#Emerald Specter

[kira-anon-uwu]

TS! Who built the weird ghost machine?

"My father, and some dude that goes to my brother's university. They hunt ghosts; not well, but they hunt them."

Master Post

~-~-~

thank you for giving me a break from the big comic set I've been working on for this, drawing the funny emerald men was a nice change

this is not shipping art, also; don't be weird

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

A Specter

Jason Todd is once again more or less an unreliable narrator (and a little dramatic, but he gets a pass for dying) ~1k

Jason Todd wakes up from death drowning, his lungs burning out of his chest. When he breaks the water, he will cough out sickening green that will claw its way into his nightmares. He will dig his jagged nails into the ground and gasp for air he is not meant to be breathing.

And when that is all said and done, he will only have one thought on his mind. Where are you.

Jason Todd rejoins the world as nothing more than a poltergeist. He haunts back alleys and rattles skeletons in the closest of anyone stupid enough to get in his way. He is a wraith, his visage screaming with nothing more than vengeance and bloodshed.

That is, until the night ends and his mask is left clattered to the floor of his barren safehouse. And then he will think of nothing but you.

It's pathetic, to be so attached to someone who doesn't even know he's alive. But that's the problem. He's attached. His dreams, when they aren't nightmares, are filled with your laughter and the memory your hand curled into his.

Jason Todd has not moved on from anything. He hasn't moved on from that warehouse. Hasn't moved on from his own incompetence. Hasn't moved on from the betrayal of those who were supposed to love him.

So he doesn't think he should be expected to move on from you. Not when you're the only anchor his lost soul has left. (This is an excuse, one he knows all too well, one he'll never acknowledge)

The thought of you seems to claw at his heels with every step, every breath he takes that isn't intended towards an effort to find you. He knows it would be easy, to find you. All he would have to do is look. But Jason Todd is a name meant for gravestones, and yours is a name meant to be written in light.

So, he cannot imagine, even in his most twisted desires and daydreams, dragging you down to where he rots. To the moments he starts to wonder, if he breathes too heavily– if he coughs too hard in the Gotham smog– will green water leave his lungs instead of air?

Jason Todd does not look for you, content satisfied accepting enough with the memory of you. His own private apparition that manifests into every part of his life.

(He sees your favorite color in the blankets he buys, lingers too long in front of your favorite flowers, orders your favorite foods, even if they were never his own)

He is stuck in his never-ending pattern of revenge that wails of a past still broken– anguished by the weight of things never fixed, words never said. He stares out through the white, glowing eyes of his mask that was made to strike fear and knows that this is all he will ever be.

The people he saves, the good and bad he does, the lives he takes, does not change that he is still drowning. He is still the boy sputtering emerald waters laced with a magic he doesn't understand. He is still the boy who came back to life with only you in his head.

But he is not the boy that held your hand with gentleness and hope. He is not the boy who smiled at you and promised to come home.

He is a ghost. A thing of memories bound to the present by hate and fury. He is wrongness and he is twisted, and he knows that if he did seek you out, he would only darken your doorstep with curses and decay.

So it's very much a problem when you grace his crumbling safehouse of the week with your presence.

He's not sure who tipped you off to where he was, not sure how you even know he's alive. But you're here, and there's nothing he can do but let you inside.

He doesn't remember everything you say. He doesn't even remember if he talks much. He just knows he's choking back that eerie, unnatural water in the back of his throat every time his eyes meet yours.

You shouldn't be here. But you are– were. You brushed your fingers over the back of his hand as you moved to leave. You asked to come back. That he remembers.

And, by whoever is listening, he said yes. He said yes and scribbled an address onto a piece of paper and pressed it to your palm.

He said yes, and he says it again and again, each time you carry yourself into his home that was no better than a morgue– a tomb to hold everything he used to be– he says yes.

You don't seem to care that he has nothing to offer but whispers of something that will never exist again. You do not mind that he is hardly more than false righteousness and thinly veiled wrath. You are fine with the fact that Jason Todd is supposed to be dead, but by some foul trick of fate, he is not.

No, you count him–the waters that made him new– as a blessing. It shocks him, the first time he hears it. Nearly makes him retch.

How could it be a blessing? How could the pain of feeling your bones snap into place, your muscles restitching themselves, your soul fragmenting apart and back together, be a blessing? How could knowing you do not belong and can never belong again be anything more than a blight?

It isn't. It can't be. It won't be.

Until one day– after weeks of pressing papers with scrawled numbers and letters into your palms– your fingers thread into his and then it is.

Something in him settles. Something haunted seems to fade. And not everything is perfect, but there is suddenly more than the past and shattered things. There is more to Jason Todd than an etching on a headstone, a hushed warning in a story.

There is a future, and Jason Todd suddenly finds himself to be more than a passing, vindictive phantom. With your hand in his, what rings in his head, laced with hope and something that was lost now found, is you. As it has been, and as it always will be, it is your memory in his head, your name on his tongue, you, in his heart.

[novaursa]

can you please write something with the reader being the queen of a far away kingdom that is kinda similar to the targaryen house but instead of dragons they have elike either magic or something. and reader ends up befriending rhaenyra which has the reader being a very powerful ally and the greens notice this , with alicent still wanting to steal the throne but otto is like “…nahhhh” , so rhaenyra becomes queen with the reader there and just standing all badass and stuff kinda comedic if you can please

The Witch Queen

- Summary: You arrive from faraway land to aid Rhaenyra before her rightful claim is stolen.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: This might be slightly darker than you asked for, but the spooky season vibes guided me with this one. I hope you still like it, dear anon. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: long live the queen

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

The wind carried a sharp, briny scent from the sea as your ship glided through the dark waters toward the docks of King's Landing, its shadow stretching ominously beneath the moonlit sky. The black sails of your fleet billowed against the midnight horizon, a ghostly procession that had gone unnoticed until now. No banners heralded your arrival, no horns sounded from the walls of the Red Keep. The city slept in ignorance of the storm you had brought.

At your side, your court stood with heads held high, their violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight, their pale, silver-gold hair swept back in intricate braids that mirrored your own. House Tyvarella was not accustomed to formalities that belonged to lesser kings or the pious men of Westeros. You were the Queen of a realm far older than this one, a survivor of Valyria’s doom, and there was no need for permission to make yourself known.

As you stepped onto the cobblestones, the whispers from the shadows began to ripple. The common folk had heard the tales—stories of your house, the blood mages of Tyvarella, feared even by those who once tamed dragons. To those of the Faith of the Seven, you were a creature from their darkest myths, a figure woven into the very fabric of their nightmares. And now, you were here, at the heart of their crumbling kingdom.

“The night brings ill omens,” Otto Hightower muttered, his hands wringing in that nervous, meticulous way of his. He stood by a flickering torchlight, watching as your procession marched through the streets toward the Red Keep. His face was pale, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of wariness and disgust. “They come as vultures, Alicent, like specters summoned by death itself. We need to leave, now.”

Alicent Hightower, now Dowager Queen, stood by his side, her delicate fingers gripping the edges of her gown as if holding herself together. Her emerald eyes, though wary, flickered with a strange curiosity as she gazed at your retinue. “They were not expected, not invited… What are they doing here?”

“Nothing good, I assure you,” Otto responded with grim certainty. “King Viserys is dead. They arrive just as his breath fades. They bring with them blood magic and ruin. If we stay—”

A distant sound cut through the air, carried on the wind—the solemn toll of bells echoing across the city. Viserys was gone. The king had breathed his last.

Alicent's breath hitched as the realization washed over her. Her husband, the father of her children, the king, was dead. And here you stood, arriving at this precise moment, as if heralding the change to come.

But her eyes strayed, flickering toward the upper windows of the Red Keep. Through the torch-lit chambers, she caught a glimpse of another figure—Rhaenyra. The Princess had been kept behind, confined within the castle after that last bitter feast Viserys had demanded, the one after Vaemond Velaryon met his end.

Rhaenyra stood by the window now, her gaze drawn irresistibly to you. Alicent noticed it in an instant, the way her rival, her stepdaughter, leaned closer to the glass, watching your every movement with a deep, unspoken longing. Rhaenyra’s eyes were fixed on you, even from this distance, her expression one of unmistakable hunger and fascination.

“Do you see that?” Alicent whispered, her voice tight. “She… she looks at her.”

Otto followed her gaze, his lips tightening. “Rhaenyra’s drawn to power,” he said dismissively, though a hint of concern tugged at his tone. “It’s in her blood. But this... this is different. Tyvarella’s magic is ancient, forbidden. If she aligns herself with them, it will be disastrous.”

Alicent felt a wave of unease roll through her, but before she could respond, the heavy gates of the Red Keep groaned open, and you stepped inside. The room fell into a hush, as if the very stones of the castle were holding their breath. You entered without ceremony, your violet eyes scanning the gathering of lords and courtiers, none of whom dared meet your gaze directly.

And then, you saw her.

Rhaenyra.

She descended the grand staircase, her silken black gown flowing behind her like the wings of a raven. Her silver hair glowed in the candlelight, and her lips were parted ever so slightly, as if tasting the air between you. The tension in the room coiled tight, palpable.

When your eyes met hers, the world seemed to fall away.

You had seen her before, of course. But this… this was different. Here, in this moment of death and turmoil, the connection between you felt like a thread of fire, burning through the distance between you both. Her breath hitched as she came to stand before you, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice soft yet carrying a weight that pulled at something deep inside of you. “You came.”

“I did,” you replied, your voice steady, though the sight of her stirred something untamed within you. “I came as soon as I sensed it. Viserys is gone, and now… the realm will fall to chaos.”

Her lips tightened into a thin line, pain flashing in her eyes at the mention of her father, but she didn’t look away. “They’ll come for me. For my children.”

“And they’ll have to go through me first.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened at your words, the weight of your promise settling over her like a shield. Her hand, pale and trembling, reached out ever so slightly, as if testing the waters between you. And then, without another word, she placed it in yours.

A murmur spread through the room. Alicent stiffened where she stood, her face pale as the dawn.

Otto watched in silence, his mind already racing, already calculating. He knew what this meant. He knew that your presence here was more than a disruption. It was a declaration.

“We should have left when we had the chance,” he muttered, just loud enough for Alicent to hear. “Now it’s too late.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, her fingers warm despite the cool air. “Will you stay?”

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “For as long as you need me.”

[drmapzo]

Hello, everyone!

The party has secured safe passage through the mountains in a caravan. The ride is going smoothly until out of nowhere, a hail of arrows starts to come down.

Quickly, the heroes get out of the carts and start to defend the caravan. They have been ambushed and are at a disadvantage. Let's see if they can emerge victorious this time!

The creature tokens for this map are a Jaded Pilgrim, a Mountain Bandit and an Unnatural Specter. Emerald tier gets the Mountain Bandit while Diamond tier gets all three. In addition, Sapphire tier gets extra creature token variants. Click here to see the contents of the complete map pack!

You can see a preview of all of this week’s Patreon content here.

Thank you very much for taking a look and be sure to check out my Patreon where you can pledge for gridless version, alternate map versions as well as the tokens pertaining to this map.

[lavenderspence]

silly poker night reveals | A.H.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Word Count: 1.8K

Content warning: basically just funny, or crack, alcohol mention, gambling addiction mention

Summary: A poker night with the silly crime men gets disrupted when a certain someone decides to prove he's not a psychic.

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid, Patrick Jane, Richard Castle, Seeley Booth, Harvey Specter

A/N: One day, I just really wanted to write a fic with all my favorite silly crime men and have them be snarky to each other, and that’s what I did. This was literally written for the fun, for the vibes, for the hell of it, and then I just could not, not make it about my husband too. So, even if you’ve only watched one of the shows, give this a read, I think it's fun. enjoy🤭

and thank you to @reidsstargirl for beta reading this 🥺💕

masterlist

“You’re late.” You said after you pulled the door open. A rumpled blond was sitting in front of you - a white dress shirt, a black vest, and a gray suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. 

He flashed you a lazy smile, all teeth, “Yeah, well, when have you known me to be punctual?” He pushed past you, stepping into the apartment, with no care in the world.

His eyes ran around the room, finding it empty of any other presence, “You little minx, you lied to me.” He turned around, eyes running through your body. 

You smiled, eyes sparkling, “Yeah, well, I had to get creative if I wanted you to be on time, Jane. You have just enough time for a power nap, go enjoy the couch.” You threw his words back at him, and then waved a hand around, gusting to the emerald couch. 

You made your way to the kitchen, picking up a half-full glass of champagne. Walking around for a second, you looked at the man on the couch and waited for the 15 minutes until 7:30 to pass, so you could welcome your other guests too. 

You were waiting on Aaron and Spencer - they were coming straight from work, deciding to stay around an extra hour after you to finish up. Harvey was flying in from New York, Castle was driving down, and Jane was already snoring on your couch, and Booth was coming after closing a case. 

You arranged these poker games once every two months, depending on how all your schedules aligned. You’d worked with all of these silly assholes at one point in your life. Sometimes, they needed some time to just goof around and play some games, nothing serious. 

A few other of your colleagues joined occasionally - Rossi and Morgan loved the snark, and Emily was a fan of disturbing the testosterone with you from time to time. But all of them were busy, so it was just you and the usuals tonight. 

12 minutes later, you were welcoming everyone in, and Jane was rousing from his nap, looking even more rumpled than before. 

Spencer and Booth took their usual places in front of the TV, where you’d already queued a baseball game, and left them some snacks. The others each took a place at the table. 

You usually played just one game, so you took your place as the dealer and shuffled the cards. 

The conversation was sparse for a few minutes while you dealt the cards. 

“Why’s Clark Kent not playing?” Rick asked all of a sudden, gusting to Booth with his head. Booth usually joined the gathering every few games, still not entirely comfortable coming every time. His addiction wasn’t something that you’d brought up or were looking to bring up during a night like this. He usually stayed away from the table, engrossed in a game of baseball on tv, or bothering Reid for any useless facts and calling him a squint. 

“Let him be Rick, he needs the night out even if he isn’t playing.” Your answer was vague and it would stay that way as long as Booth wanted to be there and stay away from the game. 

“And the kid?” It was Jane’s voice, and he raised a hand and pointed at Spencer. He was usually sitting the games out too, since the last time you and Hotch had played with him he’d hustled you. 

“Go on, tell him.” You prompted Spencer, as he bookmarked the page he was reading. 

“I’m good at poker.” It wasn’t convincing and it wasn’t the truth. 

You shook your head with a laugh, “Nooo, Jane’s good at poker, Castle is good at poker. What are you good at?” You asked, your eyes meeting Aaron’s for a second. 

