet. Jacaerys, any word from the Greyjoys?” 

Jacaerys shook his head. “Our letters have gone unanswered.” 

“Lord Greyjoy is just a boy of sixteen, Rhaenyra, no older than Lucerys. Untested in the matter of war, unblooded. We must seize Harrenhal and raise a land army.” Daemon stared at his wife, brow furrowed in agitation. “I will go with or without your leave. I have no need for passage.” 

There was a long stretch of silence, the chatter of the children stopped— it was as if the whole of the table held its breath. 

“We will speak upon it later, Daemon.” Rhaenyra finally said, the bags under her eyes more prominent than usual. She opened her mouth to speak once more, but was overcome with a strangled sigh. “Gods,” she whispered, clutching her stomach. It was almost easy to forget that she was in her last days of pregnancy, belly round with child, all whilst the war was being waged just outside. She writhed slightly, face pinched.

“Mother?” Joffrey spoke, his voice small and scared. 

The entirety of the table erupted as handmaidens, maesters and nursemaids alike were summoned, gathering around the queen as her labors began. 

Shera stayed sitting, watching as Daemon glanced over the situation before leaving the room, no doubt off to skulk. 

Soon enough, the room was empty. She blocked out the cacophony of agonized screams echoing from the corridors as she stood up to leave. A small pool of blood was beginning to dry in Rhaenyra’s seat. A chill passed through Shera then as she turned to the window, leaning against the sill. 

A green dragonfly rested upon the trellis of growing vines on the wall of the keep, the leaves withered and crusted in salt. 

Hordes of boats were littered in the sea, arcing around the island like a noose. Glancing to the cliffs, she sees a glint of gold off in the distance, coupled with a hulking mountain that almost reminds her of… 

No, it couldn’t be. 

It isn’t.

She wouldn’t let herself look again, she knew it would only end in disappointment.

As she went to walk away, something pulled her back. She clung to the window, peering out as if in hiding. 

Her hopes were true as the golden vision of Sunfyre came into view, the sun shining off his pale yellow and pink scales. Next to the gorgeous beast laid a stirring mass— the Queen of all dragons. Vhagar. 

Shera’s heart raced, thumping against her ribcage like a caged bird. Aemond— Aemond and Aegon had come to save her, they had! She vowed to never let herself be separated from Aemond again, never to let them be apart. Surely Aegon would dissolve her marriage to Jacaerys and let them marry, wouldn’t he? Oh, of course he would. 

The giddiness she felt was elating, her swimming pain and sorrow temporarily abated. She watched as Sunfyre took to the skies, Vhagar behind in a slower pace. They’re coming to get me now, they are! 

The dragons climbed in altitude and drifted off from the bay— in the opposite direction of Dragonstone. They were flying away from Shera. She stood still for what felt like an eternity, not breathing. That can’t be right.

Any semblance of happiness was crushed instantaneously, her feverish pulse stopping for a beat. They were leaving. They were leaving without her. They weren’t coming to get her. 

[somanyratsinthewalls]

Burning Hearts Chapter 1

HI WELCOME TO MY FAVORITE PROJECT! This series is what my fic Prescribed Medicine was loosely based on. I've decided to bring it to life in a multi part series! This chapter is sfw and building background. I will probably post to AO3 since the series lovers live there.

Pairing: Wyvern Devil Fruit Reader (female) x Law

Burning Hearts Chapter 1: A Heated End. A Cold Beginning.

Summary: You were teleported across the globe in an instant, away from your crew. Your body was badly broken and beaten, thrust into the harsh landscape of a Northern island. You are discovered by the Heart Pirates and brought back to health. Startled upon waking up in a foreign place with an unfamiliar crew, you are shocked with the news that you’ll be spending two years there. Trafalgar Law, the captain of the Heart Pirates has made a promise to train you, but will it become something more than a mentor relationship?

Background: O/C (Rito Daisy) is a Strawhat Pirate. Long hair, dark brown with a streak of grey hair coming from the crown. Heterochromia, one eye brown and the other grey. O/C (Daisy) has a Zoan devil fruit power, although she is unaware what type of creature it came from. She was forced to ingest the fruit as a slave, therefore is resentful and only uses it when completely necessary. The only powers she has harnessed are black, bat like wings, and refuses to explore her powers further. O/C joined the Straw Hat Pirates a brief time before the Water 7 Arc. 

— —

Chapter 1: A Heated End. A Cold Beginning. 

Milky, iridescent ribbons of northern lights swirled quickly across your range of vision. Were you laying on the ground? You felt your long hair tickling your back, nothing impeding it. With nothing above or behind you, you were whizzing through space and time. You tried to move your hands. 

Your feet. 

Your wings. 

Nothing. You couldn’t move an inch. Your head spun with dizziness and confusion. What happened? Where were you? The last thing you remembered was-

“Wait Sanji-!” You called out after being face to face with the padded paw of Bartholomew Kuma on Sabaody Archipelago. 

“Don’t touch her you brute!” Sanji’s eyes flared with aggression as he aimed a kick towards your attacker. 

And that was the last thing you saw. You had been bested badly by Kizaru and Kuma, just as the rest of your crew had. You knew you had broken bones. You realized this now that the adrenaline had worn off and you could finally feel your injuries. The delicate tissue of your wings was ripped to shreds and you felt it deep in your flesh. You couldn’t even retract your wings and resume your full human form. You were helpless in your involuntary stasis. How long had you been flying away? The northern lights begin to meld together in your vision and your eyelids flutter closed again… 

— — — 

*WOOOOSH* *CRASH*

Your body crashed into the side of a snowy mountain like a dropped bomb. Pine branches snapped. Squirrels and foxes scampered away quickly. Boulders shattered at the sheer force of the impact. For a moment you were able to open your eyes. 

You were blinded by bright white. After a few moments of believing you had died and were ascending into the heavens, the craggy mountainside came into view. But before you could fully assess your situation, the rock face beneath you gave way and you were falling again. 

You scream but your mouth was quickly covered with snow from the incoming avalanche. You feel more of your bones snap. The pain is unbearable. Your head spins… 

— — — 

“Way too fuckin’ cold…” Penguin struggles to lift his legs from the knee deep snow as he trudges towards the woods on the mountain. 

“Captain said to get wood. You wanna tell him you were ‘too cold,’ Penguin?” Ikkaku snapped at her exploration partner while she too, struggled to move through the snow. 

“I’d like to see him out here in this shit! I can barely tell my hand from my dick in this blizzard!” Penguin shot back. 

“That’s probably because you can barely see your- Ooof!” Ikkaku trips over something in her path and takes a nose dive into the fresh powder in front of her. 

“Hah! Karma, bitch!” Penguin laughs and pulls his hat back. Upon clearing his vision, he sees what his crew mate had tumbled over. A pair of denim clad thighs and a slim waist. “Wait… Ikkaku…” 

“What is it? Help me up already!” 

“It’s… it’s a girl!” 

“What?” Ikkaku shakes her head to shake off the snow. 

“There’s some lady buried in the snow! We gotta get her out!” Penguin panics and starts scraping heaps of snow off the frozen body. 

“Oh shit, you’re right. Let’s pull her out.” Ikkaku reaches through the snow until she feels a lifeless skull lolling around. She places a gentle hand behind the body’s neck and pulls it out of the snow. It was a beautiful woman, long brown hair braided with flowers and vines that had been frozen and wilted in the snow, a large grey streak spread from a corner of her forehead. Ikkaku grabs the shoulders while Penguin grabbed the legs of the lifeless form. 

“Why isn’t it moving?” Penguin pulls on the legs. 

“Hmmph! It’s stuck on something… Hmmmpph!” Ikkaku tries to jostle the body free of the ice and snow. The duo pull and push on the body until something finally gives and it is released from the grip of the mountain. Suddenly, on one side of the body, a tattered black wing breaks free from the ice and flops back down. The second wing followed and slumped lifelessly next to the unconscious form. 

“What the hell is this thing?!?” Penguin exclaims. 

“I don’t know…” Ikkaku looks down at the strange person. “But Captain is definitely gonna wanna see this…” 

The two wordlessly agree to carry the body back down to the Heart Pirate safe house at the bottom of the mountain. 

— — 

“Captain! Law! Hurry!” Penguin yells as he runs into the base backwards carrying the legs of the unknown body. 

“Bring it to the med bay, if there’s any chance it’s still alive he’s going to want it in there.” Ikkaku hurries Penguin down the hallway to Captain Trafalgar Law’s surgery room that connected to his secluded office. 

Doors swinging open quickly, the pirates hoist the winged figure up onto the surgery table. The body laid lifelessly on the table while the shredded wings flopped lazily at its sides, tips nearly hitting the floor. Penguin collapsed against the wall behind him, breath heavy from the long, arduous journey back from the mountain with their new addition. 

The door to the adjoining office was flung open. 

“What the hell is this?” Law burst in and began pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves. 

D, E, A, T, H.

H, T, A, E, D.

He slipped the gloves over each finger and moved towards the surgery table. 

“We found it on the mountain, Captain.” Ikkaku responds. “Under a blizzard and a landslide. I doubt it’s still alive.” 

Law wordlessly peruses the body. He stops by it’s neck and presses two fingers against it’s pulse point. 

E, A.

“There’s a pulse. She’s alive.” 

Ikkaku and Penguin look at each other and their eyes widen. 

“Bepo!” Law shouts. 

“Yes, Captain?” A large polar bear in an orange jump suit enters the operating suite. 

“Ready the surgery room.” Law eyes Penguin and Ikkaku gawking at each other. “You two, prepare for a procedure. Get Shachi too. This won’t be easy.” 

“Aye, Captain!” The duo immediately went to change their uniforms and scrub up for the procedure. 

—- —- —- —- 

“I need more stitches, Bepo.” Law states, muffled by the surgical mask in front of his nose and mouth. 

Law sits on a doctor’s stool sewing up the sinewy flesh on the being’s wings. It had taken him 2 hours, but Dr Trafalgar Law had already sewn up one wing and was finishing the other. It didn’t look good, even Law could admit that. He was just trying to stop the bleeding from the micro veins and tissue in the wing webbing. Bepo had hooked up the creature to machines to monitor its breathing and heart rate. 

“I-It’s a vampire. W-we should have left it out there.” Penguin says from the corner of the operating room. 

“If you can’t be helpful, leave.” Law states calmly without looking up from his work. 

“It’s not a vampire, you idiot.” Shachi remarks from his spot next to the body. “It’s that Straw Hat girl. You guys don’t remember her from the auction house?” 

This peaked Law’s interest. 

“Straw Hat? She’s with his crew?” Law takes a moment from his hunched position over the wing to look at the body’s unconscious face. He notices her button nose, full bottom lip, and her frostbitten skin. Law cocks his head. He remembers her from Sabaody now. She was with the young man in the Straw Hat. He recalls the information on her wanted poster. They had only left the chaos a few days earlier. 

“The botanist…” He mumbles under his breath. 

“Yeah! That’s it! They call her the Earthly Devil… Rito Daisy I think..” Shachi confirms. 

“Daisy…” Law says pensively. He looks at your peaceful face. His gaze lingers for a moment before returning to his work stitching up the flesh of his new patient. 

“Must be a Zoan type.” Bepo says from over Law’s shoulder. “She’s certainly no mink. The question is what kind of Zoan type makes wings like that…” The bear has worry and concern his voice. Law sighs and rises from his chair. 

“It’s not important right now.” He ties off his stitches and moves towards the body’s torso. “We need to set the bones. If we don’t do it now, it’ll be a lot more painful when she’s awake.” 

Law cracks his knuckles.

D, D, E, E, A, A, T, T, H, H. 

His crew members look at him expectantly.

“Well, let’s do it.” 

— —  

Burning. Bright. Fluorescent. 

“Ow… my eyes…” You mumble as you wake from a deep slumber. All you could see was artificial lights and steel ceilings. You knew you were not on the Sunny anymore, ToTo. You try to reach your arm to rub your eyes and found that both of them were shackled to the table you were laying on. 

You were a prisoner. 

Again. 

You heart throbbed in your chest. Your stomach dropped through your whole body. Someone had taken you captive again. How could this happen? You had aligned yourself with the strongest pirates the worst generation had to offer and yet here you were, strapped to a strangers ship just like was 8 years ago. 

“Hey…” You try to sit up.

“HEY!” You pull your body up further. 

“GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! HEY! HEEEEEY!” You try to lurch your body forward but you were met by sharp, extreme pain throughout your whole being. 

“Hey woah hold on relax it’s okay! We’re going to help you!” 

A voice comes from the corner of the room you couldn’t see due to your restraints. 

“Who… who are you! Get away from me! Let me go!” You shouted. 

“I know you’re freaking out right now but I promise we-“ 

You see who the voice was coming from. 

It was an 11 foot tall real-life anthropomorphic polar bear wearing an orange jumpsuit. Your eyes crossed in shock. 

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FUCKING CARNIVORE DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” You pull at your restraints, ignoring the searing pain in your body. 

“No no! I wouldn’t! Please stop!” The bear raises his hands in front of his chest to signify he meant no harm, but you would’t believe it. You scream.

“AAAAH!” The metal restraints holding you down to the table broke under your strength, the material melting slightly. 

“CAPTAIN!!!! HELP!!!” The bear shrieked and cowered. 

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” You shouted and pushed yourself off the operating table and into the cabinet across the room, breaking the glass. You honed your eyes in on the polar bear. 

You spread your broken wings and they crash against the furniture in the cramped operating room, knocking over carts full of medical equipment. 

“Shit!” You groan in pain. 

“ROOM.” 

Suddenly, the air around you tuned light blue. You spun your head around, trying to see where the voice came from. 

“Shambles.”

You felt a body behind you. You breathed hard in suspense. 

“Shit, that burns!” An arm around around your torso pulls back. 

“Wha-?” You felt a sharp jab in your neck and then your eyelids closed. 

Three fingers pushed down the plunger of a syringe.

E, A, T. 

— — — —- —- -

“I have to go to Marine Ford. Picking up a patient. You stay here and make sure this patient stays sedated.” 

It had been a week and Law had been taking care of his new patient in his medical bay at the Heart Pirates safe house. Law had made sure that Daisy would stay unconscious during this time, pumping her full of sedatives. He needed the patient’s bones to heal. 

“Keep her sedated. I’ve left the exact measurements of medications in the folder on the desk. Make sure she stays unconscious. If she were to wake up now, the sheer volume of her broken bones would send her into another shock-like state.” Law gives the instructions to Shachi and Penguin. 

“G-got it Captain! You can leave it to us!” Penguin nods at his captain. 

“It might be a few days. Call only if it’s an emergency.” Law tosses Shachi a transponder snail and heads out of the base towards where the Polar Tang was docked, Bepo at his heels. 

“Great. What did you do that landed us in charge of the vampire girl? If she wakes up we are so fucked.” Penguin remarks at Shachi. 

“She won’t wake up. If we keep giving her meds, we’re in there like swim wear. It’s an easy gig.” Shachi laughs. “And if she does, so what? We just shoot her full of one of these…” Shachi grabs a syringe from a medical cart and squirts it into the air. “So what if she’s a Straw Hat? She’s their gardener. She’s about as dangerous as their damn musician. No real threat.” 

“I don’t feel real great about this, Shach…” Penguin remarks while rubbing his brow. 

[noodyl-blasstal]

18 and 50 🥰💕💕💕🍰🎂🧁🚨

Six months seems like a perfectly reasonable response time... right? RIGHT?

The prompts were: 18 & 50 We both showed up alone to the couples cake decorating class, so obviously-... and Fighting? No, no, we're having a great time arguing about this.

Enjoy below or on Ao3

---

Kravitz hates his colleagues, Kravitz hates them so hard and double and backwards. The power of his hatred is turned up to eleven. He’s going to switch the office coffee to decaf, he’s going to move everything round in the fridge, he’s going to take all the good name brand parcel tape and replace it with the shit stuff that sticks to you more than whatever you’re trying to wrap up. But he’s not. Not really. He’s going to walk into the couples cake decorating class which they didn’t mention he needed a plus one for, and he’s going to have a ‘marvellous’ time. Just like Lydia said he should when she waved him away earlier. But this time, this time he’s not going to believe them when they say they ‘forgot’ or ‘misread the ticket’, because Kravitz is not gullible. Maybe that really did happen the first four times, but five is suspicious. Five stinks of deception. Five are on Craggy Island and they know someone’s been fucking things up for them on purpose.

“Hello!” Says the wall of a man at the door in a worryingly joyful tone. It looks like he’s working hard not to grab Kravitz in a hug. Kravitz appreciates the effort. He does not like to be touched. Lydia says it’s because he needs to work on his social skills. Kravitz thinks that it’s probably because she and Edward need to learn about boundaries. “What’s your name? I’m Magnus!”

Kravitz hands over his ticket with a tight smile.

“Ah, yes, I have you on the list, a last minute addition! Welcome Cravat.”

“It’s Kravitz.” Says Kravitz, trying not to be terse, and failing hideously. They know exactly how much he hates it when people call him that. Namely them, because no one else does. But this isn’t Magnus’ fault, he seems very nice and very excited about event administration, and not responsible for the terrible people Kravitz needs to not work with anymore.

Magnus’s face falls. “Oh… they spelled it twice on the phone…” He gives Kravitz a searching look. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure what my own name  is?”

