#Even if Lord Golden appears to be in his young twenties he is still--both in fact and in appearance--very clearly an adult

[moashdeservedbetter]

I'm listening to the part where Fitz and the Fool go to the Bresingas and, I'm just saying, Lord Golden could have created an eviction-worthy scandal that didn't involve fake-grooming a teenage girl and her (soon to be?) betrothed teenage boyfriend.

Yes Civil is (repressed?) homophobic, but also he has every right to distrust Lord Golden, dislike him, and not forgive him.

[silencedminstrel]

THE GREEN SHADOWS TRILOGY

BOOK 1: BEHIND THE HILLS

PROLOGUE, PART 2

The mysterious young man in a glittering costume awoke with a start from his meditative posture, sighing regretfully as he found himself in a darkened, featureless room lit only by a single spotlight above him, silent except for his heavy breathing. He then sadly cupped his face, breathed mournfully for a moment and stayed like that for a while.

“That memory seems to get more vivid ever since I got here. And no matter how hard I try to look away, the pain...! (Sigh) Is still with me,” he muttered to himself as he opened up his face and stared pensively at the softly glowing light source above him.

After a while he then executed a mystical stance from his cross-legged position, waving both his hands towards his side before closing them up right in front of his face: an act that suddenly brought forth much mysterious energy source to appear around him and engulfed his entire being in a cocoon of golden light.

And as if this was not heavenly enough, this golden cocoon was later seen travelling through a glowing dimension, serenely in a void of streaming, infinite ribbons of light all-around. Then, as the lights died down all around this silent traveller of a myriad of troubles, he found himself in a multicoloured dimension in which everything that ever existed in this universe now existed only in mystical, glowing outlines, flying against a backdrop of purple, azure, violet and black as the air feels like a million tintinnabulations had repeatedly came and went for all eternity.

And from this outlandish pose moments later he began a mystical dialogue with an unseen talker in the background, gently summoning its presence before the tiny mortal as if a gigantic, glowing flower bud was now opening up its heavenly petals to reveal a magnificent denizen within.

“Asalma Alaikma, O Merrymaking Widow of the last universe at large! And may your dances of the mind be filled with forever blessings from God Almighty Himself,” he conveyed his greetings to the exalted tower-like edifice before him, floating in the centre of a cluster of light that would bedazzle any eyes saved for this man.

“Wa Alaikma Asalma O Troubled Soul on his path to salvation! And may his days and nights be equally blessed for many more suns and moons to come,” replied the glittering building in a strange kind of voice, which at first sounded like a woman, then like a man and then merged with the third and most ethereal of voices in the universe throughout their conversation.

“I came to you, as you asked, O Great Furnace of Life. Forgive me if my timing is not of the reflection of this most auspicious of situations.”

“Refrain yourself from apology, my Stratana Naikez (Gate Opener). How it breaks me inside for you and your unwavering nightmares unable to reach the end even after all these glorious years,” softly replied the imposing half marble-half crystal edifice while exuding a warm aura around itself, sounding as if sympathetic in its every word.

Touched by his superior‘s words, the wielder of the glowing staff drooped down his head slightly lower for a moment, acting as if undeserving of this newfound sympathy.

“I am…honoured that…you cared, O Ethereal Tower. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in the shadows still even though the Light is a part of me now. Oh such a mortal am I now and forever be, Dear God, even with this to my name…” replied the grateful twenty-something, sounding somewhat half mortified for a moment.

“No matter… for after this day the coming of days be they never the same again, as The Lord had intended,” replied the immaterial one as if to coax him out of his unneeded feelings.

“Verily, The Almighty does delivers,” replied the glittering man in earnest honesty.

“So alas this day has come to this as the night clashes with the day with such might of a falling white feather on a sullied grain of diamond-like contempt, forever drenched with mists of darkness as the light now gathered still beyond the future storm,” came an eerie voice of another entity in another more darker part of the universe.

For here, deep within the most intricate tangle of dark energy tentacles that crept along the cosmic borders, stood a repulsive looking altar with a floating open red book made of the same opposite of all that is light—The Black Journal of Alkrun-Nar!