“I'm good at counting the cards, and banned from several casinos in Las Vegas, Laughlin, and Pahrump.” Aaron’s lips twitched, a barely there grin appearing for just a second before it disappeared again. 

“Can I borrow him for a poker night with my author buddies? Maybe even Kate? I really need a win.” Castle asked. 

“He’s not winning against Kate, Rick. She will sniff him out before he even sits at the table. Now, Ryan and Esposito, on the other hand, you can easily steal some money from.” You told him as you took a sip from your drink. 

Everyone else was having a drink - whiskey was the preferred drink at your table, Booth was having a beer and Spencer was sticking to water. 

“Anything to drink Jane?” You asked again. 

“Chamomile tea, two sugars please.” 

“You do realize this is a poker game, and not an afternoon tea with Her Majesty, right?” Harvey’s usual snark was making a comeback for the first time tonight. 

“But her Majesty’s sitting right there.” Jane's chin jutted towards Rick. It was no secret that out of every man currently in the room, Rick was probably the most pretentious one, closely followed by Harvey.

“Haha, very funny.”

“I didn't lie, did I? I highly doubt that the Ferrari parked downstairs can be bought on a government salary.” Quipped Jane.

“How do you know it's not Harvey's?”

“Because I'm not a pussy driving a bright red Ferrari around New York City, thank you very much.” Harvey threw a few chips in the center of the table. 

“Well, said Ferrari costs anywhere between 70K and 120K. A Special Agent’s salary is around 135K, and 170K a year for Supervisory Special Agents. So realistically, yeah, we can’t afford it.” Spencer shrugged, turning a page in his book, not even phased by the looks everyone was throwing at him.

“I like this kid, he’s such a squint.” Booth laughed and gave Reid’s shoulder a little pat. Spencer tensed for a second but quickly relaxed again. 

“Dammed it, I overpaid 30K for this one.” Castle scoffed, shaking his head. 

Harvey produced a business card from somewhere and slid it toward Rick. 

“In case you need it. Fair warning though, get on my nerves, and I’m giving you to Louis.”

“Aww he has a heart.” Rick pouted.

“Never repeat that, never.” The brunette warned.

“And a lot of snark.” You smiled, looking around. They all might have serious jobs during the day, but they were all extremely silly when they were off of work.

The game continued on for another 15 minutes, conversion flying by until Booth’s voice rang around you.

“Okay Jane, no offense, but I need to know. What’s your shtick? What made the FBI want to hire you as a consultant?” Seeley asked, turning a sobriety chip in his hand. 

“Ugh, offense.” 

“Oh come on,” Booth waved a hand around, “I’m one of the best sharpshooters out there,” you rolled your eyes and so did Rick, “Hotchner’s an ex-ADA, Y/N’s a weapons expert and a linguist. Reid over here is basically Einstein.” 

“Well, actually, Einstein’s IQ is believed to be somewhere between 160 and 180, and mine’s 187, so technically, I surpass Albert Einstein.” Seeley wasn’t happy being interrupted again, but he let it slide, used to being interrupted by his own team.

“So Jane, what makes you such a special asset to the FBI? You're not still pulling the psychic card, are you?” To anyone, it might seem judgmental, the way he asked, but you knew it was anything but. He was curious, but he also valued his job too much not to ask. 

Jane leaned back in his chair, laying his cards face down and his hands on top of them. He looked on over you, head to toe, and then his eyes focused on your left - to Aaron. 

You saw his eyes shine for a second, and shook your head at him, already knowing what was going to come out of his mouth. 

“There is no such thing as psychics. Just a very good eye for reading people. Like for example, all night Hotchner’s been a broody, quiet bastard, safe for any time Y/N talks. His eyes light up and he relaxes back into his chair.” You watched Aaron’s posture too tight and reached a hand under the table to lay over his leg.

You were glaring daggers in Jane's direction, but once he was on a roll, there was no stopping him. “Earlier, when she put his glass down, his fingers on the hand closest to her body, twitched. His cologne is expensive, freshly applied - he probably has a spear bottle in his office.  He's been checking his watch, waiting for the night to end, so we'd all go home. Not him though, he's staying over.”

He played with the edge of his cards as he watched all eyes turn in your direction. 

“Oh, and the murderous look he's been giving Harvey every time he catches him looking at Y/N a bit too closely. Also, the clenching of the jaw - seriously knock it off, you won't have teeth forever.” Jane warned before he leaned back into his chair, looking just a tad too proud of himself.

The silence was defeating for a few moments, no one dared to utter a word.

“I don't think they wanted that to be shared just yet.” Rick muttered

“No shit.” Aaron's fingers wrapped around your own as he gritted out.

“And I didn't want to be lied to, but alas…” Jane added, flashing you a grin.

“Oh, you petty asshole.” A grin was making its way onto your face and you didn't know why.

“Oh, I'm about to become even more of an asshole - full house.” He threw his card in the middle of the table, close to the chips.

“Awww, you really are an asshole.” Rick leaned back in his chair, defeated and pouting.

“Takes one to know one, Dicky.” He smirked.

“Are you okay with this?” You turned around and asked Aaron quietly, for a moment forgetting the room full of men you’d worked with over the years.

“I'm good, although being profiled wasn't my idea of fun for the night.” He admitted just as quietly, reaching to push your hair away.

“I'm sorry.” He went to close the space between you before you heard the scraping of chairs.

“Okay kiddos, mom and dad need us to empty the apartment. Go on, out the door.” Seeley announced. You rolled your eyes at his bullshit before you started giving goodbye hugs. 

“If Hotchner's the dad, who's the daddy?” Harvey asked jokingly as he pulled you into a hug.

“Ask Louis tomorrow.”

“I didn't need the mental picture, thank you.” He shuddered and walked towards the door with the rest.

“Don't ask dumb questions then.” You called out, before you turned towards the good Doctor, “Oh and Spence? Keep this on the down-low, would you?” You asked, still not exactly ready to share this with your team, even after having the whole thing come out this way.

He smiled sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck, “Yeah…too late.” and just then both your and Aaron's phones went off. 

There was no question about it, there was a fun morning waiting for you tomorrow. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[lucygxybaird]

imagine holding billy in your arms as he lays dying, pat garrett's gun still breathing smoke like a dragon you can't vanquish.

billy's breath is rattling in his chest, each struggling to escape, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and over his temples. they leave stains on your skirt the color of storm clouds, stains that spread, stains that grow, like a tumor. you aren't crying. you feel as though you are being forced through the eye of a needle, everything inside you crushed and broken to fit, and in the process you are wrung dry.

his hand clutches tightly at your arm, his eyes flitting around blindly, a pair of frightened bluebirds. you stroke his forehead with your other hand as if you're his mother trying to soothe away a fever.

"hush," you whisper. "hush, hush, lie still. don't move too much."

as if it matters. as if it would save him, to lay still as a statue, a marble monument to youth bludgeoned into gray obscurity by a bullet, to tragedy, to a broken future. but you don't know what else to say, how else to comfort him.

he manages to say, in a voice cracked and sharp like shattered porcelain: "i'm scared."

"don't be scared," you say, although you're scared too.

scared of what your life is going to be when his is extinguished. scared of seeing him in every pale dawn and bitter-black night, of hearing his voice at the very edge of your hearing and turning your head toward the specter sound. scared -- even more so -- of forgetting precisely how he looks, how he sounds.

how he feels. how he tastes.

billy whimpers.

"hush," you say again. "just close your eyes, listen to me."

his eyes flutter shut.

"there's nothing to be afraid of." you swallow. "it's just like falling asleep. soon there won't be any more pain. you'll float in my arms, like you're floating in a sweet river. above you there's just blue sky, and the riverbanks are green as emeralds."

his grip on your arm softens.

"when you wake up, you'll be home," you say. "your mother will be there, your father, and joe. they're waiting for you, just like you'll wait for me. someday we'll all be together."

just not today.

"tunstall," he croaks, and you nod.

"yes, and mr. tunstall," you say. "he'll be so proud of you, billy. they all will. you fought so hard, and you've been so brave."

you lean down to press your lips against his forehead, which is clammy and slick with sweat. "you've been so brave," you say again. "i've always been so proud of you, you know that? so proud to be yours."

another kiss to his forehead. you think his skin is even cooler now than it was just a moment before.

"my love," you murmur.

you want to say, don't leave me. you want to beg him to fight, to hang on; but you can't ask that of him. not after everything he's been through, the pain he's suffered in the past and in this moment. it's time for you both to let go.

you hold him like that, hunched over with him cradled in your lap. shielding him, your hair framing his face like a curtain protecting him from the rest of the world. the world that has been so hard on him, the world he is slipping away from by degrees, as though chains are rusting away from a prisoner seeking freedom.

you keep your eyes on his face, his beloved, beautiful face, but you're aware, too, of his grip on your wrist. how it slackens moment by moment, until his fingertips are just barely resting on your sleeve. you hear him trying, fruitlessly, to catch his breath; it almost sounds like he's drowning.

he gasps, as though he's seen something astonishing, although his eyes are still closed. you think -- you're not sure, because your heartbeat is roaring in your ears, like it's attempting to remind you that you're alive despite any desire to the contrary -- that you hear him whisper, "ma?"

his hand slips away from your arm to land on the floor. the soft thump is louder than the gunshot. it echoes and it lacerates, tearing you apart inside.

when they try to take him away from you, the tears come. you struggle the best you can without letting go of him; you clutch him to you with one arm, your free hand curled into claws. you bare your teeth. you scream, you curse -- not epithets, but bitter prayers, as if you're a witch who can work dark magic.

finally, they overpower you.

they bury him. you wish you could burrow into the earth like a worm and lay down there with him.

but you know he wouldn't want that for you. so you live, despite every day, every moment, feeling like a stone in your mouth, weighing you down and entombing your speech. not that you have anything to say, not anymore.

months go by. summer is scorching. you imagine the unforgiving sun burning you up, like a dry leaf caught in a campfire. you imagine yourself as ash, drifting away in the wind.

autumn brings damp rain, keeping everyone inside. it doesn't matter to you. you can hardly bring yourself to leave your bed, despite the memories that lurk in the sheets like fleas, waiting to bite you.

winter is cold and gray, but you hardly notice the snows, the howling winds, the disconsolate pewter skies. if anything, it's only a reflection of how you feel.

and then --

despite the cruelty of the world, the frozen fist of january trying to choke the warmth out of every breath of breeze, out of each brittle beam of sunshine -- despite nothing meaning anything -- despite what feel like the greatest of odds --

spring comes again. flowers push their stubborn, colorful heads up out of the ground. the wind softens. the sun gains strength. you find yourself climbing out of bed; the floors and the chimney are swept, the windows cleaned, dishes and clothes are washed. you prop your front door open so the fresh air can come in.

one morning, you come outside to find a kitten huddled under the rocking chair on your front porch. it mewls, sounding rather cross with you, as though asking what took you so long.

you smile.

you take him inside, pour out a saucer of milk and slice up a piece of chicken. you notice, as you're holding him on your lap, that his eyes are blue.

you name him bonney.

[seattlesellie]

knight!ellie x princess!reader drabble. ♡🗡️🕯️

an: since i’m thinking of writing a full fic of knight ellie x princess reader i wanted to know what you guys think ! let me know if i should turn this into something way longer. just a lil peak of the themes of a longer fic 💗

cw: mature themes, reader is a little lonely, tension.

the moon is so bright, so big, so white, luminous, it reflects in her emerald eyes and renders them almost mystical, bordering on the verge of the unreal. one couldn't help but wonder if she herself was not entirely real, a specter of dreams made flesh. do you recall those distant days of childhood? just eight years old, insisting that your imaginary friend — aurora, was right by your side? you clung to her like a lifeline. you'd shed tears as your mother, the reigning queen, denied the request for an extra place setting, an empty plate reserved for aurora alone. how you fell asleep bawling, tasting salt on your tongue, bitter and sickening, feeling as if you were drowning in your sleep, the specter of aurora growing gaunt and wretched, as though starved for existence.

how you woke up plagued by guilt, tormented by a high fever and a stubborn eye infection, crying and screaming for your imaginary best friend. and how from that day on, the castle fell empty. you wandered around, through those regal halls like a specter, floating like a brittle ghost, nodding politely when a maid curtsied in reverence, offering a feeble smile to the steward as he addressed you as his cherished princess.

you filled your duties, all your royal obligations, attended to your classes, spoke only when spoken to by your parents, ignored when another royal called you a “loony” when catching you in the midst of a conversation with several alabaster rabbits.

you formed a connection with the world around you, a bond that ran far deeper than what met the eye, and now one knew.

you rub on your eyelids with the back of your hand, and blink in dismay — oh, you’ve been mistaken, she is real, and her abdomen rises and falls with each breath, the clang of her armor a testament to her existence, to your sanity. her eyelids flutter, and her throat subtly moves as she swallows. a strand of her auburn hair sways in the wind too, but sweet aurora’s hair also danced in the breeze, so who knows.

sometimes it all is simply too blurry.

for now, you choose to believe.

the grass tickles your bare toes, you don’t laugh.

“hate being a princess” you mutter with a sigh, tilting your head to the side — her side, to see if perhaps she vanished like the rest of them, yet finding her there.

her role as a knight is dictated with silence in your presence, a mere executor of commands from your father with a duty to bow in submission, so she doesn’t respond. all she has to do is be your protector, keep you safe and guarded, make sure you won’t try and run once more.

she’s also not supposed to help you with your clandestine escapades from the castle, she’s not supposed to lay in the tall royal gardens ridiculously green grass with the princess, to allow the opulent and delicate fabric of her dress to gently brush against the barest portion of her knee. yet — she allows it.

she’s not supposed to help you pick flowers and greet you good morning, she was supposed to be unyielding as stone, almost ephemeral yet ever-present.

and now your ankle shifted to rest gently against hers, and she didn’t even nudge you.

“i despise it” you repeat. you try and voice your frustration but it comes off as too soft. ellie typically abhorred anything soft. she’d rather sleep on a hard mattress than a plush one, favored stomping over floating.

and yet you seem to be an exception.

you seem to be an exception for lots of things.

and ellie doesn’t respond. she blinks at the full moon and it blinks back at her.

“do you like being a knight?”

you think you may have heard a breathy chuckle. you’re unsure, you sigh.

“ellie?”

and she never told you her name. you figured it out by yourself.

then she begins, pink tongue folding and moistening her lower lip. “i like being your knight”, she blinks thrice, in a hurry — like she said something wrong, as though she feared she might have offended anyone else whose knight she was not. she takes a deep breath, for some reason it's shaky.