“I’m not judging you, sometimes people forget things. I don’t mind.” Magnus shoots him a disarmingly encouraging smile and the fighting winds leave his sails.

“I’m sure that my name is Kravitz.” Says Kravitz in the most measured tone he can muster. Maybe if he explains… he can just practise telling someone how awful they are. He’ll never ever have to see Magnus again. “My colleagues are complete… they’re not very… they like to… it’s a joke.” He finishes lamely. It’s fine. He can practise the conversation in the shower and then write a little script before he tells anyone else.

“Okay then…” Magnus pauses, shape of the “C” in his mouth. Kravitz’s lips draw into a thin line. “...Kravitz. Welcome to cake club! Tonight we’re decorating with the very best boys. Is your partner here yet?”

Kravitz’s mouth gets even tighter. “It’ll just be me.”

“At the couples decorating class?” Magnus asks like Kravitz is being ridiculous.

“Yes at the couples decorating class.” Kravitz smiles his very best customer service smile and hopes for the best.

“Okay.” Magnus says slowly. “Yeah, we can work with that.” Magnus gives him a once over. “The suit will definitely help.”

Kravitz has a distinct feeling that he’s being appraised against a firm set of criteria.

“Yeah. You’ll be fine. Come on. Julia will be starting soon and you’re the last one here.” Magnus shoos him through the door.

Kravitz is 30 minutes early. There’s no way he can be the last one here! He’s never late! He…’s going to switch out Edward’s sticky tack for the one that feels all weird and over stretchy. Surely it’s bad enough for him to show up without a person and incorrectly named, he doesn’t need lateness to complete the trifecta. They’re twins, they should only be allowed to do two bad things in one go, that’s only fair.

“Here you go.” Magnus points to a station with a large, intimidating array of tools which put him in mind of a surgery table, a stack of colourful bags thankfully pre-loaded with icing, and two aprons covered in hearts set next to each other.

“I’ll just…” Magnus leans past him to grab one of them and laboriously inch it away as if Kravitz won’t see as long as the movements are slow.

“You too, huh?” Asks the man on the adjoining station. He’s alone too. Although he appears to be wearing both aprons, one on the front and one on the back.

“Yep.” Kravitz tries not to make eye contact. He doesn’t need pity.

“On purpose?” The man asks.

“No.” Maybe if he keeps his answers short the man will realise this conversation isn’t going to happen.

“I did.” Kravitz sees the man shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Societal expectations can suck it, couples decorating class? Taako’s a baller chef, just wait, you’re going to be amazed by how many arms I have.”

“Is it more than two?” Kravitz turns to look, immediately forgetting his previous strategy.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” The man winks dramatically.

He’s handsome, very handsome. Dirty blonde hair in a plait down his back, a light scrub of stubble across his jaw, and so many jangly earrings and necklaces that Kravitz can’t help but stare.

“Ah fantastic idea!” The woman at the front of the class, Julia, Kravitz assumes, beams as Magnus points at the two of them. “As you two are already getting to know each other, why don’t you work together?” She smiles like she’s doing them a favour.

Everyone turns to look.

Kravitz doesn’t want to be perceived right now, not for this reason. He doesn’t need everyone to look at him and know he’s here alone and needs to be paired up with someone while all these couples came together on purpose. His face grows hot and his mouth clamps closed and his fingers definitely aren’t working and he doesn’t want to check in with his legs about it.

There’s a horrible screeching noise.

“Taako!” Julia winces. “Could you…”

The rest of her sentence is drowned out by another horrible screech as he laboriously moves his stool.

“Just following instructions.” The man who must be called Taako? (Surely not?) calls cheerfully as he settles down next to Kravitz

“Right. Well, now that you’re done…” 

The stool screeches again. 

“Taako!”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look even a little bit sorry.

Kravitz stifles a laugh. As much as he appreciates the interruption he doesn’t want to get tarred with the same brush. He refuses to get detention. Can you get cooking class detention? That would probably be a good thing, he needs all the help he can get… so maybe they’d ask him to leave early instead? Either way, he doesn’t want to do anything wrong enough to find out.

“If you’re done?” Julia levels a frankly terrifying stare their way and the stool screecher sits up straight and attentive.

“Hello everyone! I’m Julia Burnsides, and this is my lovely assistant Magnus Burnsides.”

Magnus waves happily at them all then delivers a positively goopy smile to Julia. She returns it. They’re disgusting. Kravitz hates them. (Kravitz envies them deeply.)

“Tonight we’re going to turn this…” Julia holds up a scandalously nude cupcake. 

“Into this!” Magnus shouts, enthusiastic and  loud enough to make Kravitz jump slightly in his seat. 

Taako doesn’t disguise his laugh.

Kravitz would glare at him, but he’s been reliably informed it’s not polite, so he settles for shushing Taako and making sure he’s exuding ‘Paying Attention In Class Like It’s His Job’ energy. In fact, it is his job, it’s both of their jobs, because they entered into the education contract by signing up for the class even if it was under false pretences and someone else signed up on his behalf as a joke.

A sharp elbow digs him in the ribs. “What do you think the cake’s supposed to be?” The man is, at least, keeping his voice down slightly, no one turns round to tell them off.

Kravitz doesn’t turn round. He’s being a good student. Also, he has absolutely no idea what the thing Magnus is proudly brandishing at them is. Maybe a tractor?

“This is a dog that Magnus made.” Julia adds helpfully. Kravitz has to assume the bemusement which is likely apparent on his face is also mirrored across the other attendees.

“Here’s another version.” She holds up a much more dog-like dog. “We’re going to take you through step by step.” Julia smiles so reassuringly that Kravitz is almost convinced he’s going to be able to make his very own dog tractor.

“First off, you’ll need to come to the front in turn and get your cupcakes. If we could have this table first?” Julia points at the front left bench, as far from them as they can possibly get. Are they being punished? Are there going to be worse cakes for them because they broke the rules and came alone?

“Don’t worry.” The man says conspiratorially and slides a tupperware onto the table. “I brought my own.”

“What?” Kravitz isn’t sure that’s legal. Can he go down for this? Existing in the presence of contraband cake might summon the bakery police.

“They’ll just have vanilla. These are salted caramel, mocha, strawberry - with the proper stuff, you know, Taako doesn’t fuck with extract only nonsense - and vanilla but it has beans so you can’t say that it’s the same as the ones here.” He cracks the lid as he talks and glorious cakey smells waft out.

“Are we allowed?” Kravitz asks quiet and serious. Maybe there’s a rule he doesn’t know about. Maybe Lydia and Edward forgot to mention it was BYOC… that seems about right honestly.

“Doesn’t matter, does it, kemosabe, because we’ve done it already.” The man shrugs as if he’s not worried about getting a bad mark in cake.

“Ah.” Kravitz says, not entirely ready to make himself an accomplice.

“Here, try one. What’s your poison? You seem like a guy who caffeinates.” The man holds a chocolatey, coffee-y treat his way. “Go on, it’ll blow your mind, Taako guarantees it.”

Kravitz really wants the cake. It smells amazing and his lunch disappeared from the fridge yet again so all he’s had to eat was the sad, crumbly granola bar he found at the back of his desk drawer…

The man, who does in fact seem to be called Taako starts to withdraw his hand. “Well, if you don’t want it then I guess.”

“Wait!” Kravitz grabs it quickly. It’s not polite, but he’s not risking missing out. “You’re sure you have enough?”

“Cha’boy brought plenty. Taako can’t believe you’d doubt him like this. We’ve been together for 16 years, happily married for 15 years and fifty one weeks of that time, and still you don’t trust me.”

“We had a bad week?” Kravitz breaks off a piece of the cake.

Taako looks offended. “No!” 

“But you said…”

“We got married a week after we met.” Taako says firmly. “Now eat your cake, snugglepuss.”

Kravitz winces. “Snugglepuss?” 

“That’s what you’ve got the issue with? Not our timeline?” 

“Well we were just so in love.” Kravitz refuses to be beaten in imagination table tennis. “How could I do anything but ask you to marry me after that glorious week of cross country skiing? I bought the ring on our lunch break on day two.”

“Cross country skiing?” Taako cocks an eyebrow, but he’s still smiling. Not in the mean way either, the way when sometimes you think you’re playing the same game, but you’re very much not and they’re just gathering data to inform exactly how much they’re going to ostracise you (it’s lots, it’s always lots.)

“I loved the way your thigh muscles strained when you tried to get out of the hole.” Kravitz tries very hard not to think about Taako in a skin tight ski suit. He’s never been skiing, but his brain is doing a great job of thinking up some things he definitely shouldn’t be paying attention to.

He shoves the cake in his mouth to distract himself.

It’s incredible.

He doesn’t know the technical terms, but it’s got all the cake things, the taste and the texture and the… crumb. That’s definitely a cake thing.

“These are magic.” Kravitz tries to force himself to chew his next bite slower and actually savour it. 

He fails. 

Taako’s looks at him again, he really looks at him, drags his eyes slowly down to Kravitz’s toes and back up again, then grins.

“I’m Kravitz.” Kravitz says, because he can’t think of anything better and it seems polite. 

“You sure are, kemosabe.” Taako winks an exaggerated overblown wink. “Cha’boy’s Taako, but you figured that out for yourself.”

Kravitz shouldn’t feel proud, but he does.

“Now that everyone has their cake we need you all to find the nozzle which will make the kind of hair you want your dog to have.” Julia holds up one of the nozzles which is full of holes. “For example, this one could be a pomeranian running.” 

Kravitz writes a question mark in his pocket notebook after ‘pomeranian running’. It’s a tiny rebellion but Taako snorts gently next to him and it feels good. Well, mostly. Kravitz hopes Taako’s laughing at the concept and not him.

Taako picks up a nozzle.

“I’d like you to all pick up your nozzle and try piping with the practice bag, use the greaseproof paper to get the motion. You’ll be looking for something like this.” She pipes a perfectly windswept dab of buttercream fur onto her parchment.

Taako’s not piping onto the parchment. 

Taako’s piping directly onto the cake.

“Taako!” Kravitz whispershouts like his life depends on it, because it does. Julia looks strong.

Taako doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Taako, that’s not the parchment.” Kravitz, helpfully, nudges it towards him. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. Maybe they won’t go down for willful buttercrime, they’ll get a reduced sentence because it was an accident.

“Rules guy, are we?” Taako’s still piping.

Kravitz is, in fact, a rules guy. Why would they exist if they weren’t important?

Taako stops piping.

“Taako!” Kravitz doesn’t shout, but he wants to.

“That’s cha’boy’s handle.”

“That’s a fish.”

Taako looks offended. “It’s a horse.”

Kravitz does the weird snorty laugh he usually saves for home.

“Honse.” Taako points at the cake. “Look at his beautiful flowing mane.”

“That’s a fin.”

“Horse fin.”

“Horses don’t have fins.”

“Fish don’t have manes.” Taako says like he’s winning at something.

He’s not.

“If he’s a horse then where are his teeth?”

“Oh, Taako sees your game, you think horses have to be happy all the time, do you? Got to pander to your human whims and do a nice big horsey smile so you can appreciate what a nice horse life they have? What if his wife just left him? What then, my guy? Does he still have to smile for you?”

“He clearly left his horse wife.” Kravitz shrugs nonchalantly.

“Why?” Taako leans in, desperate for the gossip.

“Because he was a fish, and she was a horse, can I make it any more obvious?”

“She had a trunk, and he didn’t neigh.”

“What more can I say?” Kravitz mutters quickly before tackling the bigger question, because he’s a gentleman. “Horses don’t have trunks. I’m deeply concerned about your equine knowledge.”

“Maybe you’re the one that isn’t as much of a horse specialist as you thought, hmmm? Ever think about that? Maybe, just maybe, you’re not Dr Horse; King of Horses.”

Kravitz tries very hard not to be offended, but it’s not nice to be doubted. “I’ve got three PhDs in horse, actually, it’s Dr Dr Dr Horse, King of Horses to you.”  

Taako picks up the piping bag again. “Well what if…” He pipes a glorious un-horselike appendage.”

“That’s a…?”

Taako squidges the bag again.

“Horn.” Taako says with confidence.

“Two horns.”

“Yep.” Taako looks pleased with himself. “Horse!” 

“And you think that they have…”

“Garyl does.” Taako says firmly. “Are you going to tell him to his beautiful horse face that he isn’t one?”

“No.” Kravitz says, because he’s not. Mostly because there’s no chance he’s telling Taako to his very handsome face that he’s very bad at cake art. Or that the Longhorn Cowfish exists.

“What’s that?” Taako’s wielding the bag again.

“Tentacle.” Taako’s tongue is poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates and it makes Kravitz’s chest ache with longing for… something. The last of the evening sun is streaming through the window, Taako’s glowy and glorious and Kravitz longs to take a photo just so he can keep the moment in his pocket. It feels good, it feels like they’re on the same side, it’s them against the cake establishment. It’s been a long time since he felt like he had an ally.

“It’s a horse tentacle?” Kravitz asks, just in case there’s a chance Taako is pivoting to something more sea themed.

“Horse tentacle.” He confirms.

“Taako, horses don’t have…” Kravitz thinks he should probably be exasperated, worried that whether it’s a horse or a fish, or an octopus, it’s definitely not right. Not that he’s an expert in animal maths, but horse + fish probably doesn’t equal dog, even if you squint.

“Then why does this one?” Taako’s raw confidence is terrible and wonderful to behold. Maybe Kravitz can learn from him. Is this how he defeats Lydia and Edward? Can he ask Taako if they can meet up again so he can learn? ‘If I buy you a drink or three can you teach me your raw charisma to help me deal with my shit colleagues please?’ surely can’t fail…

“Is everything okay here?” Julia stands in front of their counter, brow furrowed like she’s worried. To be fair, they definitely haven’t got anything that looks like fur happening.

“Yep.” Taako smiles up at her like he isn’t busy creating an abomination of both buttercream and nature.

“And you’re okay…” She takes a moment to remember his name. “Kravitz?”

“Oh, yes. Everything’s fine.” Kravitz lies, because Garyl needs a vet, or three, a whole team of specialists.

“It didn’t seem fine when you were fighting.” Julia looks pointedly at Taako.

“We’re not fighting!” Taako’s indignant, offended at the accusation. “We were just discussing taxonomy.”

Julia turns to Kravitz. “If you need us to find you a different station?”

“Did I do something wrong?” Oh, oh no, Kravitz straightens in shock. He isn’t this person. He’s good at classes, he’s good at teacher interaction, he has never ever ever had a bad grade and he doesn’t plan to start now.

“What? No.” Kravitz is very used to the perplexed expression that Julia is wearing. People direct it at him a lot. He wishes he wasn’t so familiar.

“She thinks I’m bothering you, handsome.”

“You’re not bothering me!” Kravitz replies before he processes the second part of the sentence. Taako thinks he’s handsome! He said it so he must mean it.

“Well you’re not bothering me. In fact I think you should not bother me after class and take Taako out for a drink. Cha’boy has some theories about how giraffes look that’re going to blow your mind.”

Kravitz resolutely doesn’t think about how there is another thing he would let Taako blow. “Yes… Yes absolutely,  I’d like that a lot Taako.”

“Gross.” Julia says happily. “Glad we could necessitate…” She pauses and waves her hand between them “... whatever this is with your fucked up fish cake.”

“It’s a horse!” They say indignant, unjustified, and perfectly synchronised.

[freesia-writes]

Ch 33: The Waterfall

Master List ~~ Previous Chapter ~~ WC: 3.4k Fanart by @acryliccassetteart and @the-little-moment!

I can't stop giggling at this mood board but it just captures the vibes of the chapter so well. ;)

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“Come on, Hunter. Let’s just see what happens,” Omega begged, directing her most winning smile at him as he stared flatly from across the table. They were enjoying a late breakfast on a lazy day, and her curiosity about the mysterious blossom he’d discovered a while ago had taken front and center stage. He didn’t want anything to do with it, despite the baffling way it had come to him; it was too tightly wound around painful memories that he’d done his best to stuff away.

“You take it, if you want,” he offered, but she shook her head immediately. 

“It had to be the ‘recipient’ or whatever word it was,” she corrected. “It might turn me into a frog if I try.”

“That could be interesting,” said Hunter, eyes sparkling with a bit of mischief. It warmed Omega’s heart, not having seen his brighter side for nearly a month now. He’d been fairly upbeat during his wild adventures with Luciana, but after his overindulgence on Plata, and more so after the recent wedding, he’d seemed weighed down with an internal conflict that he refused to share. 

“I’ll try it if you come along,” she smiled, lifting her chin slightly as she became fairly certain she had him convinced.

“Alright,” he said, softening considerably as she beamed in enthusiasm. Her internship year had come to a close, and upon the completion of all of her evaluations and reflections, she had decided to take two part-time jobs to further narrow down her interests as she prepared for the Advancement Ceremony, after which she would officially be free to craft her life however she saw fit. One of the current pursuits was with a group of engineers on one of the neighboring islands, and the other was in one of the shops in The Cobbles, where she was learning about natural remedies and holistic healing methods. She was equally drawn to things requiring mental acuity as well as the tender-hearted care of others, and Hunter realized he didn’t often take time to fully appreciate how incredibly well-rounded she was. He was, however, continually amazed at her impervious optimism, and it had encouraged him many times over. 