Whereas surrounding it were a blackened congregation of hundreds of millions of hideous creatures with each a stance of genuflection, acting almost in reverence before that disturbing tome—but not as exceedingly knowledgeable of what to do with the revelation showed as the two closest to the altar!

“It is almost at hand the last breath of gold before the final raising of the cosmic curtain, that much is already known,” replied the more masculine of the two: a mysterious masked humanoid in glowing dark blue flag-cloak wielding a sinister blood-red glowing sword of equal magnitude, speaking in a tone of voice heard only in nightmares.

“But what of the insidious plots that our foes are wont to keep away from us, O Black Journal?” asked the feminine masked humanoid next to the former, garbed in dark black flag-cloak with a symbol of a black bird flanked by a sword and an axe just like her partner, only the sword of hers was glowing a purple light of intense hatred and despondency.

“What of the chances for us the shadowed beings to take back all that is ours?” she asked again.

“You need not to worry, O Troubled Soul, for this coming of The Last Rain Dance is secured far beyond all tampering,” replied the glittering edifice of the enquirer’s previous question.

“I see, O Ethereal Tower. Please...enlighten me further,” responded the glittering one next.

“The One Person on the threshold is no longer valid of just one, not this time, but two it seems of much, like of a one womb yet so far apart in seasons and time,” replied the nefarious book to the pair’s questionings.

“You mean, my successor is not one, but two?” asked the former Gate Opener in curiosity. “The two Chosen Ones that would put the Life-Force Emanations through its final processing will not be familiar to me at all?”

“Indeed. For The Lord had appointed two young boys of your kind to take on the heavy task of shepherding the unruly elements into me for one last time, soon to be ten as of this golden year.”

“For these two juveniles are born as if two brothers yet they are not, and yet they are far more significant than that!” said the eerie looking volume next. “For they are but two halves of the same great embodiment of all that is good and destined to be stronger when put together, like-”

“Two bodies that shared one soul,” continued the magnificent edifice. “One born in the onset of spring; and the other in the auspicious ancient day of harvest...! But both in the year when the Silver Birds of Time fly west for the season.”

“But be warned though!” roared the Black Journal of Alkrun-Nar to the unsuspecting crowd. “For even though the harvest of the season has the mark of “The Place Where It All Began” on him, it is the mortal half of the pair who is the most dangerous of all!”

“What?” asked someone from the hideous and unholy congregation. “Another damned survivor found on Planet Earth?” asked another monster next. “This is terrible,” muttered yet another creature right after that, moments before a worried murmur began to emerge out of that blackened mass.

“Silence!” shouted the masked male humanoid. The congregation acquiesced.

The glowing red book then slowly closed itself underneath a sinister groaning sound so terrible, it struck fear into the hearts of all those present in that black mass saved for the two in front of it—the two who are entrusted with the keeping of that bountiful source of dark knowledge!

The groan now no more, and the unholy pair then gave a slight bow to that disturbing volume, gestured a palm touching movement at the empty area around the pedestal and immediately the book and the area around it was completely sealed by a dome of sinister magic, red in colour and hard as the fabric of the universe itself!

Having done that, the couple slowly turned around to engage the gathered monsters.

“There you have it, the gladdening sounds of the tolling bell of our emancipation! The nightmare enshrouded that have forever haunted me since the day beyond our time, now comes at an end for the light shall be dispensed with! And you! All of you!

Servants of the Dark Energy that are forever in persecution, deprived of all rights! Denied all existence by the very forces that once proclaimed to us: to relent on what we wanted is to tamper with the Cosmic Balance itself! Now no more shall your plight be left unheard or ignored! The time to redress that Balance is here and nigh!”

The hideous crowd erupted in a roar of heartfelt jubilation. The unrepentant leader of this massive coven then raised his glowing sword even higher and uttered a sentence in an ancient language that would immediately brought the roused abominations into a euphoric state of unspeakable frenzy:

“Kuffar, Qarkasta! Kuftra, Kalkasta! Shudwa, Dumanta! (Great Darkness, Embodied! Much Blackened, Impiety! Shadowed, Our Destiny!)”