“i like, i- need, to protect the kingdom. it’s my duty. for the sake of your father, the people, you — you know that, my princess”

and usually you’d cringe when addressed with that title. you voiced it already — that title isn’t you, you don’t want it, it felt like a burdensome label imposed or cursed upon your birth, but for some reason, when she says it ; “my princess” it feels like her “my”, is the one that holds the power to cloud your mind. and that’s why you don’t argue that it isn’t your name, because she calls you as hers, and oh how bad you want to be hers.

you overheard the conversations among the other young royals, who spoke in hushed tones about "crushes." you eves dropped and furrowed your brows intently when they talked about the charming sable boy, a dark haired prince from a faraway land, an adviser. they described the feeling of having a crush as if they were “falling”, “giddy”, “thrilled”, “like riding a horse, really really fast”

and it never really happened to you, albeit you really did try. you just accepted it, you’d be crush-less forever, forced to marry a crush-less prince, forced to live a crush-less life.

then you met knight ellie.

it happened when she removed her bascinet, when she casually tossed her tousled auburn locks from side to side, when she smiled that sly smirk then immediately wiped it off and glued her gaze to the stone wall. it was in the way her eyes met yours, her all but graceful bow, and the sound of her armored knee meeting the ground, when she chuckled after winning the battle of who would be the princesses knight. how cocky she looked as her arm was raised in triumph, only to transform into humble grace when officially declared the winner.

but it wasn't a feeling akin to falling; it was more like crashing down. you also didn’t feel giddy, you felt nauseous and tight everywhere, you weren’t thrilled you were petrified, and you didn’t ride a horse really fast — it was more like being thrown off the horse and crashing onto the ground, nose-first.

so it didn’t feel like crushing, it felt like something else. and you really had to go to the washroom.

“you don’t… owe anything to the kingdom, or to my father” you murmur.

she really doesn’t. it got her family starved, killed. “i do” she lies, swallowing thickly. “also, i really don’t need protection” then you lie, rolling your eyes with a huff.

she'd call you a brat if she wasn't your knight, and if she knew for certain that you wouldn't go running to your father after being offended.

“i should run away” you muse, idly toying with the hem of your dress. ellie sees the bare flesh of your thigh and she feels like maybe she shall run away as well. then her breath hitches down her throat, and she really hates it because this isn't the first time. perhaps she's sick, a throat infection. it's getting very hard to breathe.

t'must be the armor, the decides.

then she decided it's not.

it's simply the cold night air. definitely not your naked thigh, or your hunger to be free, or the way your dress flows with the wind, or the way your eyelashes flutter and your fingertips tap tap tap on your plushy lips.

“should i fetch the horse then, my princess? which one d'ya want, charlie... or buster, maybe. he's a strong one” ellie croons then swallows a chuckle.

she’s also not supposed to joke with you. or to stare at your thigh, or to let you place your head on her armored chest.

“yes” you reply like she’s serious.

then a cloud veils the once-bright moon, and your knight clears her throat.

“i should take you to your room, freedom warrior, s’getting late”

“you shall take me to the forest to pick some blackberries, knight”

ellie chuckles and argues back. “i shall not”

“disobeying a royal?” you say with a wink.

you might actually be the death of her.

[witchofhimring]

Younger and more beautiful

This series is being edited. I feel Alys came off as one dimensionally evil and the reader as a pretty flat character. So this will be heavily edited.

Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear

Pairings:

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Part 2: Until there comes another

Part 4: To cast you down and take all you hold dear

Warnings: angst, cheating, mentions of stillbirth/miscarriages, death

Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.

To this day the words that both enthralled and haunted the Queen hovered over her dark head like a specter. It echoed as a constant reminder. She had become Queen and Alys had never felt more victorious. But every time the elation came, the rest would come roaring back.

Younger and more beautiful

To cast you down and take all you hold dear

As she sat proudly on her throne the ladies danced bellow. Alys had made sure that every one of her handmaidens were either less attractive or older than herself. Helped if they were both. But she could not banish every woman who could capture her husbands eye. Every time her husbands eyes drifted over the crowd Alys wondered if they were searching for a woman. She tried to convince herself that she was young, beautiful, and the King loved her. One of the Tyrell girls, sporting a beautiful head of auburn curls and sparkling blue eyes, ascended the stairs. She was on the arm of her father. Alys's fingers curled into her palm. "Lady Redwine." Alicent Hightower walked towards the woman. Of course the meddling old hag invited the woman. If Alys had her way the Dowager Queen would be out by now. But Aemond loved his mother. Anxiety clawed at Alys as she knew Alicent was the only person left in her way. Y/n was locked away and Daenerys was Gods know where. "Son." Without even using titles, Alicent advanced up the steps and embraced her son. All Alys received was a cold look. Alys had thought that maybe the Dowager Queen would take her side. After all, it was well known that Alicent did not get along with Y/n. But it seemed her dislike of the thrones newest occupant outweighed the old. One day, Alys would deal with her.

Her face ached from her daily ritual. Alys scrutinized each inch of her skin. There where no spots blemishing her pale skin. No wrinkle in sight. Satisfied, she sat back in her chair. She was still as lovely as when Aemond first fell in love with her. Pale fingers traced over her slightly swollen belly. Soon Y/n would know that Alys had accomplished what she had not. Satisfaction dwelled within her as she thought of Y/n's less than flattering body. Alys had always been careful to watch what she ate. No morsel of food passed her lips without thorough inspection. She doubted Y/n had been as vigilant. Hence why Alys never felt any pity for the woman. Y/n had taken her position for granted and lost everything. That was her fault, not Alys's.

Aemond Targaryen entered, still dressed in his kingly finery. Alys felt desire in the pit of her belly. Elegantly she got to her feet, the emerald train following her. Aemond gave her a sultry smile, noticing immediately that she wanted him. "My love." She sighed and placed her arms around his neck. Kisses littered his cheeks as they made towards the bed. "Stay with me tonight?" Alys's hair flowed down her back out of its up do. She knew what his answer would be, he had never once denied her. Alys was laid out of the former Queen's bed and pulled her husband close.

The contractions started early in the morning. By midday Alys was doubling over in pain. They had given her a small draft of milk-of-the-poppy and herbs, but it did little do dull her agony. Once nightfall fell Alys could barely breath. "Just one more push Your Grace!" The midwife could see the head. With one last almighty push Alys's child made their way into the world. Alys collapsed onto the sheets, exhausted but feeling elated. She had done it. She had given the King his heir. Now they would accept her as Queen. Soon Y/n and her bastard daughter would get word of her victory. "Hand him to me." Alys had forced herself to sit up. The midwifes looked at eachother before the bravest among them spoke. "My Queen, it is a girl."

Aemond looked down at their newborn daughter, Princess Aelena. Alys could hardly look at the baby. Her daughter was small with silver hair. A true Targaryen, but not a boy. Aemond picked up the girl and cradled her against his chest. "She's beautiful." His voice was quiet. Alys could not tell what her husband thought. He showed no outward signs of displeasure, but that did not mean Aemond was happy. Sometimes he was so hard to read. "I am so sorry." Alys cast her eyes downwards, praying he would not be angry with her. Aemond placed the baby down in her crib. With a sigh he walked over to Alys and sat down next to her. "I am happy to have a daughter. And we conceived her quickly, sons will follow."

"Yes. sons will follow."

It had been a dark day, the sun remaining hidden. On that day Alys, in all her curiosity, snuck into the woods. She had heard legends of a wood witch in its depths. Alys was not frightened, had never been frightened. When she wanted something she got it. Deeper she went. As as she treated along the forest floor she noticed there was no noise. Not even the twittering of a bird. The air became denser and her head started to spin. Still, the stubborn young woman pushed on. Finally, in the midst of a great swamp was a hut. It sat right in the middle. Through the thin fog Alys realized that crossing would be no easy challenge. She paced around for a while and thought of what to do. Eventually she noticed there was a path of rocks barely visible above the murky water. Tentatively she placed a foot on one of them. It was stable enough. Steeling herself, Alys set out. Rock over rock she went. She practically flew the last few steps. There was no door. Just some cloth hung, as if that could do the witch any good. She brushed the fabric aside and looked in. There was a fire in the center. But that was all she could make out. "You have come." Alys swallowed back a gasp. From the corner emerged a cloaked figure. She was old, very old. 'Step in." Alys obeyed.

"Are you sure this is wise My Queen." Questioned a meek Lady. Alys sat on her chair, crown on head. She had brought baby Aelena with her today. So that Lady Floris might see that she had triumphed over her former mistress. Floris Baratheon had been living in a self imposed exile since Y/n had left. But the King had ordered her to return to court. Today, Alys would show her who was Queen. "Lady Floris." Floris was only a little younger than Y/n, but she looked younger than Alys had expected. Much to Alys's disgruntlement it seemed Y/n's death had not dulled her beauty. She had dark brown hair that flowed behind her like a veil. Brown eyes held a golden hue to them. Unblemished skin showed none of the wears of the past four years. What was even more insulting was the fact she wore black. As a mere lady, Y/n was entitled to no more than a few weeks of mourning from her close friends and family. But she noticed many in black. They protested that black was quite fashionable these days, but Alys knew better. "My Lady, we welcome you to court." Alys straightened herself. Floris held a look of cool disinterest. Her arrogance angered the Queen. Then an idea occured to the Queen. A smile curled her lip. "My Lady. The King and I have considered this, and believe that you are the best candidate to act as governess to Princess Aelena. As you did such a good job looking after his bastard daughter I think you should agree." Rage flashed through the lady's eyes. Of course Alys would never let Floris be alone with her precious girl. Others would keep an eye on her. It would give her great satisfaction to have the lady toil away in service to the rightful princess.

Floris watched the baby tottle towards one of the ladies. She was still so so tired from all the errands Alys had her do. It seemed Alys was determined to make her pay. Floris reckoned that Alys would try and break her down and take all she held dear. But little did the foolish Queen realize this was not a surrender. Floris had contacted supporters of the deceased Queen to put the rightful heirs on the throne. She just had to spy and get what information she could. When the King appeared all three curtsied. The baby giggled and grabbed towards her father. Floris felt a thrill of anger as he cuddled the baby. Not at Aelena, but Aemond Targaryen. Here he was pretending he only had one daughter when there was another whom he had banished. Hatred for Aemond and Alys stirred in her heart. After everything her dear friend had been forced to suffer made her want to weep with rage. She hoped that one day the two of them world be forced to suffer as much as the late Queen had.

That was when an idea occured to her.

"I shall be Queen!" Alys was overwhelmed with the possibility her future might bestow on her. Queen. Oh to be the greatest woman in the land! But the witch just shook her head. "I am not done." Alys froze. "I shall not be Queen?" "You shall." "Then what is the rest?" And the words that haunted Alys for the rest of her days were uttered. "Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear." As Alys stepped out of the hut she swore to herself she would never let that happen.

And with that, she sealed her destiny.

Six months later:

Planning a rebellion had been easier than expected. Likely they never expected the King's daughter to rebel against her. Daenery's had always been an obedient daughter. Her father was her lord and King. The made who took her on Vhagar, read her stories and night and danced with her when she was little. But she loved her mother more, who had fought for her till the end. At nineteen Daenerys was no longer a little girl. Aemond Targaryen was no longer her world. In the past four years she had gone from princess to rebel. "My Queen. A letter." Viserys Targaryen, her betrothed, handed her a letter. She saw the wax "F" stamped on the front. She smiled. "It is from Lady Floris. It's time, and I think you have a dragon to claim."

Note: Last part is up next!

Taglist:

@watercolorskyy

@bellstwd

[novankenn]

What If...

Pyrrha was also under the sway of Salem Cinder and Pyrrha love each other (Pompeii)

Scene : Beach of the EverAfter / Paper Pleasers Village

==> @soundkiller0017 What if Pyrrha destroys the paper pleaser village in a anger attack (beacuse she realise that she traded a really good live for a one in survice to a Queen that disent care of her and a manipulative lover) and after destroying the village she is met by a ROYALY PISS, ANGRY AND MERCILLES Jaune, Neo and Team RWBY who would give her a fate worse than death.1Hide replies

==> @watcher-servant The betrayer Spartan had stayed there... left in thought of what just happened. So with strain, she picked up her spear and walked on as much as she could. Coming upon a village, one so fragile so peaceful it only raged her all of this felt like a slap to her choices. So what did she do..she raged the peaceful village she came upon she destroyed...only when she stopped when she realized what she done, she would see a familiar umbrella appear before and it's holder looking very disappointed as a loud and very familiar yell is heard.

==> A/N - No redemption for the Spartan? You all REALLY seem set on me offing this Pyrrha! ==> A/N - In this version... Only Jaune and Pyrrha "fell", though I will do an OMAKE with Neo and RWBY also "falling" in a later post.

She had no idea how much time had past since she found herself near death upon this small stretch of sandy beach. Weeks? Months? Days just ran into each other, as she attempted to heal, and regain her original strength. She felt alone, yet she wasn't. She found herself at odd times seeing things, most notably the wraith of Cinder standing in the shadows of the forest edge. Gesturing for her to follow.

Then there was the more heart breaking ones. The image of her mother standing in the surf, a heart broken look upon her teary face. The exact look she wore when Cinder helped Pyrrha remove her as an obstacle to Pyrrha's relationship with Cinder. Had she made a mistake listening to Cinder's whispered words?

At odd times she also saw Jaune. Kneeling on the sands, just at the limit of her vision. Impaled through the chest with Milo, though these rare visions were accompanied with her seeing the rusted armor clade knight. His sheathed sword held in his hand, standing as if watching her.

Her nights were filled with whispers and nightmares. Words of condemnation, accompanied the angered and hurt looks of her former team and friends. Yet the whispers didn't alone happen during the darkest parts of the night. They also began to happen during her other visions, as well.

"Why?" was all that the figment of her mother would say. Over and over, in a maddening rhythmic cadence.

"Join me. Let us take this place." Cinder's seductive voice would float past her ears, even when her image was unseen. "They are weak... powerless. Show them your strength."

"Why linger here? Why allow the weak celebrate and flourish?" were Cinder's other enticing words. "Why remain here? Rotting away alone with nothing? Honor me. Prove to me the strength that drew me to you, still exists."

Yet, Pyrrha continued. Eking out an existence, as her strength grew, and the voices continued their relentless assault. Slowly of the was it days? Weeks? Months? Her resolve and intention to seek redemption was worn away. An anger smoldered in her heart. Embers of hate aimed at those who had what she had always craved. Acceptance, joy and love. Everything Jaune had taken from her.

Finally feeling strong enough to venture into the forest, she walked away from the specters of her mother and Jaune, to join the wraith of Cinder in the shadows. She felt the touch of Cinder's searing kisses upon her cheek and lips, and with her cold emerald eyes closed she revealed and celebrated the tainted embraces, before opening her eyes and taking the first step on her new jounrey.