He brought up the coordinates that Tech had sent for this “magical waterfall” and put the flower in his backpack, handling it carefully even though it had been secured in some kind of stasis orb that kept it perfectly suspended within the round shell. Omega threw in a few snacks as well as a couple of packable towels that would expand when the seal was broken, and the two of them set off.

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Artwork by @acryliccassetteart <3

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The walk was thoroughly enjoyable – a leisurely stroll punctuated with happy conversation and periods of quiet. It reminded him of Lyra, so he started thinking about all of his recent dates with Luci instead. It seemed that they’d spent every free moment they had in each other’s company over the last few weeks. If she wasn’t at work, she was visiting his shop, and if she had a day off, they had plans for workouts or adventures. He’d been out hunting increasingly longer, blaming the bountiful season of herd migration, but it was also the only place he was able to enjoy solitary time in a peaceful setting anymore.

The waterfall came into view, tucked deep within The Forest between two craggy mountains that were covered in trees. A single flat area was etched into the otherwise steep terrain, and the water poured into a pool from the flowing creek above. Omega was bouncing with excitement as they drew near, dropping their bags and inspecting the sight before them. 

“Well, go on!” she encouraged, opening his backpack to remove the orb. “Take it out and let’s have a go.”

“Calm down,” he smiled, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving his swim shorts on. The sun was filtering through the trees, providing some spotty places of warmth, but the rest of the space was mostly shady, which wouldn’t feel great if the water were as cold as he sensed. 

“There’s that beautiful sight again,” Omega teased, pointing at the half-skull butterfly tattoo on his ribcage. He sighed, shaking his head, and she patted him on the back. “You could probably go somewhere to have it removed easily enough.”

“I know. Travel just hasn’t been at the top of my list.”

He flipped a tiny switch on the protective orb, and it split open with a hiss, allowing the blossom to drop into Omega’s outstretched hand. It was no longer glowing, but still maintained an ethereal creamy white color, the runes still barely visible along the edges of each graceful petal. 

“You go in here, I think,” she said. “I’ll climb up to see what’s at the top.”

“Be careful, the rocks look crumbly and–”

“Hunter.”

“Alright.”

She made her way nimbly up the mountainside, aided by tree trunks that were conveniently placed to allow for solid steps, and she planted herself on a strong foothold as she peered over the ledge that held most of the flow before it crashed down the waterfall.

“There’s a little pool up here. The water seems to move slowly through all these rocks,” she called down to him. “So I’ll throw it in when you’re ready!”

Hunter sighed, wading into the chilly water down below. His body tensed more with each passing step that sank him in deeper until the bottom evened out as he neared the waterfall. Shielding his face from the spray, he glanced up to Omega, squinting as he saw her thumbs-up, then watched her lob the flower over her head into the pool above. He waited for a moment, staring at the water coursing down, but nothing seemed to change. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and sensing everything he could. There was nothing extraordinary about the scents or sounds, and the vibrations emanating from everything both living and dead felt the same as always. So he stepped all the way beneath the waterfall, shivering as it splattered over his head and shoulders. 

He was grateful that it wasn’t a very big flow, otherwise it would have been significantly more difficult. But as it were, he turned to face away from the rock wall, tilting his head back and running his hands over his hair as it washed away from his face. He didn’t feel anything other than the crisp refreshment that came from the cold water, and he rubbed his eyes in his hands.

Then he gasped in surprise.

Behind his closed eyes, a colorful vision was coming to life. He furrowed his brow, squeezing his eyelids together as it developed before him. He was able to make out a graceful curve of the edge of something fibrous, and at its edge were hundreds of things that looked like tadpoles. The whole image glowed blue and green, some of the tadpoles radiant with activity. 

Then suddenly, he was walking in a large meadow; some sheep were grazing nearby, and the scents and sounds were so realistic that he felt an anxiety rising in his gut. Distracted by the appearance of a fox that bounded toward from the forest, he stopped, watching the creature as it wove through his legs, brushing against his calf before cavorting playfully through the grass and flowers. It rolled onto its back, revealing its soft belly, and he bent to pet it. The fox closed its eyes, as content as could be, and Hunter found a smile on his face.

Without warning, the fox snapped at his hand, sinking its teeth into the side of his palm with a sinister gleam in its predatory eyes. He yelped, clutching his hand to his chest, feeling the pangs of pain there as well. He rose to his feet, taking a step back to kick the animal as hard as he could. Suddenly, everything froze except for a gentle gust of wind that reached from the sea with glowing tendrils of bluish green that danced gracefully through the air. They settled on the fox, also unmoving, and swirled around it a few times in loving caresses, then disappeared inside of it. 

Then he was free to move again, as was the creature, who got up, shook itself off, and, without a single look back, trotted back into the forest the way it had come, tail swishing pleasantly as it vanished with a carefree frolick. Hunter stared after it, perplexed and hurt. One of the sheep at the edge of the herd, with an older-looking lamb beside it, was watching them, ears flicked forward in alert vigilance and body tensed in apprehension.

The vision darkened, returning to the original image of blue and green tadpoles lined up around a curve. But now the same blue-colored breeze from the meadow swept through, its graceful wisps flowing freely through the fibers of the starkly-contrasted colors of the shape. Somehow, though, it was all changed; the tiny wiggling things were receding from its edge, and they were no longer glowing. 

“You alright?” Omega called, slowly making her way down the side to watch him curiously, a touch of concern in her voice as she saw his head in his hands.

“Fine!” he yelled, unable to open his eyes as he studied the mesmerizing pattern before him, committing it to memory as best he could. It slowly faded into darkness, and he couldn’t feel a single hint of peril, rather an overwhelming sense of peace and warmth as the entire thing dimmed to nothing. Now it was a simple idea that surfaced in his mind, something that one of the Xyloans had said at the tiki bar a while ago: the island was sentient in a way. It protected itself and those who lived upon it. There would be struggles and dangers, but only those that served an ultimate good. It was an odd sort of reassurance that settled in his core, as though he were being beckoned to trust the planet itself, and then it was gone. A wave of tingly energy ran over him as he stepped out from beneath the water, sucking in a deep breath as he reeled from what had happened. 

“So?” Omega pressed, face tightening in concern as he drew near. His eyes were large and he seemed to be unable to suppress a small shiver that would tease his shoulders every few seconds. She tore open one of the towel packets, shaking it out as it expanded once freed from its vacuum-sealed pouch, and tossed it to him. He climbed out of the pool, picking it up from the rock where it lay, and vigorously rubbed all of his limbs before moving to stand in the brightest beam of sunlight.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, turning to her with a shrug. “It was something about glowing tadpoles, then some animals in a field… a fox bit me while a sheep watched… then the tadpoles were fading… ” He cringed at the words coming out of his own mouth, suddenly self–conscious about all of it. “But then again, maybe I was just rubbing my eyes too hard,” he chuckled. 

“Well… do you feel different?” she asked, tilting her head at him intently.

“Other than cold, no.” 

“Hm. Well let’s see what Tech has to say about it.”

“We don’t need to–”

But she was already trotting down the mountain. 

Hunter didn’t even have time to change before he was plopped on the couch at Tech and Phee’s. Having air-dried on the hike back, he reclined into the plush cushions as his brother sat in a chair across from him, leaning forward with his hands together and his knees on his elbows. 

“I’m not a med bay patient here, Tech,” he warned, apprehensive at the intensity with which his brother was studying his every move. 

“No, you are not. However, I am highly curious. May I proceed with some questions and take a few samples if necessary?” Tech sat back, lips pressed together tightly as he waited for Hunter’s consent. He knew that, once given, it would prevent the stubborn clone from protesting every next move he would make. 

Hunter sighed. “Fine.”

“Excellent. Please recount the vision as accurately as you are able.”

Hunter repeated it, watching Tech typing into his datapad with flying fingers. Flickers of insight and satisfaction danced across his distinctive features as Hunter finished, sitting back and scratching his forearm. 

“It seems rather obvious, but I would like to ask some additional questions before venturing a hypothesis.”

“Obvious?” Hunter sighed. “Naturally. Anyway, what?”

“Are you able to recall the specifics of our second mission to Pantora?”

“I mean… We disabled the weapons research facility…?”

“Correct. Let’s continue.” Tech proceeded to interrogate him on a seemingly random array of events throughout their past, everything from the previous day to his first memories of existence, and Hunter felt his brain slowly turning to mush as he did his best to answer as much as he could. Eventually, he was at the end of his rope, and he flopped back on the couch in exasperation. 

“Can you just tell me what you’re getting at?” 

“Yes. Your description of the ‘tadpoles’, which is a creative amphibious equivalent… for a child… reminded me of a recording taken of the brain while an individual accessed specific memories. The fact that the vision showed some sort of withdrawal suggests memory loss, however, it does not appear to be yours. As for the part about the animals in the field, I would advise you to take some time to meditate on the potential metaphorical applications of the scene you observed.”

“Cryptic as always,” Hunter muttered.

“I am being as straightforward as possible,” Tech protested.

“No, I meant this island stuff. Should have happened to Phee.”

“According to whom? The entire saga has not yet been completed. Perhaps the resolution will be highly favorable to you.” It was Tech’s version of empathetic encouragement, and Hunter decided to take it to heart. 

“Well I won’t refuse that.”

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Fanart by @the-little-moment -- go give the post some love!!

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When Hunter finally got up to make the short trek to his home, he had only made it to the edge of town when he noticed a familiar figure on the road ahead. It was dusk, a time when the fading light played tricks, making everything blend together or seem to be all on the same plane. Fortunately, he was more adept than most at discerning the visual cues of this particular hour, and yet he felt the energy from the person ahead even before he fully recognized who it was. 

“Where were you?” Luci exclaimed as he approached, the urgency in her voice laced with anger rather than concern. Hunter felt a barricade rising in his chest even as she rushed to him and grabbed his hands tightly.

“Went on a hike,” he deflected. “With Omega,” he added in response to the quick flash in her eyes. “Then I went to Tech’s. Why? What’s the issue?”

“I was just worried! I told you I had this afternoon off so I figured we’d hang out,” she admitted, voice softening while the tension remained. 

“Sorry,” he said placidly. “We didn’t have any plans.”

“I know. I tried to comm you!”

“Ah. I must have forgotten it at home.” Nonchalance met affront as his eyes met her own, and he felt a nagging sense of conviction at his casual lie. She took a deep breath and shifted, eyes growing large and round. He’d seen this look before; she employed it when trying to manipulate someone into whatever she desired them to be in that moment.

“Alright. Sorry,” she said, deflating to her usual, much more tolerable self. “I just… I kinda missed you,” she admitted sheepishly, leaning into him and tracing a finger along his collarbone.

“Since this morning?” He wasn’t trying to be snarky, he just genuinely couldn’t comprehend it.

“What can I say?” Luci teased, nuzzling in to plant a kiss on his neck. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger.” Her words sent a shiver down his spine as she spoke against his neck. “Anyway…” She pulled back, regarding him fondly. “I’ve got the best date plans ever for tonight.”

“Ah, I need to change… and it’s getting a little late…”

“Nope! Not a care in the world, babe,” she interrupted, raising a triumphant finger in the air. “I’ve got you. It’s a treat for both of us. Nothing crazy, just some special time to relax because I care about you.”

Hunter was getting tired of being dragged around by everyone who wanted something from him, and he realized with a flash of self-hate that he was doing precisely what he’d accused Lyra of: placating others with no regard for his own needs or preferences. But rather than be riled up at the insight, his shoulders slumped a bit, and he closed his eyes as Luci leaned in for a kiss. 

“Trust me,” she whispered against his lips.

.

Lyra banged the pot against the stove, cursing her own clumsiness as she straightened it and returned to her chopping. She felt particularly cozy that night, lighting a few candles around the kitchen to add to the warm glow from the fireplace, and she was throwing together a last-minute dinner after having dozed off on the couch and lost track of time. As she sliced through the vegetables, she thought she heard a creak on the front porch. She slowly lowered her elbows, holding the knife still against the cutting board. 

Nothing. 

She continued her work more quietly, ears perked for any further sound.

.

Hunter took a deep breath where he lay, flat on a massage table with a heavy blanket draped across his legs and nestled around his waist. Warm oil was spread across his back and arms, and the massage therapist’s skilled hands glossed across muscle and bone, kneading and stroking. He felt like a puddle, having finally given in to simply relax and enjoy it after an internal struggle of how odd it all seemed. Luci was in a room next to him, receiving the same treatment, and then they would have some time to soak in the nearby hot springs. It was a clever setup at this particular spa, where patrons could opt to be alone or with those they came with, and Luci had been notably understanding in offering him all the space and solitude he might want. 

She had been much more clingy of late, and he kept sensing a frenetic energy when it came to his whereabouts. He was surprised at the petty jealousy she’d succumbed to – she’d seemed all too willing to share him in the past and had appeared to be completely secure in his affections. Perhaps she’d been shaken by his withdrawal after Plata, but it had been fanned into a larger flame when Lyra returned. He didn’t feel as though he’d given her any reason to doubt, and she had even encouraged him to be friends with Lyra despite his assurance that he had no interest in doing so. 

The calming music slowed as the track came to an end, and in the silence before the next one began, Hunter was lulled by his own heartbeat, echoed by the masseuse’s, and he paused his thoughts, centering himself in his senses and taking it all in. The building felt empty, he was surprised to note, and he suddenly became aware of a rhythmic vibration from his pack where it lay on a chair in the corner of the room. 

“Sorry, I have to get that,” he said quietly to the massage therapist, who nodded with a smile and slipped out of the room. He sat up, pulling the blanket around his waist as he shuffled to his bag, and his pulse was racing now as he emerged from the blissful fog of relaxation and realized the source of the sound. 

The emergency beacon.

Where was Omega–

No.

Lyra.

The emptiness of the rooms around him sent a jolt of electricity through him as he pulled his clothing on as quickly as possible. Leaving a handful of credits on the table by the bottle of massage oil, he left immediately, murmuring a quick apology to the masseuse as he fled.

.

Song: It's My Life - Bon Jovi (Lyrics) 🎵.

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[femininenachos]

Hello lovely. I’ve been thinking about vacation au. Please tell me Clarke runs into Lexa swimming in some crystal clear Grecian water and wells has to close her mouth for her.

(Not quite, but close!)

Previously: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

By mid-morning the narrow streets near the harbour are already swarming with island hoppers fresh off the ferry. More line the quayside, waiting to board the day cruise that takes in the larger, more populous archipelago further down the coast. So-called ‘jewels of the Aegean’, they’re feted for being playgrounds of the rich and famous, boasting a slew of luxury resort hotels, designer boutiques and staggeringly expensive seafront restaurants.

For all its charm and scenic vistas, at least Polis has one foot in the real world. Here, craggy-faced fishermen and dock hands in scruffy overalls are hard at work unloading the morning’s catch, doing their best to ignore the clusters of tourists floating around, or at least tolerating their presence with stoic indifference.

And—it’s possible Clarke might be biased—Polis has Lexa, currently leading the charge like a woman on a mission. Clarke sticks close, her hand in Lexa’s sure grip, hurrying to match her loping strides as they make a beeline for the marina. Along the way they pass an assortment of small motorboats in all shapes and sizes, from dinghies and jet skis to skiffs and cabin cruisers and everything in between, until a gleaming white single-masted sailboat comes into view at last. 

Clarke stops dead in her tracks on the cobblestones, fingers slipping from Lexa’s.

Her jaw drops.

“Is this yours?”

Lexa glances over and laughs at Clarke’s expression. “I make good tips, but not that much.”

She points to the modest vessel moored next to it, an open-top vintage deck boat with a walnut veneer interior and burnt orange leather upholstery that’s bleached from exposure to the sun and the salty sea air. ‘Spirit of Polis’ is written in blue cursive script on the hull.

“I mean, this one’s great too,” Clarke is quick to respond. She styles it out. “Not so flashy. Compact. Classic. Nice, uh, sleek lines.”

Lexa peers over the top of her sunglasses, lips subtly twisting to the side. “It belongs to my uncle, so you don’t have to worry about offending me or the boat.”

She puts down the cooler containing their provisions of cold drinks and extends a hand to help Clarke aboard. A little unsteady on her feet at first, Clarke holds on tightly for support while she finds her balance, shifting her weight to counteract the bobbing motion of the boat as water sloshes against the sides. Once she’s confident she isn’t going to fall flat on her face or, worse, into the harbour, she takes a few cautious steps to reach the small seating area at the rear. She shrugs off her tote bag to stow under the bench and situates herself, the sun-scorched leather burning hot against the backs of her thighs.

From this safe perch (and prime ogling spot), she watches Lexa collect the thick rope that tethers the boat, tossing it onto the deck before she gracefully hops across with the cooler and gets behind the controls. Full of poise at the helm, like it’s second nature to assume command, the signature pout in place as Lexa lifts her chin like she’s surveying her nautical domain. 

It goes without saying that the whole preppy, boat-captain vibe is one hundred percent working in her favour.

Shades on. Hair spilling down her back in glossy chestnut waves, the ends getting whipped around by the wind. Appealing in her pale pink button-down worn over a snug white tank. Shirt open and catching the light breeze, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a hint of muscle definition and the ink that encircles her bicep. Tight little navy blue shorts hug her hips and ass in ways that are about to cause a major international incident at sea, because Clarke is far from looking respectfully.

“Ready?”

When her eyes snap up, she spies the half-smile on Lexa’s side profile, as though she detects the unholy thirst emanating from mere feet away.

Clarke gives a slow, absentminded nod, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as her eyes make another involuntary sweep down Lexa’s form.

“Clarke.”

She gets a hold of herself, breathing in deeply, and with it the spell is broken.

“Mm? Oh, yeah,” she says, feeling a resurgent wiggle of anticipation about this mystery adventure they’re about to embark on together. All Lexa was willing to divulge when they met is that it’s Polis’s best-kept secret, a spot known only to locals, unreachable except by boat, and so far unspoiled by tourists. Clarke had feigned offense on the last point, but soon dropped the act when Lexa tilted in for a kiss that went on and on and made her stomach clench. Each time Clarke started to retreat, Lexa would chase her mouth and draw her back in for more. 

Her lips are still tingling.

(Both sets.)

“At least give me a hint about where we’re going?”

The enigmatic smirk that plays around Lexa’s mouth widens a fraction. “I thought you liked surprises.”

“Oh, I do. But I’m also stubborn as hell and won’t take no for an answer, so jot that down.”

It earns a laugh, one Clarke is fast becoming enamoured with, and she can’t control the warm tingle that goes through her when she hears it or the rush of elation she gets from bringing a rare grin to Lexa’s face. 

“Good to know,” Lexa says as she reaches for the ignition key. Her next words are almost lost to the splutter and chug of the engine before it roars to life. “I like a challenge.”

~*~

Within an hour, they reach a small, secluded cove surrounded by sheer limestone cliffs, the ancient rock sculpted by wind and waves, where sparse scatterings of tall, rugged pines sprout precariously from narrow ledges in defiance of the elements.

It appears like a mirage, shimmering into view: a bay of dreamy, pristine, white-gold sands and crystal clear turquoise waters, serene and inviting, and there isn’t a soul in sight. The closest thing they had to company was the pod of dolphins they spotted off the starboard (Clarke learned) side about twenty minutes ago. She’d gasped and clutched Lexa’s arm, bouncing on her heels in sheer delight. But it was the look they shared, brimming with joy and something unaccountably softer and fonder, that made it all the more magical, the moment already locked into Clarke’s memory.

“What do you think?” Lexa asks.

Lost for words, Clarke shakes her head in silent awe.

She turns to Lexa, and the smile Lexa directs at her, eyes bright and glowing in the sunlight, leaves her just as speechless. When Clarke finds her voice at last, it comes out thick, clogged with emotion; touched and amazed by the incredible beauty of what she sees—the place, and the woman who brought her here. So moved that she’s dangerously close to shedding a tear, her vision glazing over. 

She blinks the moisture away.

“It’s…” She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. Lifts her eyebrows. “Wow.”

She doesn’t second guess the impulse to wrap an arm around Lexa’s waist, to plant a soft, grateful kiss on her jaw.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

Full lips twitch at the corners. “My pleasure.”

With one hand resting on the wheel, Lexa drapes her free arm around Clarke’s shoulders. They remain like that, Clarke hugging Lexa’s side and taking in the spectacular scenery as Lexa guides the boat in at a steady rate of knots.

“I can’t believe this place has stayed under the radar. You’d think tour operators would be running excursions out here every hour until sunset.”

“Clarke.” Lexa grows serious all of a sudden, and that only makes Clarke want to kiss her again. Coax another smile. “You must promise not to tell anyone. It’s how we preserve it for future generations.”

Clarke schools her features, pretending to match Lexa’s gravity.

“Well… it’ll cost you. My silence doesn’t come cheap.”

The slight frown Lexa wears smooths out as soon as she catches on. A quizzical eyebrow flexes in a way that’s rudely attractive.

“Name your price, but don’t forget I work in hospitality.”

“I’m not interested in your money, Lexa. What I want” - Clarke trails her hand over Lexa’s hip and the perfect curve of her backside to give it a slow, purposeful squeeze, relishing Lexa’s intake of breath and the darkening of her gaze as she glances at Clarke’s lips - “is you.”

She meant to say “your body” but she doesn’t correct the verbal slip. Because, yeah, she does want to bend Lexa into all kinds of shapes like a pretzel, but she also has a deep desire to learn more about Lexa as a person, to find out what makes her tick, beyond what she likes to do in bed.

Lexa takes it in stride regardless, easing back into the confidence she has in spades.

Something about the slope of her smile signals she’s about to gain the upper hand. 

She shrugs.

“Okay, deal.”

The enduring gleam in Lexa’s eyes before she turns her attention back to the sea gives Clarke palpitations. Her pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out the engine noise and the crash of the boat breaking the waves. 

~*~

They drop anchor a short distance from the shore, an easy swim from the dazzling white sands. Not yet ready to take a dip, preferring to bake in the heat for a while first, Clarke spreads a large beach towel on the deck for sunbathing. She senses Lexa’s attention on her as she shimmies out of her shorts and shucks her loose tee to reveal the red halter neck two-piece that Octavia helped pick out after breakfast. 

(“Hellooo, mama,” Octavia had drawled after Clarke emerged from the en suite and gave a reluctant twirl. She’d let out a low whistle as she ran her eyes up and down. “Almost wish I was tagging along just to watch Sexy Lexy’s head spin 360-degrees before it explodes. The twins ain’t playing.”)

At the time, Clarke had rolled her eyes and fought a blush but she’s glad she went with O’s suggestion.

Aware of her present captive audience, she proceeds to get comfortable on her back. One knee bent, an arm tucked behind her head as a pillow, showing off her best assets like a 1950s calendar pinup girl. Even behind the dark tinted lenses of her sunglasses, she sees Lexa’s eyes hungrily trace the shape of her body. Clarke basks in it, a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, secure in the knowledge that she’s not just a snack, she’s the whole damn meal, and Lexa looks like she wants to devour every last crumb.

But Clarke’s smugness is short-lived, because in the next moment she’s the one left gawking when Lexa wordlessly strips down to the skimpiest pair of bikini bottoms and not a stitch else, brow quirking up as she peers over her shoulder then dives off the deck, slicing through the water with barely a splash.

Clarke quickly levers up onto her elbows to watch Lexa surface seconds later, hair slicked back and plastered to her skull, a sly little tilt to her lips as she treads water.

“Come on in. The temperature is perfect,” she calls out, looking every inch the siren that lures thirsty sapphic sailors to their deaths. 

Clarke tries to cling on to the last vestiges of composure she has remaining.

“Gonna work on my tan for a little bit.”

The pout returns and she laughs, “Soon!”

Grabbing the tube of sunscreen from her nearby tote, she squeezes a large dollop into her palm. While Lexa does slow laps around the boat, Clarke liberally reapplies the lotion, slathering it on until all the exposed skin within reach is covered.

Before long, she hears Lexa climb the ladder onto the swim platform, accompanied by the rush of water cascading off her body as she rises out of the sea.

The soft slap of wet footfalls draws nearer.

“Lex?” Clarke twists around. “Could you do my—”

She stalls mid-sentence, only cognizant of her fingers closing hard around the tube in her hand when a spurt of lotion shoots out, splattering across her thigh and the towel. 

She doesn’t even flinch.

All Clarke can do is gape and stare, watching rivulets of water run down the slope of Lexa’s bare chest. Eyes drawn inexorably to taut nipples and golden skin that glistens under the sun, to the long, lean lines of Lexa and the scrap of luminous orange fabric that sits low on her hips.

Clarke’s belly tightens, arousal flaring hot between her legs.

(A voice in her head that sounds disturbingly like Wells tells her to close her mouth.)

She has to remind herself to breathe. 

Is thankful for the oversized shades that partially mask her expression, because she isn’t in control of what her face is doing right now. But if Lexa’s lip-bitten smile is any indication, it’s a lost cause anyway.

Casually wringing the water out of her hair as she approaches, Lexa glances at the milky white streak on Clarke’s inner thigh. 

“Not the first time I’ve made a girl squirt.”

Clarke mutters a sarcastic “ha ha”, rubs the lotion into her skin, then wipes her hands on the edge of the towel before she reclines again. She fakes nonchalance when Lexa sinks down beside her, but it’s impossible to ignore the butterflies.

She rolls her shoulders and stares at the sky above, fixating on the solitary vapour trail that cuts across the endless blue.

“Speaking of previous liaisons... do you bring all your conquests here?” She’s mostly kidding, but there’s an undercurrent of needing to know too. She peers at Lexa. “Or am I one of the lucky few?”

A slow shake of Lexa’s head before she leans over on her elbow, closing in and partially blocking the sun, and Clarke’s skepticism must be plain to see, because Lexa looks so intensely sincere now, no trace of a smile or any disingenuousness when she says: “It’s the truth, I swear.”

Still, Clarke has her doubts. There’s no way Lexa isn’t tripping over hot women throwing themselves at her feet and this boat trip is too well-orchestrated not to be a tried and tested seduction technique. 

Clarke peels off her shades to look Lexa square in the eye, and that frank, steady gaze pierces straight through her.

“I mean it, Clarke.” 

The space between them shrinks. 

Lexa’s pupils dilate as her focus shifts to parted lips. “You’re special.”

Water drips off the ends of Lexa’s hair onto Clarke’s shoulder and chest, and whatever rebuttal she had dies in her throat. She’s the one to reach out, gripping Lexa by the neck to tug her the rest of the way and kiss her like Clarke’s been dreaming of all morning.

As soon as Lexa throws a long leg over Clarke to straddle her, knees bracketing her hips, she needs no further convincing.

It’s on. 

She dips her tongue inside Lexa’s mouth and slides both hands up Lexa’s rib cage to cup her breasts, a shiver running through Clarke when she feels the hard poke of nipples against her palms. She kneads, and the low, throaty noise it earns her sets her nerves alight, warm tingles suffusing her body.

They kiss deeply, greedily.

They kiss until Clarke has to drag her mouth away to gulp down some air, only to have the oxygen punched out of her lungs once again when Lexa uses the opportunity to shove her bikini bottoms off, scoop her mane of wet hair to one side and resettle against Clarke’s thigh. With her hands planted on either side of Clarke’s shoulders, Lexa holds herself up as she starts to work along the tensed muscle.

The slick, molten feel of Lexa, sliding against her skin, riding Clarke, makes her burn. She lurches up into the next kiss, hungrily reclaiming Lexa’s mouth, urging her on with a grip on her ass, and that shaky little hitch of breath in the back of Lexa’s throat whenever the friction gets her just right succeeds in getting Clarke wetter and wetter too. At this rate, she might come before Lexa does, and the odds only increase when Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and guides it between her legs. 

“Use your fingers.”

Another surge of heat floods through Clarke at the instruction, hearing the normally smooth, modulated tone of Lexa’s voice roughed by need.

Clarke studies Lexa’s face, watching for the tiny flickers of reaction as she runs her fingers lower, fascinated by each and every twitch and jolt and slight gasp as she explores. She dips in and drags the wetness up to swirl around Lexa’s clit and is rewarded by the sharp jerk of Lexa’s hips and quite possibly the dirtiest kiss of Clarke’s entire life. She needs no prompting to slide through slick heat to tease at Lexa’s entrance again, fingertips doing a couple of slow swirls before she pauses. 

For a beat they remain suspended in a freeze frame of anticipation. Each holding still, a breath caught in their throats. 

On the exhale Clarke pushes inside.

And fuck, she missed this. Touching yourself is great and all, empowering, fantastic for stress relief, et cetera. But nothing beats the sound another woman makes when you enter her for the first time, when you hear that shaky intake of breath and you feel her clench around your fingers.

“Good?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa nods, bottom lip held between her teeth as she looks down at Clarke with hooded eyes, the green of her irises nearly eclipsed by black.

Part of Clarke can’t quite believe this is her reality. That she’s buried to the knuckles and Lexa is moving on her, rolling to meet the steady pump of her wrist. 

She glances between their bodies and a groan escapes, another sharp twist of lust coiling in the pit of her stomach once her eyes fasten on her own two fingers coated with Lexa’s arousal, fucking into her. But Clarke pries her eyes away, roving over tight abdominals, taking in the curves of Lexa’s tits and the jut of her nipples, torn between wanting them in her mouth and watching her fingers disappear inside again.

It’s Lexa’s half-stifled whimper when Clarke’s thumb finds her clit that sharpens her focus. 

Winding her arm around Lexa’s lower back, Clarke sits them upright and swiftly brings their lips together. The abrupt change of angle has Lexa gasping hotly into her mouth. Again, louder, when Clarke’s palm rubs in. Lexa grips her by the shoulder and the back of her neck, blunt nails digging in as Lexa grinds down harder, faster, speeding towards the climax—the first of many, if Clarke has her way—sucking in short, sharp gasps while Clarke keeps pace, despite it being hell on her wrist.

They’re hardly kissing at all now, mouths hanging slack and sharing the same air, noses pressing into cheeks as they pant against one another’s lips.

She soon feels the first flutters, the growing tension in Lexa’s form, the choppy motion of Lexa’s hips and the careless scratch of her nails at Clarke’s nape. She curls the tips of her fingers on each partial drag out then slams back in, lifting Lexa an inch off her lap with each thrust. Clarke keeps the heel of her palm tight against Lexa’s clit, the pressure firm and constant, and in the next collection of halting, rapid breaths, Lexa’s whole frame pulls taut. A ragged cry is torn from her throat and she clenches hard, coming in a hot spill around Clarke’s fingers. Lexa shudders through it, a tremble in her jaw when she catches Clarke’s mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss, licking into her with a groan that makes Clarke gush in turn.

They remain in a heavy lip lock long after the tremors subside, neither inclined to separate. Restless hands weave through Clarke’s hair then seek out her curves, roaming down her chest with purpose, pushing under the top half of her swimsuit. She gives a low hum of approval when Lexa’s thumbs roll over the tight tips of her nipples, the ache mirrored in the dull, pulsing emptiness between her legs.

She feels close to orgasm already, like if she got even the tiniest bit of friction she’d go off like a rocket. Just a small shift of her hand to grind against her own knuckles would do it. But the way Lexa is touching her breasts, palms running all over, teasing her nipples into stiff, hypersensitive points, might be enough to get Clarke there.

And all the while, she’s still inside Lexa. Fucking her lazily with slow presses of her fingers, incapable of much more vigour when her wrist is screaming. She’s debating what to do next, whether to withdraw and flip Lexa onto her back for round two or continue like this, when a distant droning noise intrudes, faintly audible above the gentle lap of water, the thick, wet squelch of Clarke’s hand working between Lexa’s thighs, and their combined heavy breathing.

Growing more distracted by the second, Clarke draws her mouth away. She squints at the horizon beneath the shade of her free hand while warm lips meander along her jaw and down her neck.

She ceases her movements, despite Lexa’s meaningful buck of her hips and the subsequent small growl of complaint when Clarke fails to take the hint.

“What’s—” Teeth nip at the fading hickey on her throat and she gasps, hand flying to tangle in Lexa’s damp, curling hair. But as the object begins to resolve itself, Clarke tenses for a different reason. “Is that a boat?”

Lexa abandons her sulk to look too.

A white shape is rapidly approaching, throwing up sea spray, sunlight glinting off the surface and the waves and making it difficult to discern from this distance until… oh. Oh, yeah.

Letting out a string of (presumably) expletives in her native tongue, Lexa scrambles off Clarke to scoop up the clothes strewn across the deck. She pulls on her tank top, yanks the shorts up her legs, and has just enough time to arrange herself into a casual pose beside Clarke before the other boat reaches them. The occupants are obnoxiously young; late teens or early twenties, as far as Clarke can tell from a distance; a bunch of bikini-clad girls and lanky guys in board shorts hanging off one another as music blasts.

She sighs inwardly. Grits her teeth and refrains from giving them the middle finger while they whoop and cheer in passing, beer bottles held aloft as they thunder towards the wooden jetty.

So much for the sexy beach idyll. Clearly, not everyone has such reverence for the tranquility of this spot.

“Shall we stay a while or…?” Clarke hedges. 

Lexa purses her lips and casts her stormy gaze around, jaw working side to side in rotation, but a gentle touch on her leg pulls her focus back to Clarke. 

Consternation softens into regret.

“You didn’t even get a chance to swim or feel the sand between your toes.”

“I’ll cope. Besides…” Clarke wets her lips and drops into a huskier register. “It wasn’t a total bust.”

Lexa’s mouth twitches, clearly fighting a smile, and to Clarke that’s a win.

“Come on, don’t let these pesky teens ruin our hot date,” she continues in a playful tone. “I bet you have a few aces up your sleeve; other favourite haunts to wow the ladies with.”

One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “We do have the boat for the rest of the day. I could take you somewhere else. For lunch, if you’re hungry yet?”

Clarke gives a noncommittal hum, lightly trailing her wet fingers along the soft skin of Lexa’s inner thigh. “I could eat.”

The suggestive undertone isn’t lost in translation. Their eyes meet and Clarke dares to make it explicit.

“But lunch wasn’t what I had in mind… unless we’re counting pussy as a food group.”

Lexa loses the battle against keeping her smile under control. The tips of her ears are tinged pink. “Are Americans always so forward?”

“Um, I don’t recall any shyness on your part two nights ago.”

Dainty little ears burn brightly while Lexa’s smile grows, becoming toothier, and Clarke just wants to smooch that perfect face all day long.

“Anyway, I prefer the term ‘go-getter.’ As in, I see someone I want and I go get her.”

A pained groan. “I should leave you stranded on the beach for that.”