The residents and inhabitants of this strange, nonsensical place seemed to reflexively avoid her. Hiding as she passed by. Her burning eyes, and wild unkept mane of flowing crimson a promise of what would happen if they crossed her path. The isolation gnawed upon her, as Cinder's seductive, wanton words eroded any thoughts that did not focus on her injustice punishment and isolated imprisonment. Pyrrha's mind twisted by the ghost of Cinder's venom raged at the loss of her happiness. Of a future with the woman she had given her heart.

Days blurred into one another, and time seem to crawl as she stalked through twisted land. A cruel smile crossed her lips when she found them. A village, of star shaped people. Foolish and cumbersome. The sound of their happy voices, and the sight of the idyllic scene, fanned the flames of rage.

"Punish them. Take what has been taken from you, my love." was the whisper of Cinder's poisonous, tainted words in her ear. "Take, and show them what your pain is..."

It was a slaughter. The razor edge of her spear cleaved the fragile people asunder. Her brute strength, bolstered with absolute burning hateful rage, allowing her to lay waste to all in her path. Her eyes shined at the carnage, her lips twisted with cruel joy as she unleashed her true self upon them. Cinder's venomous laughter following her every step as she unleashed desolation upon the people before her.

"I am Pyrrha Nikos!" she screamed in putrid victory, as she stood in the middle of the razed village. "Hear me, and lament! This world is mine!"

The creak of armor, from her right caused her to turn. Her sick smile becoming cruel, her eyes shining in delight. There he was, one of her tormentors. The liar who promised absolution. He who left her to wallow in misery and suffering.

"Look upon what I am!" Pyrrha cackled. "I am death! I am destruction! Bow knee to me and serve!"

"Disgusting." was his hollow response. "You were given the chance to become more than this disease, hateful creature you are now."

"This is who I am! Why should I deny myself from that which was taken from me? Happiness, love, acceptance! I was robbed of all this!"

"You could have found that all and more if you had followed a true path." the knight replied, while reaching up with his free hand to take hold of his helmet. "Your sins are many in this life and the last. Look upon me... and know..."

"Know..." Pyrrha's words caught in her throat, as the knight's helm fell discarded upon the ground. After several long moments she was able to croak out, "Jaune?"

"Look upon the face or your accuser... your judge... your jury..." with perfect motion, he drew his sword from its sheath, tossing the empty vessel aside without a care. "and... executioner."

Pyrrha was given no chance to respond, as Jaune was upon her in an instant. His blows were precise, and without equal as he unleash impassive, cold, judgement upon her. She railed against his onslaught, but if he was a monster the last time she faced him... now he was akin to demon.

She used all her skills, ever tactic, trick and tool at her disposal, yet she was found wanting in all regards. With a missed attack, Jaune gave Pyrrha an opening, that she desperately took. It was a feint, a purposeful misdirection. His response to her spear thrust, was simple and effective. Twisting to the side, he changed the direction of his longsword chopping in down upon the haft of her weapon.

Over balanced, Pyrrha was unable to recover before the keen edge of his blade split her open just below her breasts. She screamed in pain, her hand relinquishing it's hold upon her spear as she stumbled and fell backwards to the battle torn ground. Her eyes grew wide with fear as Jaune turned, and chambered his sword for a final strike.

"Cinder! Help me!" Pyrrha screamed out in a voice filled with utter desperation. A voice that was chocked off, as the vision of her love that had walked at her side for so long, gave her a cruel smile and faded away. "Cinder!"

Jaune's blade bit deep into her flesh, causing her to scream and screech in agony, as he drove in deeper and deeper. reaching down her twisted his hand in her matted mass of crimson hair, and pulled her to a seat position, eliciting a agonized cry. tears filled her eyes, as she finally understood what she truly had and was loosing.

She felt Jaune's warm skin touch her forehead. He teary eyes focusing on his now remorse filled blues.

"I prayed you would choose the correct path." he whispered. "That you would find and become the woman you had been at Beacon."

"Jau..." Pyrrha tried to speak, blood trickling over his lips.

"It seems that woman, was nothing but an facade to hide the cancer you truly are." Jaune continued to whisper. "Goodbye Pyrrha, may you finally find peace in death."

With those final words, Jaune pushed forward, driving his aged blade completely through her. Impaling the tainted heart of one he would have considered a friend. He watched, with tearless but remorseful eyes as Pyrrha's grew wide with the pain, and then dull as the light of life finally left her.

Withdrawing his weapon, he stood, and then went to work. As the sun began to sink past the horizon, Jaune finished his work. A small pile of stones places upon freshly turned soil. A spear, driven blade first at the head of the pile. he said no words, but just looked upon the fresh grave, before turning. retrieving his cast aside belongs, he sheathed his blade, and then seated his rusted helm upon his head, hiding his face in shadow.

"Goodbye." were the last words he spoke, before walking away, never to return to this place again.

[ravenyenn19]

Six of Crows future head cannon:

Alby Rollins joins the Dregs.

Picture it: 1920’s-esque Ketterdam, 10 years post Sweet Reef/ Ice Court. Slick Rolls Royce cars line the cobbled streets, a city spiraling toward a new age. Rain drenches the obscure signs & hidden arrows pointing to the Speak-Easy halls. In a time of prohibition… down, down, down must one go in the Barrel to find the most notorious of them all. A slice of sin, six feet under. A crowd drunk off vice served in black tea cups.

The young man walks into Kaz Brekker’s office (after fighting his way there), sits himself in a chair opposite a great obsidian desk. Winded & lip still bleeding from his tousle with the men at the doors, Alby wheezes: “Teach me.”

In turn, A near 30 year old Kaz smirks. “I thought lions preferred their pride.”

Alby, barely pushing 17, gives a smile of a golden boy, nervous but strong enough to hold the gaze of a devil. (He’s practiced.) “I thought Crows scavengers. Here I am, a shine for the taking.”

“Still have that crow, little lion?” A feminine shadow whispers from the corner. Unnoticed by the young man previously, he clicks his teeth but still refuses to show fear. A serpent-like bead of sweat slides down his spine, a shiver chasing after. He holds firm, biting his cheek to hide the startle.

He knows this shadow, this phantom. She haunted him, once.

“I buried it with my father,” the Kaelish prince whispers, “or rather, in place of him. Never did find a body. Pity.” He shrugs.

Kaz’s eyes glint like a cat’s, his smile a loaded gun. A gloved hand stretches halfway across the table in offering. “All right, cub. What do you want?”

Alby reaches forward, feeling the cold black leather of Dirtyhands’ grip between his fingers. The moment is a stormy crossroads, a whip between his shoulders reminiscent of his father’s favorite belt. He smiles, for this is a pain Alby has been walking toward since the day he woke up clutching stuffed black feathers.

(His blood never did bleed emerald.)

More than one answer to Kaz’s stinging question come to mind, nettles along the path of his thoughts. Yet, only one pricks Alby into speaking, the rage in his voice real rather than bravado. “Revenge.”

The Wraith giggles roughly, slipping herself to the arm of Kaz’s chair on silent feet. Alby swallows.

“On me?” The leader of the Dregs rasps, a brow peaked with amusement. His wife smiles with closed lips, knives glinting along her body like hungry specters. For here, her teeth are shown. Alby knows she Captain’s a fleet of the deadliest ships in the True Sea. He drags his gaze from her quickly.

“No.” Alby stutters, but he does not lie. Kaz Brekker bested his abusive father, and he does not care about Pekka’s death. In fact, sitting with the suspected murderers, Alby finds he rather prefers their company.

Kaz reclines in his chair, a hand lazily splayed on Captain Ghafa’s knee. He regards Alby with black eyes, a sharpness that pierces through his strength but doesn’t shatter it. A blade meant to probe. A test of mettle. Alby has waited too long for this audience, he cannot lose it. A moment passes.

Dirtyhands looks to his wife, his Wraith. She quirks her head in the silent exchange. Six heart beats have passed, and Alby Rollins is certain he won’t leave this room. He waits for the snap of a cane to bank his vision, a warm blanket of red to cover him from the jugular down.

He waits for death, but does not invite it. It does not come.

Instead, a voice like choking smoke, “Then let us begin.”

Alby Rollins releases a breath. His knuckles loosen in parts. A tattooist is called in.

The Crow & Cup bleeds as it settles, accepting the fresh skin as it’s master’s tithe.

Alby sits taller, a prince of a different kind, a darker throne.

I don’t make the rules but this is now my personal agenda & important that u agree

Crap now I have to put it in a fic

Should I do it?

[thyras]

→ of mourning & loss (bonus chapter)

PAIRING → mairon | annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 6.2k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → grief, loss, angst, dad!sauron

SUMMARY → face to face with her father for the first time in years, aerilaya confronts him about her mother.

AUTHORS NOTE → so this has a spoiler in it for the next chapter, but I never planned for this to be the ending of the story, but it was one of the possibilities. just going to post it anyways as I think we all kinda knew where i was going with their story. the next chapter is taking longer than i thought so i hope this holds y'all over till then.

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

Aerilaya pressed the tip of her blade against his throat, the steel cool and unyielding against his unnatural skin. Her emerald eyes blazed with fury, burning like embers stoked by years of pain. She had not seen him in all that time, yet here he was—a specter of the man she once knew.

He had been radiant once, his icy blue eyes and elven grace masking the darkness that had always lurked beneath. Now, that mask had fallen away. His eyes, once bright and piercing, were nothing more than endless voids, hollow and cruel. His skin, once kissed by moonlight, had been leeched of all warmth, pale as bone. Whatever remnants of the man she had once trusted, even loved, had long since rotted away.

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade, steady despite the storm of emotions surging within her. He swept his gaze over her, unbothered by the threat of death lingering at his throat. His brow arched slightly, amusement flickering in his darkened eyes, mocking her.

“I was not expecting you,” he mused, his voice smooth but edged with something sinister. His gaze flickered to the silver chain around her neck, where a jewel shimmered, pulsing with an ethereal glow. The flames of the burning ruins around them danced upon its surface, casting fragmented reflections in the suffocating night.

For a brief moment, silence stretched between them—an aching, suffocating thing, heavy with all that had been lost. Then, he smiled. “But it warms my heart to see you, Aerilaya.”

His voice was velvety, almost tender, yet it slithered through the air like a serpent coiling around her. That smile—sickly sweet, a mockery of affection—curved his lips, sending a shiver down her spine.

Aerilaya’s heart pounded in her chest, a war drum beating against her ribs.

“I had hoped to see my daughter once more.”

The words struck her like a dagger, sharp and merciless. Daughter. The title, once sacred, now dripped with something tainted, something wrong. He was no father to her—not anymore.

Her grip on the hilt tightened, fury swallowing hesitation. She pressed the blade harder against his throat, her resolve unwavering. A dark liquid oozed from the tip where steel bit into flesh, thick and viscous, unnatural. It dripped to the ground, sizzling softly against the scorched earth, staining it like ink spilled upon an ancient parchment.

Yet still, he did not flinch. Instead, his smile widened. “You truly are the spitting image of your mother.”

Aerilaya’s face hardened, but the words struck deep, an invisible wound reopened with cruel precision. He spoke of her so freely, as if his hands were not stained with the grief that had driven her to despair. As if he had not been the one who shattered her beyond repair.

A sharp ache settled in Aerilaya’s chest, tightening like a vice around her ribs. She could still remember the way her mother had wept—silent, broken—until sorrow became too great a burden to bear. In her darkest hour, she had whispered her final plea to Nienna, the Lady of Mercy. And Nienna, ever compassionate, had answered.

She had gathered her fëa into her arms, cradling her as a mother would, and guided her into the halls of Mandos, where pain and longing no longer reached. There, at last, she had found peace. A peace Aerilaya had never been granted.

Her grip on the blade never wavered, but something burned behind her emerald eyes—rage, grief, and the unyielding weight of all she had lost.

“You speak so freely of her, snake," Aerilaya spat, her voice sharp as the blade at his throat. "But you were the cause of her pain. Her torture.”

The words trembled on the edge of grief and fury, a storm barely restrained. Her chest ached, her throat burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not before him. Not before the one who had shattered her mother beyond repair.

She searched his face, waiting—hoping—for something. A flicker of regret, a shadow of guilt, anything to betray that he was not as hollow as he seemed. But there was nothing. His expression remained untouched, carved from something colder than stone, a mockery of what he had once been.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles whitening.

"Do you feel nothing?" she whispered, the question slipping past her lips before she could stop it.

Still, he did not answer.

And that silence was an answer all its own.

Aerilaya's jaw tightened, her emerald eyes narrowing as she stared into the abyss of his gaze. The silence stretched between them, thick with centuries of pain and betrayal, an unspoken chasm neither could cross.

"Nothing," she echoed, her voice barely more than a breath, fragile yet unyielding. "You truly are lost."

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, but there was no warmth in it—only something hollow, twisted.

"I feel things, Aerilaya," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, yet frayed at the edges. "I feel the pain of your mother’s absence."

Before she could react, he moved. A sudden shift, swift as a shadow, knocking her back a step as he rose to his full height. He loomed over her now, his presence suffocating, his darkened eyes locked onto hers.

“I ache,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. “Because she left this world and went where I could never follow.”

Aerilaya’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on the hilt of her blade. She had spent years imagining what she would say to him if ever they stood face to face again. But the words she had prepared, the accusations, the fury—they faltered against the quiet agony laced beneath his tone.

"You could have followed," she whispered, her voice breaking against the weight of the truth. “You could have gone with her, if only you had listened.”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression—a ghost of something lost. But it was gone just as quickly, swallowed by the darkness he had long since embraced.

Aerilaya had only come to understand the truth of her father’s origins after Erynwyn and Elrond had told her. Her mother had never spoken of it, never uttered a word that might taint the image of the man Aerilaya had once loved with all her being. He had been her anchor, the guiding star by which she measured all others, the standard to which she held the world.

But those days were long gone.

Gone were the stories of a time before creatures roamed this land, before Arda had even settled into its first breath of life. Gone was the father who had once smiled so effortlessly in her mother’s presence, whose very light had radiated for her alone. Aerilaya had spent her life longing for that kind of love—to feel the unshakable bond of two souls woven together by fate itself.

To share in the beauty of Ages spent side by side. To fill them with warmth, happiness, and the promise of a child born of that sacred union.

But her mother had known the truth long before Aerilaya had. She had known that he would never change. That no matter how much light he tried to grasp, the shadow had already claimed him. It had consumed him so entirely that even his choice to live in the light had been a deception.

His greatest deception.

And it had been her mother’s last straw. The last fragile piece of love she had clung to had been smothered by the darkness he had embraced.

Elrond had told Aerilaya that after Eregion fell, her mother had been little more than a shadow of herself—heartbroken, laced with grief. Yet she had endured. She had carried on for Aerilaya’s sake, laying the foundations for her daughter to know only the light.

To ensure that Aerilaya would never fall as he had.

She had taught her to wield her gifts only for virtue, for the betterment of the world. Her power over the elements, particularly over beasts and the living things of the earth, was proof of Yavanna’s blessing. But it was in rare moments of great need that she was granted something more—a gift beyond even her mother’s teachings.

A gift of the stars.

A light so pure it could blot out the deepest shadow. A force that turned any darkened beast or figure from her path. A gift of protection from Varda herself—a preservation of the grace and radiance her mother had instilled within her.

A light that would never bow to the darkness.

Aerilaya's fingers unconsciously ghosted over the jewel resting against her breastbone, feeling its warmth pulse in time with her heartbeat. It was a piece of her mother, a lingering ember of her love and sacrifice, shining defiantly against the darkness that sought to swallow it whole. The silver chain and the gem it held had been forged by none other than the very man before her—the one she once called father. He had created it for her mother when they wed, binding light and shadow together in a union that had long since crumbled into ruin.

Sauron’s eyes followed the movement, a flicker of something passing over his features—hunger, longing, perhaps even possession.

Even now, he wished to claim that piece of her. To seize the last remnant of what had once been his, of the light that had drawn him in, ensnared him in the promise of redemption. The light that, for a fleeting moment, had made him yearn to walk a different path.

But that moment had passed.

Now, he coveted it for what it could do—for the power it held, for what it might grant him. His desire was no longer for the love it once symbolized, but for how he could twist it to serve his will.

Aerilaya’s fingers curled protectively around the jewel, her grip tightening as its warmth pulsed against her palm, steady and resolute. She met Sauron’s gaze, unflinching.

"You cannot have it," she said, her voice low and fierce. "This light was never meant for you."

A shadow passed over Sauron's face, his features contorting, shifting into something cruel and insatiable. "Oh, but it was, Aerilaya," he murmured, his voice like a silken snare. "It was always meant for me. Do you not see? Eru himself wove us into existence together—light and shadow, twined in a harmony that could never be broken."

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence thick and suffocating. Aerilaya tensed, her blade rising between them in silent warning.

But Sauron paid it no heed. His gaze remained fixed on the jewel at her throat, as though it called to him in ways neither steel nor words could deter.

"I forged that jewel for her," he continued, his voice dipping into something almost reverent. "In a light as pure as Aman itself. It holds a part of me, just as it holds a part of your mother."

His fingers, cold and relentless, reached toward it, seeking to reclaim what he had lost.

Aerilaya jerked back, her grip on the jewel tightening until it burned against her skin. A shudder ran down her spine as his voice slithered closer, each syllable a whispered ghost of a past she refused to acknowledge.

"I vowed to her that night," he murmured, a glint of something dangerous in his darkened eyes. "That she would never be parted from me. Never again."

But she had been.

By her own will.

By the mercy of the Valar.

And Aerilaya would not let him defile that mercy now.

“Let her be at peace. Let her know the light of Aman, for she has suffered too long.”

Aerilaya’s voice wavered, but her resolve did not. Tears spilled down her cheeks in silent streams, tracing paths of grief across her flawless skin. She did not try to stop them. Not now. Not when she was pleading for the one who had given her life, for the mother who had borne the weight of love and loss alike.

“Let her have those memories, those pieces of you that she now finds comfort in. Let her be as she was when we were a family—happy, joyous, full of life.”

Sauron's expression flickered—an unreadable shift in his ever-darkened gaze. A shadow of something long buried, some fractured remnant of a feeling he had once known.

For the briefest moment, he seemed to waver.

“Peace,” he echoed, the word slipping from his lips as though he had never spoken it before, never tasted its meaning. His eyes drifted past Aerilaya, unfocused, searching for something unseen beyond the charred ruins that surrounded them. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost distant.

“Do you think she sits in the gardens of Lórien, basking in the light of the Two Trees? That she walks among Melian and the others, free from the burdens of this world?” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Or does she wander the Halls of Mandos, reliving every moment of her life—every joy, every sorrow?”

His voice, once cold steel, turned to something quieter, something raw.

“Does she remember the warmth of my embrace? The nights we spent whispering dreams to one another? Or has she cast it all away, erased me from her memory as though I never existed?”

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white with fury.

“You have no right to speak of her,” she hissed, her voice trembling under the weight of barely contained rage. “No right to wonder about her fate when you were the one who drove her to it.”

Sauron’s gaze snapped back to her, the softness vanishing, swallowed whole by something dark and violent.

“I loved her,” he growled, his voice laced with something dangerously close to pain. “More than you could ever understand.”

Aerilaya’s breath hitched, her grief and anger coiling into something sharp, something merciless.

“Love?” she spat the word like venom. “You know nothing of love. You twisted it, tainted it until it was nothing but a weapon in your hands—”

Before she could finish, his hands shot forward, gripping her wrists with an ironclad hold.

The blade fell from her grasp.

The world around them wavered.

And then—

Darkness.

A shift in time, in space. The cold ruins, the fire, the pain—they were gone.

Aerilaya gasped as the world pulled her under, not into blackness, but into something else.

A memory.

One that still lived in the fractured, dying ember of the man he used to be.

Aerilaya blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift. The charred ruins, the suffocating heat of fire and smoke—all of it was gone. In its place, a garden stretched before her, bathed in soft, ethereal light. The air was sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers, their delicate petals glowing beneath the silver radiance of the stars. A gentle breeze whispered through the towering trees, their silver leaves rustling like a distant melody.

She knew this place, though she did not remember it being as such.

Eregion.

Not as it lay now in ruin, but as it had been in its prime—before shadow and flame had ravaged its beauty, before betrayal had sunk its fangs into the heart of all that was good.

A melodic laugh drifted through the air, light and carefree, like the chiming of distant bells. Aerilaya’s heart clenched as she turned toward the sound. Beneath an archway of intertwined vines and starlit blossoms, she saw her mother.

She was radiant.

Her hair cascaded down her back like liquid starlight, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Her eyes, bright with love and joy, reflected the very light of the stars. She wore a flowing gown of deep cerulean, silver embroidery catching the light like woven constellations. The sight of her, untouched by sorrow, unhardened by grief, stole the breath from Aerilaya’s lungs.

She had never seen her mother like this—so full of life, so unburdened.

And then she saw him.

He stepped into view, his movements fluid and assured, his presence commanding without effort. His arm slipped around her mother’s waist, drawing her close with effortless familiarity. Aerilaya's breath hitched as she gazed upon the face of the man her father had once been.

Mairon.

His eyes—clear and piercing, like the sky over the sea—held no trace of the darkness that would later consume him. They shone with something Aerilaya had never known from him: unguarded devotion. His smile, free of cruelty or cunning, was warm and genuine as he looked upon the woman in his arms.

"Mairon," her mother whispered, reaching up to caress his cheek.

The name struck Aerilaya like a physical blow. Mairon. Not Sauron. Not the monster he had become. But the being he had once been—the one her mother had loved.

She watched, transfixed, as Mairon leaned into her mother’s touch, his eyes closing briefly, as if savoring the warmth of her palm against his skin. When he opened them again, they burned with an intensity that stole even the breath from memory itself.

“My love,” he murmured, his voice a low caress, rich with devotion. “Divine.”

His fingers traced the curve of her cheek before coming to rest upon the jewel at her breastbone—the same jewel that now hung around Aerilaya’s own neck, years later. In this memory, the gem pulsed with a gentle, living light, as though it breathed in tandem with their love.

“Do you remember the day I gave this to you?” Mairon asked, his thumb gliding over its smooth surface.

Her mother smiled, and the sheer beauty of it made Aerilaya’s heart ache. It was a smile untouched by sorrow, unmarred by regret—a sight she scarcely remembered.

Mairon’s gaze drifted downward, his expression softening further as his hand ghosted over the gentle swell of her mother’s stomach. Beneath the flowing fabric, Aerilaya lay, not yet born, cradled in warmth and light.

“My greatest inspiration,” her mother whispered, placing her hand over his. “My light in the darkness. May you wear this, so I am never truly parted from you.”

Her eyes sparkled against his soft gaze, and for a moment, they stood together—whole, unbroken, untouched by the tragedy yet to come.

Aerilaya felt her knees weaken beneath her as she watched.

For the first time in her life, she saw them as they had been.

Before the fall. Before the lies. Before everything was lost.

The vision shattered like fragile glass, dissolving into the acrid air of the present. Aerilaya gasped as the scent of sweet night-blooming flowers faded, replaced by the stench of smoke and ruin. The warmth of a life that once was—one she had never known—slipped through her fingers like sand, leaving only the cold weight of reality.

Sauron—no, Mairon—stood before her, his grip on her wrists loosening. His eyes, no longer the piercing blue of the vision but fathomless voids, searched her face. For a fleeting moment, he seemed unsure, untethered. A man caught between past and present.

"Do you see now?" he whispered, his voice rough, raw with something Aerilaya couldn't name. "Do you understand what was lost?"

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her mind struggling to reconcile the man she had just seen with the being before her. The father who had held her mother so tenderly, who had spoken with devotion, who had placed a reverent hand on the swell of her stomach—where had he gone?

Was he ever truly there?

"I..." she began, but the words caught in her throat. For a moment, the monster before her was gone, replaced by a ghost—a shadow of what could have been. "I see what was," she finally said, her voice wavering. "What you chose to throw away."

Sauron's grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin like iron shackles. His eyes darkened, pain flashing behind them before twisting into anger.

"I did not throw it away," he hissed. "It was taken from me."

Aerilaya wrenched free, stumbling back, her hand flying to the jewel at her throat. The warmth of it pulsed against her skin, steady, grounding.

"No," she said, her voice gathering strength. "You chose this path. You chose darkness over her—over us. You deceived her, even when she begged you to turn back."

She swallowed hard, her grief sharp-edged and burning. Then, her eyes locked onto his, ablaze with a fire that once—perhaps—mirrored his own.

"You killed her," Aerilaya whispered, the words laced with quiet fury. "You killed her with grief and sorrow."

Sauron's face contorted, a storm of emotion flickering across his features. For the briefest moment, he looked almost—human. Vulnerable. Lost.

But then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. The mask of cruelty slid back into place.

"You speak of things you do not understand, child," he snarled, his voice like distant thunder. "The choices I made were necessary. The power I sought—it was all for her, for us."

Aerilaya shook her head, tears burning her vision. "No," she whispered. "It was for you. Always for you."

She stepped back, her hand clutching the jewel as its warmth pulsed stronger, as if responding to the storm raging between them.

"She loved you," Aerilaya continued, her voice trembling with the weight of truth. "She believed in you—until the very end. But you twisted that love into something unrecognizable."

Sauron's eyes darkened, a tempest brewing within their depths. For a heartbeat, Aerilaya saw something fracture—a glimpse of the man from the vision, the one her mother had loved, the one who had once spoken her name with reverence.

But it vanished just as quickly, swallowed whole by the abyss.

"You know nothing of what transpired," he snarled, taking a slow, menacing step forward. "Nothing of the choices I was forced to make. Of the sacrifices—"

"Sacrifices?" Aerilaya’s voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "What did you sacrifice, truly?" Her eyes burned with accusation. "Your conscience?"

Sauron recoiled, his expression flashing with something that might have been pain. A wound long buried, suddenly laid bare.

But then, just as quickly, he recovered. His features hardened into a cold mask of fury.

"You dare speak to me of sacrifice?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous. "I, who have given everything for the greater order of this world?"

He advanced, his presence suffocating, shadows pooling at his feet like a tide of darkness.

"I offered her the world, Aerilaya," he continued, his voice thick with conviction. "A place where she could walk unshackled by the burden of the Morgoth’s curse. We could have been a family still." His expression twisted, anger warring with something dangerously close to longing. "She threw it away."

Aerilaya did not move. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she stood her ground.

"She wanted none of that," she retorted, her voice steel despite the tremor in her breath. "She wanted you. The real you. Not this..." she gestured at him, her voice thick with sorrow and rage, "this twisted shadow you've become."

For a moment—just a moment—his mask cracked. The glimmer of something human, something aching, flickered behind his darkened gaze.

But then it was gone. Replaced by cold certainty.

"Mairon died long ago," he said, his tone eerily calm. "And even if your mother still saw good in me, it would have never been enough for her."

He sighed, almost as if speaking to himself now.

"She doubted me at every turn," he murmured, his eyes dark, distant. "Held onto petty notions of the being I once was. Redemption is not earned through love. It is earned through peace. Through order."

Aerilaya's heart clenched, a storm of emotions surging through her—grief, fury, pity.

"You still don't understand," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Sauron’s eyes snapped back to her, narrowing into dark slits of fury. "What don’t I understand, child?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous—a blade hidden in shadow.

Aerilaya stood firm, though the weight of centuries pressed down upon her shoulders. The chasm of loss and betrayal stretched wide between them, yet she did not waver. Her emerald eyes burned with an unyielding fire, one that would not be swallowed by darkness.

"Love," she said simply. The word hung between them, quiet yet powerful.

Sauron scoffed, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides—something that betrayed him.

Aerilaya pressed on.

"True love doesn’t seek to change or control," she continued, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. "It accepts. It nurtures. It grows."

Her fingers curled protectively around the jewel at her throat, its warmth a steady pulse against her skin, as if her mother’s spirit stirred within it.

"She saw the light in you," Aerilaya said, her voice softening. "Even when you couldn’t see it yourself. She believed in you. She chose to believe that the goodness in you had not been completely consumed by shadow."

Sauron’s expression twisted, his features contorting under the weight of something unspoken.

For a fleeting moment, she saw it—the ghost of the man from the vision. Mairon, standing beneath starlit blossoms, his clear blue eyes alight with devotion, his hands cradling her mother with reverence.

His mask cracked.

Pain flickered across his face, raw and unguarded. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Then—the moment passed.

A flicker of grief. Then fury.

Sauron’s face hardened, his expression twisting into a snarl of denial, of defiance. His eyes burned with something dark and unrelenting, swallowing whatever brief weakness had surfaced.

"You speak as if love is some divine force," he spat, his voice laced with venom. "Some unshakable power that bends the will of all who encounter it. But love is fragile, Aerilaya. It is fleeting. It fails."

His gaze darkened further, shadows coiling around him like living things.

"And when it fails," he whispered, stepping closer, his voice dangerously low, "it is nothing more than a weapon. A tool to shackle and blind those foolish enough to believe in it."