“Hey!” Clarke swats at Lexa’s knee in retaliation, but Lexa catches her hand, holding it captive. Clarke sniffs for dramatic effect. “I was going to let you strip me out of this bathing suit later, but now I’m strongly reconsidering.”

“If it helps sway your decision, I’d definitely appreciate seeing you naked again.”

“And how would you show your gratitude?”

“Mm. At least three times, and maybe twice more with the strap if you’re into toys.”

God.

“Okay. Alright. Well, lucky for you, I’m kind of dying for you to fuck me so I guess that clinches it.”

It’s about as far from playing it cool as could be, but Clarke doesn’t care. The truth is she’s soaked, aching for relief, and she isn’t picky about whichever method Lexa might use to get her off, as long as it happens soon.

Eyes flashing dark, Lexa cups a hand behind Clarke’s neck and pulls her mouth to hers. Clarke reacts without thought, already opening up to accept the slide of Lexa’s tongue before her brain catches up and she remembers they’re not alone.

Cracking an eye open, she’s relieved to see nobody on the other boat appears to be paying them any attention. She attempts to evade the next kiss, only for Lexa to pursue it more doggedly, and that makes Clarke smile even as she lays a palm on Lexa’s chest to gently hold off her advance. The mini pout on Lexa’s face when they pull apart is a treat, and Clarke can’t conceal her enjoyment of it. Unable to resist the lure, she steals one final peck. 

For a few indulgent seconds, she luxuriates in the softness of Lexa’s full bottom lip, until it dawns on her that an hour-long return journey stands between them and more orgasms, and she sighs. 

“Why isn’t teleportation a real thing yet? Having to wait a full 60 minutes to get you under me is so unfair.”

Slowly, with the greatest delicacy and patience, Lexa brushes their noses together, one side then the other, nudging the tip before she withdraws. Despite the sun beating down on her back, it gives Clarke chills, shivers running down her neck and arms. For the duration she just holds still and melts while her stomach flips, and the butterflies that had lain dormant return in full force. 

When she opens her eyes, she’s greeted by the slight, sloping smile on Lexa’s lips and her stomach does another somersault.

“I’m starting to think you’re only interested in me for sex,” Lexa says lightly.

Clarke lets out a small scoff. “You’re the one with a one-track mind. I was minding my own business, soaking up the rays, until you pounced.”

“Can you blame me?” 

Lexa’s heated stare roves over several inches of cleavage before she forcibly drags her eyes back up. 

“Actually… I have a confession to make.” She draws that plush bottom lip, still slightly swollen and red from kissing, between her teeth. “I dropped a tray of drinks at work yesterday because I had a flashback to you sitting on my face. Anya yelled at me and I didn’t even give a fuck that she deducted it from my tips.”

Heat rises in Clarke’s cheeks, triggered by her own vivid recollection of events. She won’t forget it in a hurry and she’s flattered to hear it was just as memorable for Lexa too. But also, it feels like a point of pride that she made Lexa’s cool girl veneer slip, even if she wasn’t there to witness it in person.  

“Now I feel partly responsible for this tragic loss of earnings and broken glassware.”

“I said you were trouble.”

They inch closer, eyes glued to lips, their breath hot on one another’s faces.

“How can I make it up to you?” Clarke asks.

“I have some ideas.”

Her mind can’t help going to the aforementioned strap.

All smiles, they surrender to the magnetic pull. The world around them recedes. There’s only Lexa’s mouth on hers, soft yet urgent, and the tingles that erupt all over, Clarke’s pulse accelerating when long fingers thread into her hair again.

And it’s sublime. 

Close to perfection.

She can almost hear the swell of imaginary violins soundtracking the moment—until a smattering of shrill wolf whistles pierces through the bliss. 

The kiss breaks on a huff of shared, quiet laughter. Clarke’s eyes slide across to the jetty, where they’re being enthusiastically toasted by their neighbours. She groans and drops her forehead to Lexa’s shoulder, breathing in the saltwater, sun-warmed scent of her before showing her face again.

“I believe that’s our cue to leave,” Clarke says.

The long, lidded look Lexa favours her with, eyes shaded darker by desire and the hint of some deeper emotion that feels altogether too big, too soon to acknowledge, has Clarke battling the urge to launch herself at Lexa’s lips again, regardless of the unwanted spectators nearby.

“Keep that up, Lex, and they might really have something to holler about—and possibly livestream on the internet.”

A faint smile reappears. “What am I doing, Clarke?”

“Looking. Giving me those” - she gestures vaguely - “eyes.”

It loosens a small laugh. Lexa lowers her gaze and Clarke regrets mentioning it now, because it feels like the sun momentarily disappearing behind the clouds when Lexa’s thrilling, singular focus isn’t on her.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” 

Lexa looks up, and the restored eye contact makes Clarke’s blood pump faster.

She lets out the breath she was holding. “Maybe I like it more than I should, considering.”

“Considering…?”

“I won’t be here next week.”

Pragmatic; matter-of-fact. A reality check and a casual reminder they both need to hear before they throw themselves headlong into… whatever this thing is between them: it has an expiration date.

In the lull, Lexa scans every millimetre of Clarke’s face and she hopes the nerves don’t show through the front she’s putting on.

After a moment, the corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts into a smirk, but it seems slightly forced. Her eyes are more pebbly, neutral grey than green. “Then let’s make sure you have good memories to take home with you.”

[pikatsum]

high tide (came and brought you in) - chapter one.

summary: you’d originally rescued the injured merman out of kindness, and perhaps a healthy undercurrent of fear of what others in your town might do to the creature. the last thing you ever expected after returning him to the sea, was for him to try to stay.

tags: afab reader, merfolk, mention of explicitly-inhumane fishing practices.

this fic is a part of the teahouse collab, on discord!

A hunting party had left port, yesterday.

It was made up of the usual kind of tourist, you gathered, overhearing the neighborhood gossip on the sandy, well-trodden path into town. It was made up of a bunch of trigger-happy business students, likely bored with another year of academia and looking for something visceral. Looking to harm in a way that was sanctioned— even celebrated, in some corners of your seaside town. Doubtlessly, they were after the biggest creatures they could catch: sharks, dolphins, or something even more dangerous. Most of those you passed seem to believe that they’d be headed to the outer reefs.

This year, the annual merfolk migration had come early. You had heard through the grapevine that some of the offshore boats had begun to radio in with the usual signs: faulty sonar, empty traps and a general sense of unease, the closer they got to the outer-lying reefs, where multitudes of traveling pods made their temporary homes. Anyone with sense usually knew to stay far away from merfolk-territory, no matter how temporary their stay.

But now that that the sudden departure of the town’s gaudiest fishermen had combined with this news, it was collectively generating more rumor than Baralou Island had handled in months. As the path transitioned to craggy, uneven sidewalk, you still heard people on their porches, gossiping about what could’ve drawn the group’s attention so suddenly. Perhaps it was one of the cartload of technological additions that they’d constantly been wheeling up onto the sleek convertible boat they’d rented. You’d already had to duck through their large group by the harbor yesterday, and through the small crowds that had gathered to see what the fuss was about.

One of their number had been particularly boastful, perched at the top of the gangplank. His cerulean hair almost blinding in the sun, you’d heard him claim that he possessed the skill to capture merfolk— “I could snag a whole pod, in a single net!” — Anywhere else, those statements would’ve warned a call to the coast guard, if not the police. On Baralou, however, it was met with scattered applause and a single wolf-whistle.

Anti-merfolk sentiment always reached a peak in the summertime. The reason always varied: a lesser catch of fish that year, an increase in hurricane warnings. Merfolk— intelligent, powerful and little-understood— made the perfect scapegoats. With the early arrival of their annual migration, it was the opinion of some locals that the large pods passing through the reefs of the island were choking out the tourism industry. Never mind the fact that it was barely the start of summer, and the migration never lasted longer than a month. Nothing got people riled up like the notion of losing out on their most important source of income.

As a former resident, you knew that Baralou took great, and often dubiously-legal pains to advertise itself as having the “safest beaches in the world.” Entire books recounted years worth of fishing competitions with consistently high numbers of so-called “incidental harm” to merfolk. When taking these years’ worth of torment and fear tactics into account, it was little wonder that no mer would dare cross the reefs near the island, these days.

As a teenager, you too had sworn you would never come back to the island again— though this was more to do with Baralou’s pitifully-tiny size outside of tourist season, and the maddening frustration of growing up amongst the same faces you’d seen since nursery school. Nearing the end of your college career has reignited that passion to stay away— but unfortunately, your budget wasn’t quite in agreement with those plans. A summer of housesitting for your aunt and uncle, as well as your waitstaff position at one of Baralou’s many dockside restaurants would ideally give you enough to leave for good, come the fall.

Although you could barely wait to repack your overflowing suitcases, your first weeks back home had reminded you that not everything here was abjectly awful. Your expression lightened once you’d ordered from your usual café, turning to find an outside table already occupied with your favorite resident.

Camie Utshushimi wasted no time in shattering your hopes for normalcy.

“I heard—“ she began in a low voice, as you seated yourself, “—that somebody on the south-side offered to guide the business yuppies to a huge mer pod.”

You exhaled your disapproval over a warm mug of tea.

“That’s gotta be a scam. Even if they wanted to go out there, those reefs are nationally-protected. The fines alone would keep anybody away.”

“Babes, you know as well as I do that won’t stop them.”

“Even if they make it—” you retorted, “—I highly doubt a mer from these parts would be so easily caught, especially by that group.”

Camie at least seemed to take that point into consideration, a brief smile playing at her lips. She took a slow sip of coffee, her warm brown eyes pensively scanning the water.

“If anything, they’ll snag a nesting sea turtle, or a manatee that got washed in by mistake. The poor thing.” still you frowned, considering, “I hope they come back with nothing. But with all that fancy gear…”

This seemed to shake Camie out of her reverie, turning from the sea with a dismissive click of her tongue.

“Nah, Inasa already gave me the deets— that’s all rented. Fat chance they know how to use all of it.”

“Are you sure?” your lower lip worried anxiously, under your teeth.

Despite her agreeable chirp, you knew by the actual look in her eyes that she couldn’t be fully certain. You both finished your drinks in uneasy silence.

Camie was always amongst the island’s earliest risers, which meshed well with you. Shame that she had a social calendar more tightly packed than a visiting royal— she was never available in the evenings, no matter how many nights you tried to invite her to join you at the beach bars. Regardless, she was your closest friend on the island, and if these short moments outside the cobblestone cafe were what you had with her each morning, it was something you were grateful for.

On your way home, you cut back through the fishing harbor— at least, until you were stopped by a growing crowd. You couldn’t make out what was going on amongst their fluctuating number, but with everyone talking and the piercing beep of a large convertible boat backing in along the docks, you could only assume the town’s ‘conquering heroes’ had finally returned. Disgusted, you gave up your gawking and diverted to walk along the craggy shoreline for the last half-mile, back towards your borrowed home.

Most beachgoers preferred the island’s largest offerings, located just outside the shopping district at the other end of the island. These days, you preferred this semi-deserted spit of sand, despite the high tide forcing you to walk through the shallows for most of the way home.

Your weak earbuds were cranked to the max, but still did little against the crash of the waves. Slowly, you picked your way through a bed of oyster shells— even if any accidental cuts would be soothed in an instant, once the saltwater raced over your feet, again. At last, you reached the end of the shell bed, picking up the pace as the wind pushed insistently at you, spraying sand into your face and forcing you to stop, until it calmed.

Your podcast faded to ringing static in your ears when you spotted the torn fishing net, lying ahead.

Its edges had gouged deep into the sand— and, as it was so close to the shoreline itself, the waves that followed had buried them under more silt, throughly entrapping it. It was doubtlessly lost from the harbor. Was that the source of the commotion you’d missed? But, more horrifying than its condition (so tangled up on itself that it resembled a massive bunch of seaweed) or location, far from the fishing harbor, was the fact that it was moving.

Fear coursed through your veins. You needed to call some kind of authority. There should be a phone number at the prior beach access for the wildlife conservatory, if you could just get back to it. You’d have to go back over the oyster bed, but if something was still alive in that monstrosity, there wasn’t much choice to make. You’d taken all of two steps back, preparing yourself for the pain, when an odd sound rose in the lull of the tide. You tore out your cheap earbuds and strained to listen.

The sound that followed defied explanation. You’d never heard anything close to it. The only comparative experience you could draw from was mourning. A harsh, desperate cry, from something that was quite literally on its last hope.

The next thing you knew, your hands were plunging into damp tangles of rope. You cursed as it slid from your hands, as you first tried to wrench it apart, and then upwards— but of course, its moorings were stuck fast. It vaguely occurred that you had absolutely no idea what you were attempting to unearth, but the thought was quickly forgotten. Whatever this was, you could hear breathing from within the mass— shaky, ragged, and quick. You didn’t have much time.

And so, you turned instead to the edges themselves. You plunged your hands into the wet sand and dug as fast as you could. Fortunately, the fasteners weren’t buried too deeply. It didn’t take long for you to pry one up, and then another, the raspy catch of breathing serving as an inefficient and rapidly-dwindling timer. Your fingers burned. Your arms ached. And yet, you continued to tear at the bindings, tugging at the base of the netting until you could finally start to pry up a corner.

You‘a heard of hysterical strength before, but you’d never truly acknowledged the sensation until the soaked, dripping netting was held high above your head. Very quickly, those considerations vanished entirely at the sight of the form underneath.

A pair of bright dichromatic eyes blinked at you through the gloom. The moment would be almost ethereal, if their owner wasn’t literally heaving for breath, both arms stuck akimbo in the holes of the netting. You gave voice to the only thought that actually made sense in this situation.

“…What the hell…?”

Your arms burned from the sopping weight of the net. Water and damp pieces of seaweed were falling on the both of you. With a grunt of effort, you finally stepped forward and chucked the excess portion backwards, before you immediately knelt to loosen the remaining bindings.

The man— not human, not fully, your brain warned— almost immediately began to thrash, displacing a spray of water between you as the tide came in. You bit back a yelp, but repressed the urge to flinch, caught up by the look on his face.

Whatever he was or wasn’t, you knew he was afraid.

You couldn’t be sure if he would understand, as you raised your hands, palms out. Was there really such a thing as a universal sight of surrender? Although your next movement forward earned a flash of sharp teeth, he didn’t move against you. With that, your hands returned to the net, and you set to work untangling it from his body.

You stared down at your hands as you worked, pulse thrumming in your ears. Outside of them, you couldn’t feel anything, outside the numbing sting of adrenaline. Because of that, your motor control was tenuous at best— all you could do was continue working at the net. Heart in your mouth, you snuck another glance up, to confirm your suspicions. Sharp teeth. Bright eyes. Fins, twitching and alert, where ears would be.

If anyone else happened upon your rescue of a beached merman, you would be in very serious trouble.

You re-doubled your efforts, trying to get him loose, wishing that you’d somehow had the foresight to grab something sharp—

—oh, wait.

“Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow—!”

One painstaking pick-over of the oyster graveyard later and you had yourself a prime specimen. You’d exchanged a fair bit of blood to the sand, but that was neither here nor there. You half-ran, half-limped back to the fallen net, makeshift tool held high and set to work, ignoring the latest attempt to swipe at you. This particular shell had sliced open the ball of your foot, so, soon enough, it had started a tear into the tangled net.

The merman didn’t seem to appreciate your ingenuity. You’d barely gotten his right arm free before he was using it to grab onto yours, tugging you forwards as his other, bound arm tried to gesture to his throat.

“Wait—!” you panicked at the strength of his grip, “I’m getting your other arm out, just breathe—!”

A feeling like ice water ran down your spine.

“….Can’t…”

“You ca—?” you’d barely gotten through the repetition before you saw the small slits in his throat, gaping and closing frantically.

You had no idea how long the mer had been breathing above-water, but those rattling wheezes sounded like he was reaching his limit.

“Oh, shit— hold on!”

You cut through the last binding of his left arm and began to feverishly hack away at the snarled mass behind him. It wasn’t long before the shimmer of scales became apparent through the remaining bindings. You couldn’t think much about the full magnitude of what all you had uncovered— how could he speak? — because the merman in question could barely breathe at all. The small gasps of air he managed to draw seemed more like hiccups.

With no time to spare, you dragged whatever remained of the net backwards, wincing as a massive number of koi-like scales were caught and sloughed off in your haste. Supposedly the merman would sooner be alive than care about the finer details of his appearance.

The net had barely dropped before his powerful tail slammed down into the surface of the wet sand— sending fragments of it splashing back over you. You took a few steps back as the merman— tail uselessly trying to propel him forwards— was forced to use an approximation of an army-crawl to get towards the shallows.

Without the snarled ropes in the way, you only saw the injuries left behind. A multitude of bruising and deep scratches marred his back, some still sluggishly-bleeding. There was a long gouge of scales missing on his left flank, revealing the smooth muscle of his tail which seemed to share the unique dichromatic coloring of the rest of him. A few pairs of dorsal fins twitched valiantly as he tried to propel himself forwards.

Finally, the merman made it to the sea. It was easier going from there, especially after he’d managed to fully submerge his head and neck underwater. He stayed for a long moment, doubtlessly drinking in the relief of oxygen that he could fully process. But no mer would ever want to stay this close to Baralou’s shore. As he sank into the shallows, you expected him to tear off, instantly.