Aerilaya’s breath caught in her throat, but she refused to step back.

"That’s where you’re wrong," she said, her voice like tempered steel. "Love is not weakness. It is not a weapon. It is the one thing the shadow will never understand."

Sauron's expression flickered—an almost imperceptible hesitation. But then his fury returned, colder than ice, hotter than flame.

"Then you are just as blind as she was," he said.

Aerilaya’s grip on the jewel tightened.

"And you," she whispered, "are more lost than I ever imagined."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, thick with all that had been lost. Aerilaya’s words lingered in the air like a final judgment, reverberating through the shattered ruins around them. For a heartbeat, Sauron remained still, his face carved into an unreadable mask.

Then—he moved.

Faster than a striking viper, his hand shot out, reaching for the jewel at Aerilaya’s throat. His fingers, cold as iron, grazed the silver chain, but she was faster.

With the reflexes honed by centuries of battle and bitter expectation, she twisted away, her grip closing protectively around the gem.

"No," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper—yet filled with unyielding resolve.

Sauron’s eyes ignited with fury, but beneath it, something flickered—something darker, rawer. Desperation. Or perhaps—longing.

His gaze burned into hers, his presence suffocating, his form wreathed in shifting shadows.

"Give it to me," he snarled, stalking forward with slow, deliberate steps, a predator cornering its prey. "It was never meant for you."

Aerilaya stood her ground, her heart hammering, but her grip did not falter. She could feel the warmth of the jewel pulsing against her palm, steady, unwavering—a heartbeat not her own.

"This was hers," she said, her voice a quiet storm. "It was forged for her—by you. You cannot take back what was freely given."

Sauron’s face twisted, his expression unreadable, torn between anger and something far more dangerous.

"I forged it," he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. "I shaped it with my own hands, with light I captured in the fires of my own making. It carries a piece of her—and a piece of me. It belongs to me as much as it ever did to her."

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the jewel.

"And yet, she chose to give it to me."

A muscle in Sauron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if struggling to contain himself.

"She is gone," he said at last, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "Clutching that trinket will not bring her back."

Aerilaya’s breath shuddered through her, but she lifted her chin, emerald eyes locking onto his with unwavering defiance.

"No," she said, "but it will keep you from defiling what remains of her light."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of the man from the vision. A sliver of grief, buried so deep beneath centuries of cruelty that it barely existed anymore.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Sauron’s face twisted into a snarl, his eyes darkening into fathomless voids. The air thickened, pressing against Aerilaya like an unseen force, the very atmosphere trembling under the weight of his wrath. Shadows coiled at his feet like living things, writhing, shifting, reaching—hungry.

"You speak of defiling her light?" he hissed, his voice a blade honed to cut deep. "I sought to build altars in her name, for all to revere her as I did. To worship even one like you."

He took a step forward, his presence suffocating, his movements slow and deliberate.

Aerilaya did not move.

Then, to her surprise, he reached for her.

His hand, cold yet impossibly gentle, lifted toward her cheek. She did not flinch.

For this moment alone, she allowed it.

His fingertips brushed her skin, a ghost of a touch—something that might have once been tender, but now felt like a whisper from the past.

"You are as beautiful as Lúthien herself," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "A flame of eternal light, carved by the hands that shaped you—the hands of a Moriquendi and a Maia."

Aerilaya’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth in his words. She had always known her lineage, but to hear him speak of it—to acknowledge it, to honor it—felt like standing at the precipice of something ancient and powerful.

But she would not be swayed.

She reached up, her own hand closing around his wrist—not in acceptance, but in restraint.

"You speak of worship," she said, her voice steady, unshaken. "But worship is not love."

His expression flickered, a crack in the stone.

"You claim to have honored her," she continued, her emerald eyes burning. "Yet you destroyed all that she held dear. You claim to have loved her, yet you twisted that love into a cage. And when she could not live within it—you let her die."

A shadow passed over his face, something dark and deep and aching.

His fingers twitched against her cheek—then withdrew.

"You think you know love," he whispered, his voice barely more than breath. "But love is a force far older than you, Aerilaya. Older than even I.” He paused. “I never meant for any of this, never meant to drive her away. I only did as I saw fit.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with centuries of grief and regret. His words had settled between them like the final toll of a bell, reverberating through the shattered remnants of all they had lost.

Sauron—Mairon—stood before her, no longer the unshakable force she had always known him to be. His expression, once so meticulously controlled, had fractured. His shoulders, which had borne the weight of ages, sagged as if the truth she had spoken had finally sunk its fangs into his very soul.

And yet, his eyes—once dark voids of hunger and fury—now shimmered with something Aerilaya had never expected to see.

Tears.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice raw, brittle as glass. "I lied to myself. I twisted the truth until I could no longer see it."

His eyes drifted past her, lost in the ghosts of what had been. "I loved her," he continued, his voice breaking under the weight of the admission. "More than anything in this world or beyond it. But I was afraid."

Aerilaya’s breath caught in her throat. She had never imagined she would hear such words from him, the being she had spent a century despising, the one she had blamed for all her mother’s suffering.

"Afraid of what?" she asked softly, hardly daring to believe this moment of vulnerability.

Sauron's gaze remained distant, unfocused, as if he could still see her mother standing before him, radiant in her love.

"Of losing her," he murmured. "Of being unworthy of her light. I thought... if I could reshape the world, make it perfect, then perhaps..."

His voice faltered, dissolving into silence. He looked lost—adrift in memories of what could have been.

Aerilaya swallowed against the lump in her throat. Despite everything—despite the devastation he had wrought, despite the choices he had made—she ached for him. For the father she had never truly known, the man who had once cradled her in reverent hands, who had adored her mother beyond reason.

"But you did lose her," Aerilaya whispered. "By trying to control her, to reshape her world, you pushed her away."

Sauron's eyes snapped back to hers, a storm raging behind them. "I never meant—" he began, but the words faltered, as if they no longer held weight.

For a long moment, the air between them was thick with everything unsaid, everything too late to change.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, Sauron reached out.

His fingers trembled as they hovered near the jewel at Aerilaya's throat—the very last remnant of her mother, the final link to a love long buried beneath centuries of ruin.

"May I?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aerilaya hesitated. Her instincts screamed to refuse, to pull away, to protect this piece of her mother from the very man who had driven her to despair.

But then she saw it—the vulnerability in his gaze, the unspoken plea buried beneath the weight of all his sins.

Slowly, she nodded.

His fingers brushed against the jewel, and in an instant, it pulsed with a brilliant, ethereal light. A warmth unlike anything Aerilaya had ever felt surged through her, spreading from the gem and wrapping around her like an embrace. A love so pure, so fierce, it stole the breath from her lungs.

Sauron gasped softly, his eyes widening in something like awe.

"She’s still here," he murmured, his voice thick with wonder and grief. "After all this time..."

His fingers lingered on the jewel, and for the first time in all her years, Aerilaya saw the impossible.

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. A confession years too late, yet filled with a depth of pain Aerilaya had never known he was capable of.

Her hand moved of its own accord, covering his where it rested on the jewel. Its warmth pulsed beneath their joined fingers, a steady heartbeat of light and memory.

"She loved you," Aerilaya said softly, her own tears falling freely now. "Even at the end. Even when it broke her heart."

Sauron's eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw the full depth of his torment—centuries of longing, of regret, of sorrow so vast it threatened to consume him whole.

How long had he endured, shackled by the choices he had made? How many times had he dreamed of her mother, only to wake in the darkness of his own making? How much had it destroyed him to know she had chosen peace over him?

Aerilaya saw him now—not as the tyrant, not as the Dark Lord, not as the shadow looming over Middle-earth.

But as a man.

A man who had once held everything—and lost it all.

Her grip on the jewel tightened, and she took a shaky breath.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sauron blinked, his brow furrowing. "...What?"

"This," she gestured around them—the ruin, the darkness, the power that weighed so heavily upon him. "Did it bring you what you wanted? Did it ever fill the emptiness?"

A muscle in Sauron’s jaw twitched. He looked away, but not before she saw it—the hesitation, the doubt.

The answer was there, unspoken.

And for the first time, Aerilaya saw it.

He did not know.

For all his centuries of conquest, for all his hunger for dominion, he did not know if it had ever been worth it.

And that was the greatest tragedy of all.

[hb-writes]

Dancing in the Kitchen Light

Summary: For Charlie, seeing her brother dressed up in a tuxedo always reminds her of one thing. 🥲

Characters: Harvey Specter & Charlie Specter (OC)

Suits (Lines to Live By) Masterlist

Comfy-cember 2024 Masterlist

—

Charlie paused her movie and pushed herself to sit up on the couch when she heard her brother's keys working in the front door. 

“Well, don’t you look dapper?” she mused when Harvey appeared in the hallway, a slight grin tugging at his lips as he walked toward her.

Harvey had gone straight to the gala from the office, leaving the only opportunity for Charlie to share her usual comments on how nice he looked in a tuxedo for the end of the evening even though by most standards, she shouldn’t have been waiting up. After waking that morning for school before 6 am, and knowing that she had to do it all again tomorrow, Charlie should have been asleep. 

Harvey had a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, the big brother in him urging a reply like, 'And don’t you look like someone who should be in bed?’ but something stopped him, some realization that the only reason Charlie had waited up until the early hours of the morning on a school night was because she wanted to see him. If need be, she could take the day off school tomorrow or go in late. Sleep in a bit.

“I do look pretty fly, don’t I?” he finally said, spinning once as he came to stand a few feet away from her. 

Charlie rolled her eyes, but the gesture was more affectionate than anything. Harvey did look nice. He always did, but Charlie had always enjoyed seeing him dressed up in a tux, something which happened with a certain regularity. He was always being invited to galas, frequently dressing up and heading out on a Tuesday night like he was heading to a wedding. Or at least, that’s what it always reminded Charlie of. 

“I mean, only half as fly as me.” Charlie stood up, twirling and displaying the blanket she had wrapped around her pajama-clad self hours ago. 

Harvey chuckled, a fond smile gracing his lips and lighting his eyes. 

“It’s a little like Cinderella before the fairy godmother showed up.” 

Charlie stopped short and scoffed. “Well, my fairy godmother was with you,” she offered. “Speaking of which, how did Donna look? What did she end up wearing? Pink or green?” 

Harvey took a breath, the question involuntarily bringing the image of Donna to the forefront in his mind’s eye. No pictures had been taken of them throughout the course of the evening, but Harvey wasn’t likely to forget the image of Donna in the emerald green strapless dress any time soon. 

“How do you think she looked?” Harvey asked, finally pulling himself from the memory. 

“Amazing,” she answered. “Better than you, probably.” 

Harvey rolled his eyes, but didn’t take the bait. “How was sch—?” 

“Fine. The usual,” she answered, cutting him off. “How was the music? The dancing?”

Harvey raised an eyebrow.

Charlie groaned as Harvey slid into the chair beside her. “You didn’t dance?” 

“It was a work event, Charlie.” 

“So what?” she asked. “Did Donna dance?” 

“It’s d—” 

“It’s actually not any different at all, Harvey.” Charlie could hear Harvey’s argument before he even had a chance to properly get it out. “Did Jessica dance?” 

Charlie withstood another eye roll from her brother. 

“You can’t dress up like that” —Charlie gestured to Harvey’s outfit— “and not dance. It’s against the law or something.” 

“I can assure you it’s not.” 

“Well, it should be,” she answered. “Especially if there’s a live band, which I assume there was, right?” 

Harvey reluctantly nodded. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask Donna or Jessica to dance,” she continued. “Or even some random floozy,” she continued, giving Harvey a knowing look at the term. 

“That’s a real nice way to talk to your brother.” 

“I can be meaner if you want.” Charlie smiled. “I could say that you’re an idiot for not taking the opportunity to dance to beautiful music with a beautiful girl like it’s a fancy fairytale ball or something. That’s what I would do, but I’m not an idiot like—” 

“Fine,” Harvey interrupted, standing and holding out a hand. “Do you want to dance?”  

Charlie stared at Harvey’s extended hand before meeting his gaze. “Are you serious?” 

“Would you like to dance?”

Charlie nodded, taking his hand and quickly pulling herself up from the couch with the blankets still wrapped around her. She dropped Harvey’s hand and glided on her slippered feet across the room to sift through her brother’s vinyl collection.

“Track number four,” she said as she handed her brother the selected record.

Charlie waited, restless and bouncing a bit, as Harvey started the music. A wide grin shone on Charlie’s face when Harvey turned to her and took her hand. He spun her once, Charlie’s giggles louder than the song’s introduction. 

“I love this song,” Charlie said as she settled back into Harvey’s hold. 

“It’s a good one,” he said as they started to move. 

From the moment she handed him the record, Harvey knew which track Charlie wanted. He knew it was a favorite of hers, a song they had been dancing to since she was small, standing on the tops of his feet or being lifted into his arms as they twirled around their father’s kitchen in Riverside. 

Charlie had never told him, but somewhere along the years she had decided that if she ever got married, this was the song they would dance to, she and Harvey. Marriage was a few years off at best—she hadn’t thought very much about most of the particulars, but Charlie had a clear image of this in her mind, an image that she didn’t imagine to be all that different from what she was experiencing just now. 

Even though they were dancing in the dim glow from the light above the stove, and even though Charlie was wrapped in a white blanket rather than a white dress, she imagined some things would be the same. 

Harvey would look the same—handsome as ever in his tuxedo, his shiny black shoes leading them around the floor with an expertise that made one think he did this all the time. 

The song so familiar and comforting, the beautiful notes wrapping them in nostalgia that onlookers wouldn’t share, but would recognize all the same just by hearing the lyrics, by watching as they danced.

And Charlie imagined she would feel the same as she felt now, too. She imagined that day, she would feel the same way she always felt when dancing in Harvey’s arms. She imagined she would feel the same way she felt having Harvey in her life—safe and happy and loved.

—

Suits (Lines to Live By) Masterlist

Comfy-cember 2024 Masterlist

[dollwrites]

Can you do a little drabble with Hal using the ring to hold reader down while he fucks her face?

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ),fem!reader, suggested age gap, use of the word daddy, face fucking, deepthroat, improper use of a power ring, light bondage, degradation ( but in a cute way ) all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ HAAAALLLL my mf daddy 😤 I MISSYED HIM please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

“Ahh, there she goes!”

Hal’s head drops back as he slips the final few inches into your mouth. you’d been so timid, so unsure that you could take him all the way in, but your eyes widen, blurry vision catching the way your cheeks swell when he presses forward. he’s grasping himself at the base of his mighty cock, fingers hooked under his heavy balls as he bucked his powerful hips forward, trying to stuff them into your mouth, as well.

your back arches up off the bed, knees jabbing upwards towards the ceiling as you plant your feet there, pressing hard, trying to propel yourself upwards. the sensation of your throat bulging as his girth delves into it is maddening, and you forget, suddenly how to breathe through your nose. you start to gag, and writhe.

“Listen to those pretty sounds,” Hal grunts, and the emerald specter of his raw willpower flows from the ring on his finger, coiling around you in delicate, lace ribbons, that cinched your body back against the sweat-soaked sheets. they tie a final, large bow around your belly, and hold you in place, like you were a gift, wrapped ever so precariously for him, “those cute, filthy sounds ‘a yours. ‘S okay, daddy’s not gonna let you choke. Breathe through your nose like I taughtcha, yeah?”

your eyelids flutter, tears escaping your ducts and rolling down your cheeks. you try to nod, but when you do, his rough, heavily veined hands rub your already swollen lips raw, and you gargle.

“There ya go…” he swooned as you inhale deep, your chest rising and falling with ragged breathing through your nose. your body struggled against the energy bonds, jerking with your arms restrained tight at your sides. “There’s my best girl. Just breathe, and relax. Let daddy do all the work. Let me pound that tight, little throat ‘a yours, fuck, that feels good.”

he’s found a depth he likes, with your tiers smashing into his base, rubbed raw by the thick patch of mahogany hair, and he lets go of himself, opting, instead, to wrap his fingers around your throat to feel the shape of his own cock imprinting from the other side. he shudders, and moans, bracing his feet on the floor and hunkering down more, his hips pistoning at such a speed that dribbling your face against his groin made you dizzy. “Good.. girl, that’s right,” he sounded distant, and you weren’t sure if it was because his head was dropped back as he stroked the shape of the bulge, using your throat to get him off, or if it was because you were getting drunk on the heat of his body against your face, the smell of his arousal and sweat as it engulfs you, traps you there. “Just daddy’s good, little throat toy, arentcha? You like this like I like it? Does it make you wet when I use your throat to jack my cock off like this?”

you want to muster a reply for him, but all you can do is gurgle and whimper, globs of spit and precum dribbling out of your mouth, sticking to his crotch, smearing over your cheeks and rolling down towards your hairline.

but Hal chuckles, and it’s a raspy, lust-heavy chuckle, “That’s right, little girl. Make those nasty sounds just for me. Daddy’s gonna make a mess of ya.”

[spectersgirl]

Harvey Specter forgets your anniversary 🙉

I considered taking this in a slightly angsty route but decided I felt like keeping it light so you get this hehe

also I have no idea what to title this so the title is now...

Anniversary

Harvey Specter x Reader

-------

The sun hung low over the New York skyline as Harvey paced the floor in his office, the weight of the day's workload pressing down on him. The day, however, was an important one that he couldn't afford to forget. It was the two-year anniversary of the day he started dating you, the love of his life, and he'd forgotten. In the whirlwind of cases and negotiations, the date had completely slipped his mind. He glanced at the clock, a sinking feeling knotting in his stomach as he realized his mistake.

"Fuck." He muttered, debating what he could possibly pull off at such a late hour.

He considered every possibility on his own before admitting his own defeat and calling in his last resort, his best secret weapon.

"Donna? Can you come in here for a minute?"

Donna appeared quickly in his doorway.

"What's up?" She asked, noting the look of stress on his features.

Harvey sighed, his frustration with himself evident. "Today is my anniversary with Y/N and I completely spaced. I need to do something special, and I need it to be perfect."

Donna smirked softly, having already had the inkling that he'd forgotten. She loved being right.

"Well then it's a good thing that I already made reservations at the restaurant you took her to on your first date and called Ray to have you picked up in about-" She checked the time. "Forty-five minutes to go sweep your girl off her feet. Don't worry, I already called her and told her you weren't out of your meeting in time to call yourself but you wanted to warn her to be ready when you arrived. Oh, and the necklace you told me to order her for Christmas arrived a week ago, so you can give her that too. Top desk drawer."

Relief flooded Harvey's system, never having been so thankful for his secretary in his life.

"Oh my god, you're a lifesaver. I don't know how to thank you"

"Just leave the credit card on my desk in the morning and I'll thank myself on your behalf." Donna said with a bright smile.

"Done. I owe you the whole damn store for pulling this off. Seriously, thank you."

"Of course, Harvey. Anything I can do to see my friends happy, I'm glad to do it."

An hour later, Harvey was knocking on the door to your apartment, a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers you'd ever seen in his hands.

You were dressed in a floor-length, emerald-colored silk gown that Harvey couldn't take his eyes off of when you'd first tried it on, and again now as he stood in front of you in the doorway.

"You look so beautiful, Y/N. Happy anniversary, my love." Harvey said after a brief moment of collecting himself from the sight of you.

You smiled shyly and thanked him, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You were never the greatest at accepting a compliment, something you had learned to work on since meeting Harvey.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind himself before placing a gentle hand on your hip and one on the side of your cheek, kissing you with a passion and care that you'd never experienced with any other man until Harvey.

He pulled away after a few moments, asking if you were ready to head out, and you nodded, grabbing your clutch and taking his hand as he led you out the door.

Soft music filled the air as he led you to a beautifully set table, adorned with more flowers and candlelight. Your eyes widened in surprise, a smile on your lips as Harvey pulled out your chair, his charm and charisma in full force.

The dinner was phenomenal, and you enjoyed your time talking and laughing with Harvey about any and everything. You hadn't seen much of him over the last few weeks, as he had a huge trial going on and from what you understood, it was one of the harder cases he'd ever had. You could tell he was enjoying the night off just as much as you enjoyed him being off.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" You exclaimed, pulling a small black box from your handbag with a bow on top and handing it to Harvey. Inside was a pair of cufflinks, his initials engraved in the gold. He smiled the biggest smile you'd seen from him as he thanked you. He pulled a box of his own from his jacket pocket, presenting it to you. Tears sprang from your eyes immediately when you saw the necklace, knowing full well how much Cartier cost.

"Harvey, I can't accept this! This was way too much."

"Y/N, every penny I spend on you is well worth it. You deserve to have every beautiful thing you can dream of because you're the most important person in my life."

Your heart swelled, and you couldn't help but reach across the table to kiss him.

"Thank you." You whispered, gratitude for him shining in your eyes.

Later that night, he took you back to his condo where you continued the night together, ending up sleepily snuggled by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in Harvey's hand and red wine in yours.

"Remind me to text Donna tomorrow morning and thank her." You said drowsily.

"For what?" Harvey asked, looking down at you.

"For planning our dinner."

Harvey's mouth sat open, shocked.

"Wh- how did you know?"

"I didn't for sure until just now," You said "But I got to thinking, any other time you've planned something you tease me for a week beforehand about how good of a boyfriend you are, you didn't this time and I know you've been working hard so really, it only made sense."

Harvey's heart dropped, knowing he was caught.

"Baby, I'm so sorry." He said, anxiety rising in his throat.

"I'm not upset, don't worry." You said, sitting up now. "I'm just happy you took the time to be with me tonight." You said, reaching out to caress his cheek.

"I'm really trying to work on prioritizing us over work, but this case really took over everything. I promise I won't forget next year and let Donna do all my planning. I'm sorry if I disappointed you."

"You didn't disappoint me Harvey. We could've spent the whole night here doing nothing and I still would've been happy, I just love spending time with you."

Harvey smirked before replying.

"I'll keep that in mind for next year"

[yourbelgianthings]

can we just talk about montrose pretty for a sec? he’s a gentleman thief and a pretty charismatic guy. he wears a hardlight mask he never takes off until he does and then he’s decades older than anyone thought he was. he’s done the i’m your dad bit twice and also adopted a child separately from that. he knows everything imaginable about ephemera, where he’s a hawkblade of the emerald coven. his fake last name is always goodparty. he’s the bazooka maniac. he got horny when the car he was in exploded around him. he has an animatronic family he visits regularly. he finds it hard to interact with other people but not his best friends. he dressed up as infinite jessie the specter fairy. he’s really just everything <3

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: As Sabine's training begins in earnest, she finds herself struggling while wielding Ezra's lightsaber. Disheartened by her lack of progress, Sabine wonders if she is truly worthy of the weapon. Ahsoka, however, senses that the blade's kyber crystal is resisting Sabine's attempts to claim the weapon as her own. With no other recourse, Ahsoka resolves to perform a risky Force ritual which will allow her padawan to commune directly with the crystal. The communion will bring Sabine face to face with what lies in the heart of Ezra Bridger . . . and in her own.

"That's enough," called Ahsoka. She was standing, arms crossed, off to the side near a stack of supply crates. Her voice rang clear through the crisp Lothal air; overhead, a few wisps of clouds were the only things blighting any otherwise clear blue day. In the distance, you could see the spires of Capital City, still being rebuilt after Thrawn's vicious siege.

Huyang nodded in acknowledgement and stepped back, his sparring lightsabers closing down. Sabine, standing opposite him, followed suit with her own lightsaber, a gift from her friend, Ezra Bridger. The emerald blade disappeared, and she straightened, panting slightly, rivers of sweat pouring down her front and back.

The courtyard of Sabine's home - formerly Ezra's comm-tower - was serving as their practice area this time. Ahsoka visited her padawan there to continue her training semi-regularly when not running the occasional mission for the Rebellion. It was peaceful there, Ahsoka found. Something incredibly rare - and precious - during these dangerous times.

But she and Sabine knew that peace could easily be shattered. Elsewhere in the galaxy, the fires of war continued to spread between the Rebellion and the Empire.

Once upon a time, Ahsoka would have been out there, on the frontline of missions against the Empire. But things had changed. For now, her place was here, training Sabine and preparing her for whatever the Force had in store for her.

"Bow," said Ahsoka.

Huyang went first, then Sabine. The former Jedi noted her padawan visibly shaking, worn out from the sparring match.

She knew Sabine well, having served alongside her and the Specters during the early years of the Rebellion; Ahsoka had seen firsthand what the younger woman was capable of. This exercise should not have left her so winded.

Something was wrong.

"You look exhausted, Lady Wren," observed the droid.

Sabine merely nodded - and then fell down, landing on her backside. The lightsaber fell from her grip, rolling a few inches away on the ground before coming to a stop. In a flash Ahsoka was next to her, studying Sabine's face with worry.

"Sabine," she said. "Talk to me."

"Ezra's lightsaber," Sabine wheezed. "It's so karking heavy."

Ahsoka cast a glance at Huyang. The ancient droid returned it, his photoreceptors shifting into a concerned look. It bothered her that Sabine continued referring to the weapon as her friend's, despite him passing it on to her some time ago.

She reached to her belt and unhooked a flask of water. "Here," she offered, extending it to Sabine. "Sit up and take a few sips of this."

Her padawan grabbed the flask and guzzled down the water, ignoring her master's instructions. Ahsoka snorted. Should have expected that, she thought wryly. Sabine was a much more willful personality than Ahsoka had previously thought; passionate, driven, and intense. Spending time with her outside the Specters had been . . . enlightening, to put it politely.

She's just like Anakin. The thought, unbidden, rose suddenly to the surface of her mind - and she immediately clamped down on it.

The truth was there, she admitted privately. Ahsoka was still unsure if training Sabine was the right path for the young Mandalorian - or even for herself. But she could not ignore the gentle nudges from the Force that had led her on to this current path.

She had returned from her exile to look for Ezra, as promised.

Instead, she found Sabine.

Her musing was interrupted by Sabine choking on a last gulp of water. Sitting up abruptly with her eyes wide, she clutched at her chest, heaving with the force of clearing her lungs from the sudden intake of water.

Ahsoka sighed and thumped her solidly on the back. After a few seconds, Sabine's breathing returned to normal.

Wincing, she handed the now empty flask back to her master. "Still thirsty?" Ahsoka asked sarcastically.

"I'm good," Sabine croaked.

"I doubt that," Huyang remarked. "You vomited out all the water you just drank."

The young woman threw a weak glare at the droid, but no snarky response erupted from her mouth. Ahsoka raised an eyebrow in surprise. She really is tired, she observed.

Reaching past her padawan, the former Jedi carefully took Ezra's lightsaber from the ground. Examining it closely, she extended her senses in the Force reaching out the kyber crystal within.

Instead of the small twinkle of life she was expecting emanating from the crystal, Ahsoka felt . . . a sense of dimming; like a slowing heartbeat, felt only in the Force.

That's what I was worried about, she thought grimly.

Sabine, despite her exhaustion, didn't miss the sudden change in expression on her master's face. "What is it?" she asked.

Ahsoka hefted the lightsaber, feeling the weight of the weapon in her hand - it's history, the solid construction of its design. She could feel Ezra's presence in every centimeter of the lightsaber's hilt, constructed years ago without the instruction of a Jedi Order. In the years since the fall of the Order, she never thought another would be built. But Ezra, along with his master, Kanan Jarrus, proved that the Jedi ways would continue to exist regardless of the Empire's best efforts to purge them from galactic history.

Ezra Bridger was a marvel, a bright spot of light in the darkness of the Empire's reign. This lightsaber was his life - his legacy.

And it was dying.

-----

Sabine lurched to her feet in shock. "Dying?" she demanded. "What the hell do you mean, it's dying?"

Ahsoka sat cross-legged on the ground. Closing her eyes, the lightsaber lifted from her palm and began to carefully disassemble in front of Sabine's eyes.

In the middle of the floating mechanical components was the kyber crystal that made up the weapon's heart: a small emerald crystal that glowed with an inner light.

Or, rather, it was supposed to be glowing. Instead, the crystal was dull, almost opaque in the Lothal sunlight. Only upon a closer inspection could you see a faint inner light, pulsing weakly within.

"Take it," Ahsoka directed, eyes still closed. Sabine did so immediately, carefully plucking the crystal from the air.

"It's not . . . shiny," Sabine noted, trying to keep the panic rising in her voice.

Her master reassembled the parts back into their correct configurations, and the lightsaber hilt was rebuilt with hardly a whisper. As always, Sabine felt a mixture of awe and envy at the apparent ease of Ahsoka's use of the Force. Her, Kanan, and Ezra - they made it all seem so easy.

Despite Ahsoka telling her that it was possible - that the Force was present in all living beings - she was still not able to reach out to the cosmic power that the Jedi regularly wielded in life and death situations.

Ahsoka laid Ezra's lightsaber onto the ground before opening her eyes. Blowing out a breath, she looked directly at her padawan. "The kyber crystal is fighting against you, Sabine," she said, her tone calm. "The effort spent to do so is causing it to fade. As you can see."

Sabine gripped the crystal tightly in her hand. "I've dealt with this before," she said. "With the Darksaber."