Instead, he broke the surface again, split hair tumbling over his broad shoulders, before another of those indecipherable sounds carried itself over the shush of the incoming tide, back to you. This one sounded like a challenge. He’d fought his way through whatever hell had gotten him trapped in that netting, suffered through a slow asphyxiation and crawled himself back to the sea. He’d very nearly been killed. But now, he seemed to dare the land and anyone living there to try it, again.

Caught in the early-morning rays, he was the most breathtaking creature you had ever seen.

In spite of the sentiments, the posted warnings, and the merman’s borderline war-cry, you made your way back down the sand and into the shallows. The merman had vanished far into the deeper waters by then. You doubted he’d return for such a silly reason. And yet….

A few small tide-pools were receding beneath the tangles of net you’d torn away. You knelt and began to dig through their broken coils, to extract as many of the curved, glimmering scales as you could. They were ivory, with splashes of wine red, each one with its own unique pattern. Perhaps, like snakeskin, a mer’s scales were destined to be shed. Still, you felt like they had to serve some purpose.

Once you’d gathered up as many as you could carry, you made your way down the shore, following the shallow trench that his tail had left. You went along it, into the sea, out until it lapped up over your kneecaps, where the merman had first shoved his face underwater, and then you went a bit further, just for good measure. It would be nothing but bad news to have these wash back up, after all.

There, you lowered your hands, and let the scales slip through, to the ocean floor. Even if the merman didn’t come back, perhaps the currents would be kind enough to return at least some of them back where they belonged. With one final glance outwards, you took your leave, walking determinedly towards the shore, even as the ocean’s receding current pulled enticingly, trying to lure you to follow, into its depths.

[cs-fox]

LOST AND FOUND | SOAP MACTAVISH X FEM! READER

dude....

had to do this man.

i speak Scots Gaelic of course i had to 😋😋

warnings: angst. and TOOTH. ROTTING. FLUFF.

tw: ⚠SELF HARM ⚠ this is a bit of a trauma dump for me.

only a short 1 this time

______________________________________________________________

Cold. Cold. Freezing sea wind blew through the prison complex. It was situated on a craggy, desolate island, surrounded by ocean for five kilometres on every side, often pounded by a thick mix of sleet and rain.

Your cell was concrete-walled on three sides, completely sealed, but the bars criscrossing the “door” - they allowed a whisper of a bone-chilling, damp zephyr to rattle you to your core.

You’d given up hope two years ago; nobody was coming to get you. Your life had narrowed down from living to simply just surviving, and from there, every second becoming an effort to keep your legs holding you up as you paced, slowly losing your old self.

For, once - you’d been a soldier. The pride of your task-force, but you couldn’t think about them without thinking about him, and allowing Sergeant MacTavish into your mind was simply out of the question.

As you stood with your back against the wall, you studied your arms with a kind of empty abandon. They had once been tanned and strong, but now they were pale and thin. The only thing that hadn’t changed were the scars.

It had been so long since your face had displayed any sort of emotion, so you didn’t wince, didn’t recoil, at the memory of your childhood - problem, you thought with a sickening, dry laugh.

Your mother had scolded you for the cuts being “ugly”, your father beleived you were breaking his trust, his faith, and had shouted at you every time you couldn’t stay clean.

But even now, the thin, puckered white lines stood out against your wan skin, seeming to glow in the dark. 

At least they had stopped dragging you in for questioning. You didn’t know if you could even resist any more, you’d lost all of your will to live after their torture tactics… sometimes you thought those scars would affect you more than physical cuts ever could.

Soap’s POV

Their boat bounced over the waves, bringing the task-force 141 ever closer to that damned island. Soap gazed up from the rudder, one hand on the steering, the other resting calmly on his rifle. 

He then turned his eyes to the three other men alongside him, meeting all of their eyes one by one. The location of this island had been hard to find, but somehow, Laswell had managed it, after almost two years of waiting. A vaguely sick feeling had started to rise in Soap MacTavish’s stomach; he’d seen far too many times what had happened to prisoners of war before. Their sunken, dead eyes, their thin frames and empty faces.

He feared the worst for his lieutenant - the lieutenant he’d lost so many days ago, the woman he’d - he might just have fallen in love with.

He remembered vividly the nights you now refused to think about, spent in his quarters, your soft, uneven breaths as he held you underneath him. He remembered the hands that he’d been forced to think about whenever he undressed, wishing it was you who had your fingers hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, you who twisted your hand in his shirt.

A soft sigh escaped Soap’s lips.

He knew you wouldn’t be the same, perhaps you’d be broken beyond repair. But he would fix you. He would bring his girl home, even if it killed him. 

Mo leannan.

My love.

Finally, the vessel bumped into the rocky island’s shore. A high-walled complex rose in the foggy, dark 0400 sky, blotting out the horizon, and making Sergeant MacTavish shiver.

He tamped down any qualms and turned to his Captain, Price, who had already stepped ashore.

Soap dismounted from the boat, the rain that had been pounding the four men only continuing it’s onslaught, soaking them to the bone. 

The assault rifle that was resting beside him now took it’s place on the sergeant’s shoulder, as he stood in front of John Price, his mind spinning at a million miles an hour. He was going to see his girl again - but what scared him the most was the prospect of finding you - then losing you immediately again.

One breath at a time, MacTavish, he told himself.

[ timeskip because that’s legal here and i’m lazy ]

Her eyes were still beautiful.

That was the only thought in Soap’s head as their helicopter touched down, finally, back at their barracks. She still carried herself with that unwavering confidence he remembered from her days in the military, as his Lieutenant. Despite her arms being pale and wan, along with her thin frame, a quarter of that formerly strong, tanned, beautiful body he loved so much, he still found her breathtaking.

He didn’t care what his teammates thought as he helped her off the chopper, his hands finding the small of her back, supporting her weight.

She exhaled softly. ‘Johnny…’ he perked up. This was the first thing she’d said since they exited the prison building, so he leaned in close. He wanted to hear everything.

‘Yeah?’ Soap whispered, his hand still holding her. ‘What is it, bonnie?’

She leaned into his touch.

‘I missed you.’

He let out a long breath. ‘I’m going to heal you, bonnie, I swear. You never deserved to go to that hell-hole, mo leannan, so I’m going to rip them limb from limb -’ my love.

Soap stopped himself, taking in a short breath. He couldn’t lose himself in front of her, not now.

‘I promise.’

Your POV

He’d been so good to you, for the past months. Maybe years. Or perhaps it was only a week.

You’d lost track of time recently.

Soap took you out into the sunshine often. The light had been a rare sort of delicacy in prison; having this much of something so warm and beautiful felt like a horrible sin.

For the first few nights, he’d fed you dinner. Not because you’d forgotten how to eat, but because he cared. The feeling of his hands gently tilting your chin to press a spoonful of rice, or a mouthful of steak, even a carefully-cut corner of buttered toast to your lips made you feel that little bit more like yourself every hour.

Even so, you still had relapses of your time. You’d collapse, crying silently, on his bed, knees drawn up to your chest. He’d sit with you, hands gently pulling you closer until you stopped. Soap didn’t speak - he didn’t need to. He simply lay there, with you, until you calmed down.

All of his teammates tried to help, as well. Kyle offered his relaxed, calm words, Price, his almost fatherly care. Simon Riley, your co-lieutenant, was a solid, dependable figure. Once, he came silently into your room, after a soft knock. In one hand was the leash attached to his K9, Riley - which he unclipped. The German shepherd bounded onto your bed and lay across your body. All you could give Simon was a grateful look - but he seemed content to watch on with eyes that were crinkled at the edges, signalling his fond expression.

Slowly, your team could see the old you coming back. Kylle caught you in the gym early one morning. Ghost saw you making a cup of tea when you emerged from Soap’s office, and the Scotsman himself often found you sitting outside - simply basking in the sunlight.

Over two years since your breakout, you had become your old self. Strong. Capable. Confident, but with that under-layer of hollowness that only made you more intimidating.

‘You’re stronger, bonnie,’ he whispered in your ear, pride in his voice, as you lay beside him one evening. 

‘Tch,’ you said softly. ‘You’re preening.’

‘That I am,’ he grinned, that thick deep accent never failing to make you smile.

You allowed yourself to lie back, onto his chest, which made him chuckle softly, his warm hand resting on the dip of your waist.

Your skin wasn’t so see-through anymore, your eyes were a little brighter.

‘Creepin’ Jesus, bonnie,’ he murmured, kissing your neck softly. ‘Ye’re still beautiful. Ye never weren’t.’

You smiled slightly, allowing him to continue the trail of kisses he was creating along your neck. ‘Mo leannan.’ My love,

Your pronunciation was a little off, your accent not quite right, but he gasped never-the-less.

‘You remembered, bonnie!’

You laughed, curling up beside him. A tiny flush crept across your cheeks.

‘How could I forget?’

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1995 – Father Ted was broadcast for the first time.

A television programme offers to interview Father Ted Crilly. However Ted goes to extreme lengths to ensure the other members of the clergy on the island don’t interrupt his moment in the spotlight. Meanwhile Craggy Island hosts Fun Land, a fun fair to which Dougal is desperate to go. Ted takes the film crew to the fair, leading to a massive mess.

[amandacanwrite]

The Violet Thread of Fate Part Three:

The Scribe's Guild and the Acolyte Errant

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Join Taglist

Pairing || Elinna Inklynn (Half-drow tav) and Gale Dekarios

Length || 5,400 Words

Scenario || In an alternative timeline for the events of BG3 Elinna Inklynn, an orphan from the Moonshae Islands seeks out the tutelage of accomplished wizard Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. She has a knack with the Weave, but no money or connections to actually learn how to harness it. She has heard the wizard is a gentleman and a schollar, and hopes she can appeal to him to take her on as his apprentice in exchange for her help around his tower, with his research, and in running errands in Waterdeep. Unfortunately for her, Gale Dekarios does not take on apprentices.

Warnings || Age gap (Perhaps about 10ish years), depiction of depression and heart ache, description of very, very mild body horror. Description of scarring from corporal punishment. Slightly mature themes.

A/n || In the interest of full disclosure: I didn't edit this one. I was too eager to get it out, so please forgive any strange pacing or verbiage. I may edit it tomorrow or sometime soon, but I also primarily write this for fun so I may also not. I actually really enjoyed writing Gale softening up to Elinna a bit, and Elinna sort of losing some of her rose tinted vision for Gale. Perhaps soon they will meet somewhere in the middle. :))

If you like this, you may also like my original works! I have a writing taglist that you can sign up for simply by commenting or reblogging and letting me know you'd like to be added. OR you can fill out this form if you'd like to be specific about which works you'd like to be tagged in.

Tag list || @softvampirewhump @horizonstride @thoughts-of-bear @mymybirdie @tiedyedghoulette @drabblesandimagines @madwomansapologist @hijirikaww @tryingtowritestuff24 @laserlope @auroraesmeraldarose @puckprimrose @dont-try-pesticide @cherifrog @circusofthelastdays  @nourangul

The Scribe’s Guild

Elinna cupped her hands above her eyes, trying to reduce the urge to squint as she looked out over the edge of one of the craggy cliffside peaks. 

“Are you certain you’re alright up there?” Gale asked from the ground. “Not to be a pain, but you haven’t had the greatest track record with heights as of late.”

“I climbed up here–as long as I don’t try to magic my way down, I should be fine,” she called back. “I’m trying to figure out where we are.”

“Any luck?” he called back. 

“You’re distracting me!” she said. 

“Are you one of those people who can only do one mental process at a time?” he asked. “Do you go blind when your ears are in use?”

“I’m one of those people who needs to think to recall the details of all the maps I’ve cataloged at the Nest,” she griped looking down at him. “Now be quiet so I can think.”

She saw him lift a hand and rub the back of his neck before he turned around and sat down to have a pout. She rolled her eyes looking out over the coastline again, trying to cross reference what she could see from her view with the overhead details of maps she’d looked at before.

Gale Dekarios was certainly a…strange archmage. 

Reading transcripts of conversations, reading his treatises–she’d always pictured this stately, almost dry sort of fellow. Someone who would sniff before correcting her about something–or stand perpetually with his nose pointed at the ceiling so you always knew he was looking down at you past it. 

But he was just…well–a sort of awkward, somewhat humorous man. 

They’d been wandering for some time–Gale had a good sense for what was north, south, east and west, but there was only so much that one could do when unaware of where the starting point was.

The shame of things was that they were in some random locale with very few cities about. She’d learned much about Baldur’s Gate, Amn, Waterdeep–places she wished to visit. If there was Gale’s tower nearby–or perhaps Sorcerous Sundries–she could have been able to pluck it out of the landscape with ease. 

Instead, as she looked out off the cliff, she only saw shoreline give way to worn out cobbled roads. Some sort of village obscured the haze of distance and…well nothing familiar. She pursed her lips before chewing slightly on the bottom one; a nervous habit that often left her with metallic-tasting patches on the inside of her lip. 

“Well?” Gale said a bit impatiently. 

She was just about to give him the bad news–that she found nothing of note and had no idea which way to go–when a shadow darkened the ground from somewhere overhead. She looked up to find a black blot against the light blue of the sky–a dire raven with a wingspan of about 10 feet, armored in the colors of a the Scribe’s Guild; pale tan leathers, brass metal and mist green canvas. 

She found herself smiling despite the fact that she’d told herself she’d never look at a Scribe’s Guild after leaving The Nest. She watched for a while longer as the large avian swooped through the sky and then landed on the parapet of a distant stone structure. 

“We’re in luck!” she called down to Gale.

“Are we?” he asked. “You didn’t happen to have found a cleric of legendary skill up there did you?”

“Not that much luck,” she said as she started to climb down the rocky face of the cliff.

“Are you sure you ought to be doing that?” he asked. “It seems awfully dangerous.”

“As we just covered, I’ll be fine so long as I don’t use magic,” she responded. “I’m used to climbs.”

Looking down to find her perch, she carefully lighted her foot on the boulder where she started her climb, and turned to find Gale waiting for her, a single hand offered up to her to assist her down from the small height. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “It’s not that high up.”

“Best not to risk it,” he said. “The twist of an ankle could mean the difference between humanity and ceremorphosis, considering our plight.”

Elinna nibbled on her lower lip and nodded, placing her hand in his. His calloused fingers closed around her hand and he lifted his other hand to grasp her waist. She stepped off the stone and he supported her weight easily, lowering her to the ground smoothly. 

“So,” he said, not taking his hands away yet. “You’ve kept me in suspense, Elinna. Why are we in luck?”

“I just saw a Dire Raven,” she said. “One of the ones we use to transport records between different chapters of the Scribe’s Guild.”

“The what?” he asked. 

“The Scribe’s guild,” she said. “I told you, I was their ward in the Moonshae Islands.”

“Did you?” he asked. 

She sighed and gave him a disappointed look. “You really didn’t listen to me at all back in Waterdeep.”

His hand twitched on her waist as his brow furrowed. “Well that’s hardly fair,” he said. “You were a stranger standing right outside of my home. Why should I have?”

“Courtesy,” she said sourly as she turned away from him and started to walk down the pathway in the direction she watched the dire raven fly. 

She tried to ignore the tingling feeling in the tips of her fingers as her hand left his; the feeling of absence at her waist as she lost the weight of his hand. 

“Oh, come now–” he said, his face screwing with offense and hurrying after her. “Don’t imply that I was being discourteous when you were the one showing up at a strange man’s home unannounced!”

“It’s not as if I let myself in!” she said back. 

“Wait, you still haven’t told me what the Scribe’s Guild is,” he said, finally catching up to her.

“I assumed you would know what it is,” she said looking sidelong and up at him.

“I confess I’ve not heard of it,” he said. 

She sighed and looked ahead. Maybe she didn’t want to tell him if he didn’t already know, she thought. She wasn’t sure she was ready to reveal just how sheltered her life was before heading to Waterdeep. 

But they were now headed for the local archive and he was going to find out either way so…

“The scribe’s guild is a redundancy,” she said. “It’s one of the realm’s most extensive collections of information. If you’re looking for a book, a scroll, a record of some obscure property dispute… you can find it there. I was raised in one.”

“So, you’re a scribe?” he asked her. “You write books–collect this information and dole it out to those who need it?”

She pursed her lips. “I wasn’t a scribe myself,” she said. “I was a clerk.”

“So you were in training,” he said. “Assisting the scribes so that you could take on the task.”

She felt her skin pinken with warmth, afraid to disclose the truth–afraid of what it would look like. “Not quite,” she said. “The ArchLibrarian thought I wasn’t suited to the work.”

“Why not?” he asked. 

“Because I was too fun,” she said, her walls going up a little higher. “If you must know.”

“My,” he said. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“It seems like you’re looking for reasons to think poorly of me,” she said. 

“It seems like you’re hiding reasons to think poorly of you,” he said. “So, what was it? Sleeping on the job? Theft? Did you try to cast a cantrip and  Did you come looking for me because they turned you out and cut you off?”

“Gods,” she said looking up at him, a little line forming between her brows and her face getting even warmer with embarrassment. “You really do think I’m a wastrel, don’t you?”

“No I don’t!” he said. 

“What happened to you being worried about seeming an ill-mannered man?” she asked.

“Elinna–you’re young–youth is made for mistakes. You think I was always an upstanding young man while in attendance at Blackstaff?” he said. “I slept through most of my Calashite lessons.”

“Don’t lie to me to try and get dirt on me,” Elinna said as she walked faster.. “Don’t mock me like that.”