The former Jedi tilted her head in a curious manner. "Yes. Hera told me about your training with the Darksaber. What did Kanan tell you at the time?"

She rubbed her head, trying to remember. "Something about the kyber crystal needing to resonate with me. I was fighting against myself at the time. Suppressing feelings about myself, my family, my reason for running away . . . "

Ahsoka nodded. "The crystal resonates with its wielder, becoming an extension of them. It's said that it can retain memories, feelings, and . . . desires over time from the being that constructs it. This lightsaber is essentially a piece of Ezra. And he gave it to you."

"A Jedi's weapon is their life," Sabine quoted. "Kanan was fond of saying that."

So was Anakin. Ahsoka mentally shook the image of her master away from the forefront of her thoughts.

"His life is in my hands," her padawan said quietly. "Why is the kyber crystal fighting against me? I don't understand."

"It's something you're not dealing with," Ahsoka surmised. "Something about Ezra."

Sabine was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I honestly can't think of it. There's nothing about Ezra that I don't . . ."

Ahsoka watched her trail off. No, there's something there, she concluded. Something even she isn't aware of.

Kanan managed to find a way to get Sabine to confront her issues. But she wasn't Kanan. And they didn't have time, going by the kyber crystal's weak vitality.

"Huyang?" she prompted. The droid had been standing off to the side, giving them distance, but never too far away to assist when called upon.

"How may I assist, Lady Tano?"

"How much time do we have to save Ezra's kyber crystal?" she asked.

He walked over to Sabine, still morosely staring at the crystal in her hand. "May I?" he asked.

Without a word, the young Mandalorian offered it up to the droid. He examined it, his mechanical photoreceptors taking in every minute detail. After a solid minute, he responded, "Not much, I'm afraid."

Ahsoka snorted. "Yes, I gathered that. Do you have a specific time frame?"

"Could be a day," Huyang offered, somewhat dryly. "Could be a month. But the longer Lady Wren continues to wield it, the more energy it will expend resisting her. That much is certain."

"What do we do?" asked Sabine. "I can't - I can't lose this. He trusted me."

Ahsoka reached out to grab Sabine's hand. Giving it a reassuring squeeze, she said, "You won't. There's a ritual we can do."

Huyang's head snapped towards her. "Ahsoka. You can't be serious."

Sabine blinked in confusion, her gaze turning from her master's face to the droid's. "What ritual? Is it dangerous?"

"Immensely," Huyang said. "It could accelerate the kyber crystal's decay if it fails."

"If it fails," Ahsoka countered. "It won't."

"How can you be so sure?" the droid asked.

The former Jedi smiled brightly, looking back at Sabine. "Because Ezra Bridger trusts her," Ahsoka said. "And so do I."

-----

Sabine's heart thudded a silent, steady beat against her ribs. She had never felt this nervous before. Normally, the awareness of an incoming battle left her in a heightened sense of anticipation and focus. Her Mandalorian upbringing taught her that the belief in victory before a fight helped to determine the outcome long in advance.

But this was not a physical battle that was about to be waged. Involving herself with the Jedi and their mystical connection to the Force had taught her that not all battles could be won with superior firepower and tactics. It took heart; it took soul.

Dusk was falling on Lothal, the evening sky becoming a burnished red and gold. The whisper of a cool night breeze brushed up against the tall grass fields surrounding the comm-tower. It felt good against her skin, as she leaned into it, breathing deeply in the scents of her new home.

Ahsoka had settled into her usual meditative position: cross-legged, hands laying sedately on her knees, palms open, facing the sky. In front of her was the kyber crystal contained within a metal bowl.

Piled around the crystal was a small amount of tinder. Enough to light a small fire.

Huyang had assured Sabine that the fire would not damage the crystal in any way. But still seeing the small gem outside of its protective casing made her realize just how vulnerable it was, despite the droid's assurances.

Ezra's life, Sabine thought. It's all in my hands.

And now it was dying. He trusted her with this weapon, and she was failing him.

Her hands curled into fists. Sabine took a deep breath, diving deep into the Jedi calming techniques she had been taught, forcing herself to relax.

No. No, I haven't failed you, yet. I will fix this, I promise.

Ahsoka spoke into the evening air, her words barely rising above a whisper. "Sabine, it's time."

"Okay." She took her spot opposite the former Jedi, mimicking her master's pose. "What do you need me to do?"

"Close your eyes and center your thoughts. Still your mind, take my hands, and wait for the crystal to reach out."

"Sounds easy enough," replied Sabine. "What will you be doing?"

Her master waved at herself. "I will be acting as a kind of . . . conduit, between you and the kyber crystal. You can't touch the Force yet, so I'll be acting as the connection."

"Cool. Right. Well, let's get this started," she said.

Huyang walked over, a match grasped in his mechanical fingers. "Prepare yourself, Lady Wren."

She frowned at him. "What can I expect? It's just a conversation, right?"

"Depends on how receptive the kyber crystal is. Which, as we've seen so far, it's not feeling particularly so towards you."

Sabine blew out a breath. "Great. Thanks for the pep talk."

"You are very welcome. Remember, if this fails, the crystal's strength will fade forever," Huyang pointed out.

"Huyang," Ahsoka groaned. "Just light it, please."

"As you wish," he said and lit the match by striking against his steel frame. A second later, he dropped it into the metal bowl; the tinder surrounding the kyber crystal burst into flame - but not the usual warm, golden glow. It was an eerie, emerald flame that looked familiar to Sabine.

She glanced at her master. "That looks like - "

"Witch-fire," Ahsoka confirmed. "Not your standard Jedi ritual."

"Hence why I argued against it," Huyang remarked.

Sabine had tangled with Dathomiri magick before, along with Kanan and Ezra. It was not the most enjoyable of experiences and definitely not one she wished to repeat anytime soon. But Ahsoka was here and seemed to know what she was doing.

"Are you ready?" her master asked.

Sabine straightened her shoulders, steeling herself and pushing aside any remaining doubts. "I am," she said, trying to project confidence into her voice.

Ahsoka nodded. "You look ready."

She reached forward to take Sabine's hands.

The fire between them roared, wicked green sparks flaring out from the flames.

A deep breath . . . and the ritual began.

-----

After a few minutes of silence, Sabine began to fidget. She couldn't help it; despite the calming techniques she had run through previously, anxiety continued to spike through her in erratic pulses.

The quiet was overwhelming. It seemed that even the fire had gone silent, since she could no longer hear the crackling flames. Sabine bit down on her lip, fighting against the impulse to speak out, vent her frustration and impatience that the ritual didn't seem to be working -

A voice spoke, suddenly. Not Ahsoka, but female - human. And very, very familiar.

"Are you my thief?" asked the voice.

She opened her eyes, at last.

Sabine found herself sitting in . . . what appeared to be void-space. A small oval of light surrounded her; outside of it lay an open sea of stars and the occasional flashes of emerald light.

Am I inside the kyber crystal? she wondered, filled with awe at the majestic view around her.

The voice spoke again, sounding curious. "Are you my thief?"

She focused onto the source: a figure sitting across from her, draped in an overly large cloak with a hood obscuring its face.

"Ahsoka? Is that you?" she asked uncertainly.

The hood raised up enough to catch a glimpse of feminine, human features - and familiar eyes the color of rich, vibrant wood.

Where I have seen . . .

"What is 'Ahsoka'?" asked the unnamed figure.

It suddenly clicked for Sabine. who the figure was "You're the kyber crystal," she realized.

"Is that what I am?" it asked.

"You must be," Sabine insisted. "The ritual worked. I'm here to talk with you."

The shadowy face inside the hood cocked to the side. "Talk about what? You're not my thief. I have nothing to discuss with you."

Sabine frowned at the cloaked figure. "Thief? You mean Ezra? Why do you keep calling him that?"

"Because he stole me away. From the caves of Ilum. You were there, weren't you, Sabine Wren?"

She blinked at the figure's mention of her name. Yes, she was there. Years ago, in the frozen caves of Ilum, she had helped Ezra build his new lightsaber. It had been a tumultuous time for her best friend after his experience on Malachor. Sabine had decided to accompany him on his pilgrimage since Kanan was out of action, against his wishes.

It was a good thing she did, since they ran into trouble.

She brushed the memory aside. A story for another time; she had to focus on the task at hand.

"If you know me," she said steadily, "then you know that Ezra trusted you into my care."

The figure was quiet. She continued, "If that's the case, why are you spending your energy fighting against me? We should be working together."

The cloaked face seemed to stare at her with those familiar brown eyes . . . "I cannot allow you to wield me."

"But why?" asked Sabine, her tone becoming heated. "I have nothing to hide about Ezra. He was my best friend!"

"This is not about Ezra," said the figure. "This is about you. You do not understand your purpose, as of yet."

"My purpose?" Sabine blinked, taken aback by the statement. "What purpose? I'm a fighter, that's my purpose."

The figure shook its head. "That cannot be all that you are. You must be more. Just like Ezra was."

It waved at itself. "Just like I am more than a kyber crystal."

Sabine opened her mouth to ask what it meant by that when a recent memory flooded through her mind in Ahsoka's voice:

"The crystal resonates with its wielder, becoming an extension of them. It's said that it can retain memories, feelings, and . . . desires over time from the being that constructs it. This lightsaber is essentially a piece of Ezra."

The figure gazed at her, and Sabine got the sense it understood the direction of her thoughts. "You begin to understand."

"Maybe," Sabine admitted. "A little more clarification would be helpful."

"What was Ezra Bridger to you?"

She felt her face heat up at the question. "What do you mean?"

The cloaked figure regarded her patiently but said nothing. Sabine blew out a nervous breath, thinking what her answer should be.

Finally she said, "He was . . . my partner."

"Is that all?" it asked.

Sabine stared directly at the place where the cloaked figure's eyes would be. "In every sense of the word," she added.

There was a nod in the depths of the hood. "Ah. An acceptable answer. I consider him to be the same."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. You thought a lightsaber was merely a tool used by the wielder?"

Embarrassment colored Sabine's cheeks. "Well . . . yeah," she confessed. "Sorry. I sort of considered you to be on the same level of importance as my Westar blasters."

She caught a glimpse of something resembling a smile that flashed briefly in the shadows. "Still very important, considering who you are," remarked the figure.

"Yes," Sabine said, "but they'll never be more than just that. I'm beginning to see that now. You grow and evolve with the person who wields you."

"Yes. And they do the same. We become two parts of a whole being, in tune with one another to achieve the wielder's desire."

"So, when Ezra wielded you . . . he became something more than he was," Sabine said.

"It was his purpose as a Jedi," confirmed the figure. "To fight against fear. To bring courage and victory when there was none."

The statement from the mysterious figure brought a melancholy smile to Sabine's face. In her mind's eye, she could still see her friend, brandishing the emerald blade in the heat of battle, batting aside blaster shots.

"I am the part of Ezra that contained his bravery and his commitment to victory against any injustice he saw," said the figure solemnly. "Whenever he was scared, he thought of a single image - of a single person, who represented unerring courage and absolute victory to him."

Sabine saw the brown eyes flash fiercely within the hood - and it struck her all at once where she had seen those eyes before.

Her heart thudded painfully inside her chest. "Show me your face," she whispered.

The figure stood up and let the cloak fall away.

Before her stood a young Mandalorian woman with warm brown eyes, dressed in strikingly colored beskar armor. Her hair was cut in a short bob, the edges tinted a rich, deep purple.

Sabine stared at the younger version of herself, feeling her eyes begin to fill with unshed tears. "This is what you are?" she managed to ask.

"I am what lies deep inside the heart of Ezra Bridger," said the younger Sabine. "I am courage incarnate; a shining beacon of victory to all those who fight against the dark."

This is what he fought for, Sabine realized. This is who he wanted to be in his darkest moments.

This was his purpose.

"I understand now," Sabine said quietly. "Why you're fighting against me."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Sabine answered. "This was Ezra's purpose. This is what he had in his heart. But you can't be that for me. I need my own purpose. Which means you need to be something else - something I need."

The younger Sabine smiled kindly at her. "For what it's worth, you have plenty of courage yourself, Sabine Wren. You don't need more."

She wiped away the tears with a snort. "Thanks."

Looking at the younger version of herself, she asked, "Ezra really thought so highly of me?"

"It would seem to be the case."

Oh, Ezra. "I don't know if I'm really like what he saw me as," Sabine said. "Sometimes I feel like I forget. Especially since he's gone."

The younger version of herself squatted in front of her. "No one's ever really gone. If you keep him safe in here," she said, pointing at her chest. "Ezra will always be with you, whenever you need him."

Sabine placed a hand on her heart, feeling the organ's steady, purposeful beat.

"I know what my purpose needs to be. What you need to be," Sabine said.

The younger Sabine nodded. "Name it."

She smiled, thinking of a young boy from long ago she met on the streets on Lothal . . . "Do you know what hope looks like to me?"

The younger Sabine grinned - and then, in a flash of pure white light, transformed. The features changed, lengthened, becoming more masculine -

And there he was. Standing in front of her, like no time had passed. Ezra Bridger, as he was on the last day she saw him.

He stuck out his hand, and Sabine's heart leapt into her throat. "Ready?" he asked. The voice, the familiar tones of it making her heart ache, sent goosebumps prickling across her arm.

She forced herself to blink back the hot tears that were threatening to burst forth. It had been so long . . .

No. No, she would not mourn him. There was nothing to mourn.

He was still out there. With that fact, hope remained.

Her hope.

Sabine slapped her hand into his and hauled herself up. "I'm ready."

A flash of emerald light -

-----

She came back to herself, blinking rapidly in the cool Lothal evening.

Evening? How much time had passed?

Ahsoka was across from her still; the former Jedi's expression was neutral. "Well?" she asked.

Sabine coughed, her throat feeling raspy. A wave of exhaustion suddenly fell across her. "Well, what?" she responded.

"Did it work?"

She looked to the metal bowl sitting between them -

The kyber crystal sat within the dying embers of the fire, glowing with a fierce, emerald light. It looked like a tiny star had erupted within the bowl's center.

Sabine grinned. "Do you mind?" she asked her master.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "Sure, since you asked so nicely."

With the Force, she quickly inserted the kyber crystal back into the lightsaber's hilt and passed it to Sabine.

She gripped it in her hands, her palms suddenly feeling sweaty.

In her mind, she saw Ezra smiling at her. Her hope. The thing she clung to the most for strength in this dark galaxy.

Sabine felt her anxiety fade away. She would never let him fade away. Not as long as she drew breath.

"Ignite the blade," said Ahsoka.

Sabine did. The emerald saber blazed to life, humming in the cool, dark evening - like a bright star, lighting the way for all who could see.