“Elinna–Elinna, would you slow down?” he said. 

“No. I want to get to the Scribe’s Guild.”

“We will get there with plenty enough time before sundown,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Elinna, stop.”

She stopped but didn’t look up at him, she couldn’t make herself do it. She didn’t know what was more embarrassing for her; the fact that she’d hardly seen any of the world, the fact that her guardians felt she was inept and flighty, or the fact that she was quite acting like a petulant child with Gale when she only wished to prove to him that she could be a good student. 

Maybe seeking him out had been a mistake from the start. She’d spent so long reading about Gale and his work–learning about his unique understanding of magic–reading his writings…in some ways she’d convinced herself that he was already a friend. 

She’d never thought about how trying to become his apprentice also meant sharing her qualifications and the more time she spent talking to him the more she realized she had none. 

She could feel him looking at her almost indulgently–like a man speaking to a child. 

She didn;t know why she hated that most of all. 

“Elinna, forgive me for prying,” he said. “I was just trying to get to know you a little better. From what I can tell there is a significant distance between here and Waterdeep and it will be a much more pleasant journey if we get to know one another a little bit as we travel, don’t you think?”

Elinna smoothed her amber hair away from her brow, cupping her hand on her forehead as if checking herself for fever. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally. . “I think I’m just tired.”

“I can only imagine…what with going from the islands, to Waterdeep so climbing up cliff sides and now we have to walk even further? We can swap notes later,” he said with a gentle smile. “Let’s focus on getting to this place–maybe they can put us up for an evening or at least point us in the direction of the nearest town.”

Elinna nodded before heaving a great sigh. 

“It shouldn’t be long,” she said. “Maybe just a few hours of walking from here.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Lead on.”

The Acolyte Errant

Elinna was a curious girl. 

She was somehow equal measures breezy and intense; lackadaisical and earnest. He didn’t know what to make of the dichotomy. He knew even less what to do with the strange secrecy she had about her former home. 

Perhaps it was a bit of paranoia–after all, he had his own secrets he was keeping. It was perhaps more than a little hypocritical of him to fault her for hers. 

“So, tell me more about The Scribe’s Nest,” he said, trying to change the subject to something more informative and a little less personal.

“Specifically The Nest? Or the guild in general?” she asked. 

“Mm…if it’s not too personal for you, The Nest. You said that’s where you grew up right?” he said. 

She nodded, wiping sweat off her brow. The day was beginning to get hot, so he had to think they were further down south than Waterdeep and the islands. It was much cooler this time of year–hence the layers both he and Elinna wore. 

“Uhm–The Nest in Moonshae is in an old abandoned temple to Ilmater,” she told him. “My mother left me there thinking that it was a safe place for me to grow up–thinking I’d be cared for by clerics. But The Nest was already there.”

“I see,” Gale said, feeling for the girl but trying not to let it come through in his tone. “I suppose they took you in anyway?”

She nodded again. “They did,” she said. “Still not sure why, if I’m honest–they have a few oaths they had to make in exchange for financial support. Even so, there were other temples in the area that probably could have taken me in. But uh–anyway. The way that the scribes work is they receive funds from the local government and they use those funds to pay a fleet of scouts to get word back to us about the goings on in the world. The scribes record it, make copies of each account and send them to the other branches.”

“Hells,” he said. “That sounds like quite the expensive endeavor.”

“It is–and the scribes outsource the work so that there’s no conflict of interest. No scribes out wandering the world trying to spin tales. They have a motto: ‘We Are The Accuracy In The Indulgent The Composed in the Chaotic.’” She said. “In other words, they try to record everything as plainly and as closely to the facts as possible. In addition to that, they try to have copies of every written work ever produced.”

“How can that even be quantified or verified for that matter?” Gale asked. 

“Like I said–they try,” she said. “It’s all very tedious if you ask me.”

“I’m shocked I haven’t heard of this place–it sounds like a veritable treasure trove of knowledge,” he said. 

“The scribes don’t open the vaults to many,” she said. “They consider their work one of posterity; a record of history, not a resource to be plumbed. They don’t even really indulge in reading the records themselves.”

“That sounds….extraordinarily wasteful,” He said. 

He saw Elinna finally crack a smile at that. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “Wasteful, boring, depressing.”

He was itching to ask her if that was why she’d left what she’d had as a home for…well however long she’d been alive. She looked remarkably young, but with half-elves that hardly meant much. For all he knew she was his age. 

“Elinna, do you mind if I ask how old you are?” he asked. 

She looked up at him, her brow quirking. “Uhm–I’ve had twenty-eight summers so far,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

Ah–around ten years younger than he was. No wonder she seemed so restless when she’d come to find him at his tower. Most Wizards were well into their studies at Blackstaff by now, or at least had some reasonable amount of aptitude with the weave. “Just curious,” he said shrugging. “You look young but you’re also not complaining, or panicking, or well–other things I would expect a young person to be doing in this situation.”

He wasn’t sure if he was reading it correctly, but he could have sworn that she pressed her lips a bit to avoid smiling. Was the poor girl such a stranger to praise that the simple pointing out of her maturity could make her have to stop a flustered smile from forming on her lips?”

“I guess I just feel like anything is preferable to being stuck in that dusty old tower,” she said. 

There was a sort of…sadness to her words. A quality he recognized first hand. 

Not sadness, he realized as he saw one of his own feelings mirrored back at him. Regret. 

But that was not a subject he wished to bring up–not when the questions could so easily be turned back onto him.

“Well, Elinna,” he said, changing the subject. “You have Gale of Waterdeep with you–I’m a captive audience as we walk to the guild hall. Anything I can impress you with?” 

It was an olive branch, of sorts. It, of course, wasn’t the first time he’d met some hopeful magician who wanted to pick his brain. Usually he politely shooed them away, but he figured that extending the offer might cheer her up.

“I’m quite well read on the subject,” she answered. 

Wait…had he missed the question while he was patting himself on the back for being open to bragging? “Sorry–which subject is that?” he asked.

Her face flushed and she gave him a furtive look with those pretty green eyes. She cleared her throat and pushed some hair behind her ear. 

“Uhm–you–” she said finally. “I’ve read everything the archive has that even has a tangential mention of your name in it.”

He blinked, feeling glad for the fact that she was looking most pointedly away from him. “Ah,” he said, trying to master his tone. “Well–should we crosscheck the scribe’s records? Tell me what you know and I can correct anything that’s wrong.”

“We’ll be here for hours if I do that…” she mumbled under her breath. 

Now it was his turn to flush–until he realized–

“Wait, I thought you said that the scribes don’t read the records–” he said. 

“I did,” she said, looking over at him with a sheepish little smile. “That’s why they said I’m not suited for the work. It’s why they keep me on shelving duty.”

Ah–that was what she meant when she said she was used to climbing.

Suddenly there was an uncomfortable pressure in his skull as he saw flashes of giant stacks of dusty tomes, heard the squeaking of a half-broken wheel on a cart, felt rawness on his fingertips from shelving books and records; the deep ache of tired muscles.

When he was able to focus again, Elinna was crouched a few feet ahead, her gloved hands pressing on the sides of her head. 

“W-was that a memory?” Gale asked. “Did you just send me a memory?”

“No,” she said weakly. “Gods…that was…I could feel you in my head–”

“I didn’t–it wasn’t something I did on purpose,” he said frantically. 

He felt as embarrassed as a young man might be during his first time with a lover. It’d been years since he’d accidentally used his magic. Not since he was an adolescent. 

“I think it’s the parasite,” she said. “Mindflayers are part of a hive mind–maybe it’s the start of that tether forming to it.”

“I’m loath to face that possibility, but you may be right,” Gale said grimly as he walked over to her and offered a hand. “You alright?”

“Just exhausted, I think,” she said as she took his hand. “It felt like the parasite was pulling at the seams of my mind, extracting those images like thread through the eye of a needle.”

“Aptly put,” he said, finally helping her up. 

“Let’s just hurry to the guild,” she said. 

It was a bit of a grueling trek after that. The pathway mostly uphill and on rocky, uneven pathways. Wherever this guild branch was, it was clear enough to him that the scribes had no interest in being bothered or visited. He wasn’t so worried about himself, though–if anything, he was worried about Elinna. 

Thinking about it–she’d originally mentioned that she was looking for a place to live when he met her and she’d asked him to take her on as a student. He wondered when the last time she’d slept was. It wasn’t uncommon for passengers unused to traveling by ship to sleep poorly on them. The voyage between the Moonshae Islands and Waterdeep was probably close to a tenday, give or take a day or two. 

He felt a little guilty, now, that he had let her climb up the cliffside to help them get their bearings; that he couldn’t be of more assistance with some kind of charm or boon. 

As predicted, it took them about another two hours to make it to the base of a decaying old castle. He didn’t recognize it, and from what he could tell there were no real markings on it to distinguish what lineage or people it could have belonged to at one point. 

He looked up as another dire raven–or perhaps the same one he hadn’t seen before–took flight from one of the crumbling parapets, then he looked over at Elinna. 

She was still damp with sweat, but her exerted flush had given way to an almost sickly sort of pallor. He worried for a moment that she may already be starting the process of ceremorphosis–but if that was the case, why hadn’t the same happened to him? 

“Fucking stairs,” she groaned as she bent over and braced her hands on her knees. “I think I may need to sit for just a moment.”

Gale looked at the stairs and then back at her. He quirked his lips slightly, weighing the number of stairs against the health of his knees. 

“I know once you sit it will be all the more difficult for you to get up and get going,” he said. “Let me carry you the rest of the way.”

She balked at him, her verdant eyes wide and a bit of her flush returning to her freckled cheeks. He tried not to think about how charming the look of surprise was. “Y-you can’t,” she said. “I’m filthy–and drenched besides. And I’ll be too heavy.”

“Nonsense,” he insisted. “You hardly come up to my shoulder–and it’s not as if I’m a fine example of cleanliness at the moment. You can tell me proper decorum as we make our way up.”

“Gale–”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” he said with a little teasing glimmer in his eyes. 

He kneeled in front of her, back toward her, and patted his shoulder. “Climb on,” he said. 

There was nothing for a moment and he almost looked back to see if she was going to stubbornly refuse. But just as he was going to, he felt tentative fingertips on his right shoulder; then his left. She smoothed her hand toward the front of him, drawing a tingling line along his collarbones. He tried not to flinch as her hands joined right over the spot the orb burned in his chest, but he couldn’t stop it. 

She froze and almost started withdrawing. He reached up and closed a single hand over both of hers. 

“Did I hurt you?” she asked him.

“Not at all,” he said. “Remember–I’ve been a recluse for some time. Just forgot what it felt like to be touched by someone who isn’t a tressym.”

There was one more moment of hesitation and then finally, Elinna put her weight onto him, hitching her legs above his hips. 

“Alright,” he said. “Going up.”

He scooped his hands under her knees and rose to his feet. 

Truth be told, she was a touch heavier than he’d expected. And he realized with a bit of rueful interest that her body was a little…softer…than he’d anticipated. Even through her layers of canvas and leather, he could feel the supple swell of her thighs, her hips, her breasts…

He shook his head and cleared his throat as he started to climb the stairs. 

“So, what’s our story?” he asked. 

“Mmn–story?” she breathed against his ear. 

Gods, she sounded like a freshly roused lover in the morning. 

“You’re not falling asleep back there, are you?” he asked. 

“Trying not to,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Keep talking to me,” he said. “It will help you stay awake.”

And give me something to stop my mind from drifting to what might be beneath your clothes. He thought with no shortage of disgust in himself. 

“Mmh–visitors are prohibited, usually,” she said, her sleepy slurring sending a chill up his spine. “Since you’re carrying me in…maybe tell them you found me unconscious on the ground. They can refuse scholars, but they have an oath to help the needy. Hence…me…”

“The lady deceives,” Gale teased. “I thought you were above such dishonesty.”

She gave a quiet chuckle. “If the guild needs a bit of encouragement to do what is right, who am I to deny it?” Then after a moment. “Thank you…for carrying me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no bother,” he said. 

And it really wasn’t, aside from his own traitorous thoughts about her. His knees weren’t even tired when he reached the top of the stairs. He looked back at her sidelong. “Hang onto me will you–afraid I’ll need one of these hands.”

He regretted asking her to do that immediately. Her thighs squeezed a little tighter around his middle and he suddenly wished for death. He opened the door as quickly as he could, and went back to holding her knee. 

Inside there was…no one to be found. At least not at first. 

Then came the sound of soft soles scuffing on stone stairs. He gazed to the right, seeing a shadow elongate as it grew further and further away from some torch or sconce further up on the stairs. 

A moment later, a wizened man peered at him through small spectacles on a crooked nose. 

He was dressed somewhat like Elinna, though the embroidery and fastenings on his clothes were finer. On his lapel, he wore a golden dire raven pin with a quill snatched in it’s beak.The pin was connected to a chain from which dangled a single golden key. 

“You’ve reached The Scribe’s Perch,” he said, his voice quiet and willowy, like it had frayed through years of neglect. “I fear we’re not taking visitors.”

In front of Gale’s chest, Elinna’s arms went slack and her body went a little heavier. Her head rested fully on his shoulder, her sleeping breaths gusting warmly on the back of his neck. He supposed it worked better for the tale he had to weave–though he did worry for the poor girl. 

“I’ve found one of your acolytes on the path some way away from here. She seems feverish–likely hungry and dehydrated. She’s gone in and out of consciousness but told me to find you here and ask for you help. Help for both of us.”

The old man merely tilted to get a look at Elinna with a somewhat disinterested expression. “Mnh…there are protocols in place for this, yes,” he said. “An inconvenience to say the least, though. We will have to make arrangements for your supper.”

Gale felt his ire flare and found himself understanding why Elinna seemed so sour about where she’d been reared. It was a wonder she made it out of childhood with her curiosity and her tenacity intact. 

“If it’s too much of a bother, I can see to producing a meal for us,” he said, trying his best to master his tone. 

“No, no,” the man said. “The smells–the oils–they could upset the balance and focus of the archives. Come–I will see you to a lodging for the night. I am afraid I must ask you to stay there and to not wander our halls freely. And you must leave come morning.”

“I thought you had an oath to help the needy,” Gale said. 

“The qualifying criteria which defines who or what is needy is not agreed upon,” he said. “The girl is unconscious, but you stand and walk freely. Surely she is hardly needy if she has you.”

“She’s one of your acolytes,” Gale said. “Surely you can’t be so callous.”

“She’s not an acolyte from The Perch. We do not allow women among our ranks–their scents and scintillations bring focus away from posterity. I allow you to stay only because she still wears our colors and because we’ve received no missive about a disgraced acolyte,” he said. “But there has been a great collision on the shoreline and we work tirelessly to record it.”

“Well you’re in luck–we’re survivors from that crash–we can help you–”

“No. We only accept the accounts of verified scouts,” he said. “Now come–I’ve wasted precious time already. My quill will have started to dry out.”

Gale bit his tongue and simply nodded–worried that if the man showed is rudeness and disinterest again he would snap at the Scribe and lose them a night of rest and the chance to bathe and change. 

Their ungracious host led them up the stairs, past a massive steel door singing with wards, and to a doorway about as tall as Elinna. The Scribe opened the lock with his tiny golden key–a skeleton key it seemed–and gestured him inside. 

Gale bent a bit at the knees, careful to mind Elinna’s head as he ducked into the room. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Supper is at seven bells. Porridge, roasted carrots and river fish–you will have to come retrieve it yourself–the kitchens are down the stairs we traveled up and through the small northern wooden door,” their host said. 

And with that, the man simply closed the door and left Gale alone with Elinna. 

Gale looked about the room. 

It was small, about the size of the larder in his tower, and barren. In one corner, a threadbare sheet hung to offer pock-marked privacy should one bathe in the water-swollen, wooden tub there. There was a single desk with a nearly-spent candle perched slantingly in a chamberstick made of brass. Against the far wall stood the bed–

The Bed. 

Singular. 

Only one bed. 

Oh hells, it would be a very long night indeed. 

He carried Elinna over to the bed and carefully cradled her against his back as he pulled back the mildew-smelling covers. Beneath was an old hay mattress. He felt loath to place her on it, but he hadn’t enough energy to conjure something more comfortable for her. 

He supposed it didn’t matter for tonight–the poor girl just needed some sleep. 

He carefully placed her in the bed and hesitated, pondering.

She’d spent so much time during their travels complaining of the feeling of viscera in her clothes; her shoes. He could only imagine how terrible it would feel for her to wake up, warm and damp from feverish sleep, only to still feel soggy boots and garments on your body. 

It wasn’t proper. He wasn’t even sure it would be welcome. But it was a gesture toward her comfort he could actually provide. 

He carefully slipped off her boots, setting them off to the side in a blood-soaked heap. Then he removed her leather gloves, and finally, the waistcoat she wore. 

Beneath her green canvas, she wore a simple muslin dress that fell just slightly off the shoulders. He noted with a bit of curious mirth, that she had a smattering of freckles across the bare skin of her decolletage and arms as well. He wondered how many times she’d had to sneak away from her duties to get those. 

Then he saw something else. 

On the inside of one delicate wrist, he spotted the hint of a violet patch of skin. In a brief panic he turned her arm over to get a better view of it, worried that her transformation may be starting, after all. 

Instead, what he found was scarring. Violet scars forming a ladder of tidy caning marks on the tender skin of the inside of her arm. 

“No wonder you wanted to get out,” he said under his breath as he brushed his thumb against the marks. They were only barely raised. They’d been there a long time then. For some reason it hurt his heart to think of a smaller, squeakier Elinna as her caretakers tried and clearly failed to tame the wonder out of her. 

Perhaps it was because he had also been punished severely for his ambition and thirst for knowledge, but he could no longer bear to see her in the greens, tans and creams of The Scribe’s Guild. Not when there was so much she’d had to fight to keep hold of. 

He thought he could maybe find a pocket somewhere. If he rested he ought to be able to, anyway. Or if not, he could try to look around the grounds and scrounge something up for each of them to change into. And maybe a few supplies for setting up camp, too, since they wouldn’t be granted time to catch their bearings at The Perch. 

He pulled the worn blanket up enough to cover her arms, but not so high that the smell of mildew could wake her. 

He walked over to the tiny door and looked back over his shoulder one more time to make sure she was still quite asleep. 

And then he slipped out of their sorry room to find a place to restore himself. 

[tylermileslockett]

The Sisters Graeae (#4 in my "Quest firnthe Gorgon Head" series)

   As Perseus was the son of Zeus, the gods heard his prayers. Athena answered, offering strategic information on the only ones who knew the locations of the The Gorgon sisters, were in fact, another set of three sisters; the sisters Graeae. These are three gray haired old hags with swan like bodies, who share but one eye and tooth between them. Hermes, God of travelers and ally to mortals, also offered his guidance to the distant realm. After many weeks of difficult trekking, Perseus found himself on the island of Cisthene, in the craggy land of the sisters Graeae. Sneaking upon the women, he waited until they passed their one eye between them, snatching it away, and threatening to heave it into the sea. The Graeae gave in, revealing the location of the Gorgon sisters. But it would be no easy task. The gorgon sisters had golden wings, bronze hands, snakes for hair, and worst of all, their gazes turned men to stone. Perseus would need sacred weapons for such a mission. And, according to Athena, there was only one group who could provide them: the sea nymphs.

   With the 3 sisters we can see the first of many examples of the “triple goddess” archetype in Old world mythology. Some are represented with one body and three forms (triple bodied Hekate) while most are three individuals. (i.e. “The Morai” (fates), “the Horai” (seasons) “The Furies,” “The Hesperides,”(graces) and “the Gorgons.”) We can see other examples from other ancient cultures, like the Norse “Norns” or the Christian holy trinity of the father, son, and holy spirit. Even Shakespeare, a student of Greek myth and poetry, chose three witches to prophecy to Macbeth.

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[outofgloom]

KNOWLEDGE

All of the wards in the City of Secrets were screaming. From the inland rampart to the seaward piers, from the high pinnacle of the Cinis Mai to the street-level ward-stones they rang out intruder, attacker, invasion!

The elderpriest rushed through the corridors of the ziggurat, breathless and bleary-eyed with sleep. Down the polished passages and up the crisscrossing stairs, out into the Throne Chamber he ran. The vast space echoed with the alarms as he crossed to the east door and threw it open, looked out: 

From the top of the three-sided ziggurat he could see all the inland portion of the city, all the way to the walls and the mountain waste beyond. The smoke of Valmai could just be seen in the far, far distance, a small smudge against the morning sky.

There was no army encamped there. The walls stood strong. The city was dark and silent. Still the wards rang in his ears. 

From the east door to the southwest he ran. Still nothing. The streets were quiet below, still shrouded in sleep. Soon, the sky would be alight, and the City of Secrets would grind itself into wakefulness, but not yet. Still the wards clamored on.

Finally, to the northwest he ran and threw open the last door. That was when he realized that it was not morning. Below, the waters of the Halkatarax rivered their way through the city, into the bay and its great harbor, and then out to the open sea.

But there was no more sea, and no more harbor. Where the harbor-mouth had once been, there was now a mass of land blocking passage to the ocean. A pitted, craggy island.

Behind the island, a dark bar of shadow lay along the horizon, and a fog of darkness rose up to cover the sky above. It was not morning. It was perhaps midday, but the city lay in deep gloom, a gloom that was not darkness alone. There was something in the darkness, something that breathed silence and sleep. He could feel it, and so could the wards in the stones of the city. They did not sleep, of course. They were awake, awake and shrieking to warn him.

Another ping ran through the veins of the ziggurat and shivered through his feet, shocking him to action. He stumbled back inside with fear rising in his throat. Disastrous. Where were the guards? Where were the harbor-wardens? Was he the only creature stirring in the city now? Where had the dark island come from, and what did it portend?

He fled to the center of the chamber and stood before the throne. It sat solid as ever, a great, squat mass of protobsidian, gilded with gold. It was said that the Mantax himself had carved it from the slopes of cursed Valmai long ago, enduring the gouts of magma that had poured forth upon him, to bring it away. The throne was the lynchpin of the ziggurat and its ward-veins, and only the Lord Mantax himself was allowed to sit upon it. But the Mantax was not here–he was somewhere north, taking counsel with the other Lords of Order. In his absence, only the elderpriest was allowed to touch the throne, to utilize its secrets.

The sky was growing darker outside–not brighter–and a horrible sense of foreboding fell upon the elderpriest. Another shiver went through the ward-veins.

He touched the throne.

Disorientation, and then clarity. His perception traced through channels of stone and metal, through networks laid through the ziggurat and the earth beneath it, into the streets and the buildings, through the apertures which sensed light and sound all throughout the city. It was the City of Secrets, but no secret could be kept from he who sat the throne.

The streets were empty, he found as he shifted through the various avenues of sight. He looked into the buildings and found bodies there. Terror spasmed in him for a moment before he sensed the beating of their cores. They were asleep. Room after room, building after building, the same thing. All deep in slumber. It must be the fog…

Another ping came down one of the wards to the northwest, and he raced along it to see. It was on the main thoroughfare coming up from the harbor, on the south bank of the Halcatarax. But he could see nothing.

Wait…there was a noise. He focused, couldn’t quite make it out. He ground his fingers into the surface of the throne, tried to increase the connection, but it was no use. He wavered for a moment…only the Lord Mantax could sit the throne. 

But Mantax was not here. He was the only one here. Surely he would be forgiven.

The elderpriest clambered up onto the great seat, felt the interweaving grooves in the arms and back of the chair. He focused again and thrilled with the deeper connection. Back along the ward-veins he flew, and looked out onto the thoroughfare once more. The sound rang out again. Metal on stone. Close by. There was a shape moving in the fog, moving away. He raced ahead, along the local ward-vein, and looked out again. The shape resolved, and it was–

It was slit-eyes and a bent back, topped with spines. It was a staff humming with a sleep-inducing power, amplified through the gloom. And there was another: more slit-eyes, and a staff projecting a field of silence.

It was Rahkshi…and there were more, so many more. An army of Rahkshi creeping through the dark, all along the thoroughfare, and out into the city. They were emerging from the waters of the harbor, down from the shores of the island at the harbor’s mouth. 

That island…it was…He knew the shape of that island. There were deep pits in its surface, and from the pits came even more creatures: beasts that flitted through the air and others that crawled along the ground. Rahi creatures. Creatures of the Makuta.

Invasion. His jaw clenched at the realization, and he floundered for a moment in the ward-space, seeking for the right impulses to activate. The Mantax had spoken of the possibility that the Makuta might move against the Lords of Order, but there had been no open conflict. 

His hands skittered desperately across the grooves of the throne. 

Where was the Lord Mantax, and where were his armies? Surely he would be here soon. He knew all secrets; surely this was no exception. He would be here soon, yes, to ambush the invading force and destroy them, like so many times before. 

Where, where…what was the right configuration? He struggled to remember.

But…but if that was the plan, why had the Lord Mantax not apprised him? He was the elderpriest of the ziggurat. Was he no longer trusted? He had kept so many secrets, and so faithfully… 

Finally, the elderpriest found what he sought. Signals traveled out into the city, and things began to happen. Lightstones blazed bright along the streets, and earsplitting alarms began to clamor in the air. Many doors slammed shut, and others opened. There was a stir in some quarters, as the city's inhabitants were finally shocked into wakefulness. Awake and defend yourselves!

He could see more clearly now. He raced back to the main thoroughfare, looked out onto the street. A horrible noise of shrieking assaulted him as his perceptions emerged through the aperture, and he had to dial it back for a moment. The Rahkshi were screaming and fleeing from the lights. One of the creatures smashed its staff into the base of an obelisk and the spire toppled over, shattering its lightstone across the ground. The glowing shards repulsed the creatures even more.

He laughed at his success, watching them in disarray. He would awaken the guards and the harbor-wardens. He would lead the counterattack from here, and repulse the enemy. The Makuta thought to capture the city through sleep and silence, with their dull servants? Foolishness! Perhaps he would even capture the dark island itself, and add its secrets to his own—

The base of the ziggurat pinged him loudly, and his exulting stopped. Somewhere on the crisscrossing stairs outside. Had they penetrated that far into the city? He had seen no Rahkshi on the way. A chill went down his spine as he abandoned the further wards and moved to the ziggurat itself. There were guards on the ground now, shaking off sleep and brandishing weapons, and the pathetic Matoran were running here and there in terror. 

Shouts moved through the air as he set the wards to signal out the positions of the intruders in the streets. Then he was racing up the outside of the ziggurat, seeking the invaders along the stairs, commanding the outer doors to bolt and seal, and seal again, and—

He was seized bodily, and all his perceptions dissolved into a spinning, sickening rush as he was dragged from the throne and went sailing through the air…then resolved into red pain as he smashed into the far wall of the throne chamber.

More pain as he slid down and struck the polished floor. Agony rolled through his body, and he knew that his gilded armor was broken and bent. The personal wards in his armor plates told him that his internals were damaged. It was bad.

He was face down on the floor, but he realized that he was still seeing something. His perception was limned with red, and it throbbed horribly, but he was still connected to the ward-veins somehow. He was seeing the interior of the Throne Chamber. There he was, a broken pile on the floor, and there was the throne at the center, and between…

Between him and the throne there was a thing standing. It was made of many plates and metal shapes, joined by pistons and connecting gears. It did not move like a living thing, but more like the automatons he had seen the Fe-Matoran produce. It stalked toward his inert form, each limb moving as if by a separate, disjoint instruction. His disembodied senses felt the thing's feet blunt against the polished floor. Pain surged again, and he struggled to focus. He looked toward the throne. If he was still connected to the ward-veins, maybe he could—

The thing stopped suddenly and turned with surprising speed. All at once he was staring down into two bright green eyes behind a foreign mask. It was not looking at his body, but at him–at the point where his perceptions emitted through the wards. It could see him. 

The eyes glowed painfully bright, and an unknown power obliterated the aperture, flinging him back into his own skull. He retched at the reversal of his disembodiment, coughing and struggling on the floor. His sight had returned, though still blurry. He heaved himself up on one arm. The thing had already turned back to him. It stood over him now, and he waited for it to strike...

It did not strike. Instead, the thing reached down and touched him with one of its iron fingers...and the pain vanished. The rents in his armor closed, and his internal wards signaled a lessening of damage. He was…healed.

“Who…are you?” he asked breathlessly, pressing himself back against the wall, afraid, but thankful that he could breathe comfortably again.

A voice issued from behind the strange mask. It was not a living voice, but generated by mechanical means, he was sure.

“Do you not know?” the voice said.

“I do not.” It was the truth. Rahkshi and Rahi he knew, but not this mechanical thing.

“Are you not the elderpriest of the city of the Mantax, who shares in the knowledge of He Who Knows All Secrets?”

“I am.”

“And yet you do not know this secret.”

“I…I—”

The thing laughed a mechanical laugh, and the green eyes pulsed.

“What is your intention here," the elderpriest demanded, trying to put on a brave face, "and what is the meaning of this invasion? This affront to the Lords of Order will not stand.”

“More secrets that you do not possess.”

The elderpriest scoffed. “I assure you, when the Mantax is returned, declarations will be sent to the Makuta, and swift war will come upon them, worse even than in the days of the Wars of Order. You may transmit this to your masters—”

The room blurred and shifted around them, and suddenly they were back in the center of the chamber, next to the throne. He realized that he was standing up now. How…? He had no time to think.

The thing touched the protobsidian of the throne with an iron finger, scratched a spark out of it.

“Do not touch it!” he cried. “Only those ordained to possess the knowledge of Mantax may—”

“Ah, knowledge,” the voice interrupted. The green eyes flicked toward him. “If knowledge is required, then I am certainly ordained, for I am Knowledge.”

“What does that mean? You still haven't told me who you are.”

“I have. Just now.” The eyes turned back to the throne. “So this is the means by which you surveil the city,” the thing mused. “A useful tool for lesser creatures, I suppose. The Lord Mantax is dead.”

“It is forbidden for you to–” The words registered in his mind, and he stammered. “Wh-What? You…you lie!”

“He is dead, as are the other Barraki.”

“Outrageous! What proof do you offer of this claim?”

“No proof is necessary, except the proof of this city being taken in a few hours. The trifling forces of the Barraki are dismantling even now, across the universe. The Lords of Order are no more.”

“I know this to be false.”

The thing turned to him now, fixed him with a look that would have been inquisitive, had it been a living face.

“And how do you know this?”

The elderpriest hesitated, taken aback by the thing's sudden interest. “It is a…a secret. Something known only to the subjects of the Lord Mantax, and to no others.”

“If secrets are simply your own false beliefs, then you are a fool. Fools do not live long in my presence. Prove yourself.”

“I am the elderpriest. I do not need to—”

The thing stepped forward, and he remembered spinning and sickening, and red pain…

“Prove yourself.”

“Very well,” the elderpriest cleared his throat. “I shall grant you this secret: The Obsidian Throne was made by the Lord Mantax, who put his own wards of integrity upon it, that it should remain whole as long as he was living.” He pointed to the black seat. “The throne remains whole, its wards intact, and so the Mantax lives.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Fascinating,” the voice said. “And this is known amongst the people?”

“It is. All who serve the Mantax know it and are assured by it, as I am.”

“I see.” The thing turned its gaze back to the throne. “It is a good bit of mythmaking, I’ll give him credit. The Barraki are masters of such propaganda.”

“What do you mean?” The elderpriest stepped forward, indignant. “It is no myth. It is proof that the Mantax lives, and that he shall return to expel those who occupy his city.”

“It makes a good narrative for a resistance to hold to,” the voice mused, ignoring him. “Something that will have to be reckoned with, sooner or later.”

“This occupation will be short-lived—”

“It’s as good a place to start as any, I suppose.”

The thing snapped its iron fingers, and the throne shattered into rubble.

Shock. Confusion. The elderpriest looked wide-eyed at the pile of rubble as it collapsed to the floor. The ward was…the ward of integrity had been there…It had been strong. He had felt it, even to the point of shattering.

The thing turned to the elderpriest, dusting flecks of obsidian from its armor.

“Now,” it said, “do you renounce your duty to Mantax, one of the  Lords of Order, who is now dead, and do you pledge now the loyalty of your duty to the Makuta?”

“I…I do not renounce!”

“You have great knowledge, elderpriest, and much sway over those beneath the ziggurat. It is in the interests of the Makuta to preserve you, if possible. So I ask again, do you renounce?”

“I c-cannot renounce, for the Mantax is not dead. You may take this knowledge to the Makuta and let them consider it.”

The thing shook its strange mask.

“Ah, these are the words of a fool, for the Makuta are Knowledge.” Its eyes burned into green points “...and as I said, I am Knowledge as well.”

“I do not understand,” the elderpriest lied, shrinking backward.

“You do understand. The age of the Lords of Order is at an end, and now is the time of the Lords of Knowledge. Once more, I ask: Will you pledge to serve us in this new age?”

The green eyes bored into him. The throne was dust and black shards, its secrets annihilated, except for the ones he now carried.

“I will serve you,” he said, his voice trembling. 

“Then declare that the Mantax is dead.”

The throne was gone, but the wards remained. Mantax had laid down those within the ziggurat as well, he knew. They would have perished with him, surely. He could not be dead, and if he was not dead, then... someday there would be a reckoning...

“I will serve you, but I cannot declare this. The Mantax must live. I do not understand this contradiction. It is a secret that is…that is kept from me. Please understand.”

“I see,” the voice said. “Your faith is admirable, elderpriest, and worthy, I suppose, of your position as the keeper of the City of Secrets.”

The thing turned away for a moment, and the creak of pistons sounded almost like a sigh. Then its limbs rotated it back, and the green eyes looked upon him again.

“I have asked a great thing of you,” it said, “and you have revealed secrets to me. For your honesty, I will share one great secret in return, before I must again tend to my task in this place. Will you accept this, as the beginning of your service to us?”

“I...I will.”

“Very well. Then look.”

The strange mask slid upward and back, and metal plates retracted with a shriek. Pistons whined as the carapace of the Makuta opened horribly, and a dark thing issued forth.

And the elderpriest saw what was inside.

It had already told him.

It was knowledge.

[wanderingcas]

damn it i'm reading a book about lighthouse keepers back in the 70s and having to sometimes be on these islands or lighthouses in the middle of the craggy sea for sometimes up to 50 days at a time with no one else but the other keepers who are there too and of course my brain goes "dean and cas as lighthouse keepers who fall in love and then have to separate every 50 days to go back to the mainland and keep their romance a secret"