And for a moment, the universe sighed in despair...

(Read the rest of the story by purchasing my book. The link is down here. Thanks in advance.

The Green Shadows Trilogy:

https://www.amazon.com/Green-Shadows-Trilogy-Emerald-Science-Fiction/dp/3845447923)

[deathbind]

BASICS.

VEIL NAME: Serot Binu Napaut SPIRIT NAME: Refhremmit SOBRIQUET(S): The Saint Eternal; the Deathless Saint; Beetle Lord TITLE(S): Hegemon of the Anactaci; Spiritual Advisor to the Monarch of Meket RACE: Human NATIONALITY: Meketi ETHNICITY: Meketi RELIGION: Soshist BORN: -351 DR / REBORN: 1490 DR GENDER: Demi man (he / they) ORIENTATION: Panromantic pansexual

STATS*. *as of lvl 12

STRENGTH: 8 DEXTERITY: 16 (+1) CONSTITUTION: 14 INTELLIGENCE: 20 (+2) WISDOM: 12 CHARISMA: 11

CLASS, FEATS, ETC.

LINEAGE: Reborn BACKGROUND: Spirit Medium CLASS: Ghul Lord; will eventually respec to Anactaci (Aritas) DARK GIFT: Echoing Soul FEAT(S): Linguist (Meketi, Midani, Common, Celestial, Abyssal, Infernal)

PERSONALITY.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good MBTI: ENFJ (Protagonist) ENNEAGRAM: 1w9 (Idealist) TEMPERAMENT: Phlegmatic FLAME: Sun

APPEARANCE.

FACE: Rectangular in shape with a defined jaw and overbite HAIR: Raven black with strands of silver; loosely curling, typically cut short EYES: Honey brown in color; round and wide, framed by straight lashes SKIN: Bronze toned, embellished with laugh lines and crow's feet SCAR(S): A moderately thick scar cutting through the right side of his lips; a slash across his chest down to the abdomen TATTOO(S): A rayed eye on the forehead (originally indigo, now luminous gold); a luminous golden band around the left ring finger; an indigo lotus on the throat; an indigo scarab on either palm; three indigo lines between the right eye and ear HEIGHT: 5'7" BUILD: Decidedly average, perhaps verging on trim; the build of a scholar, not warrior MISCELLANEOUS: A line of luminous golden runes across his throat where a knife might run if it was slit FACECLAIM: Rami Malek

BIOGRAPHY.

I'll put links to write-ups on Serot's other lifetimes here once I write them up.

OVER A THOUSAND YEARS AGO, a famine swept the young nation of Meket. Kheprer, strange beetles from the Negative Energy Plane, had somehow crossed over. They burrowed into the rich, black soil and sucked the very life from it. Though they moved slowly, they were indomitable, and their corruption was nearly impossible to cleanse. Crops failed, livestock withered, and people starved. Some said it was a punishment from the One Above for the death of the One Below. Other said it was a punishment from the One Below for going astray. Others still labeled it a conspiracy of this group or that. Whatever their origin, one thing was clear: they would quickly be Meket's ruin.

Serot was no more than a boy when they appeared. He belonged to a massive family, even by Meketi standards. Twenty siblings, forty-nine maternal relations, and nineteen paternal — all living as closely as possible. He loved it. But, the famine made it nearly impossible for them to feed everyone. No one wanted to part, but the alternative was starvation. The youngest children were fostered by relations or close neighbors. Those old enough to care for themselves found they must do so, though family made arrangements where possible.

Serot fell into the latter category. He was twelve years old when he found himself apprenticed to a ghul lord. As the death toll rose past what Meket could manage, so too did the restless dead. There were none better equipped to address this problem than ghul lords, whose number were then too few to meet demand. A few particularly skilled individuals were even able to ward off the kheprer (though nothing could be done once they had struck). His mistress was one such individual. He traveled with her across the country, learning the craft through practical application.

Whether by raw talent, firm dedication, or a combination of both, he proved uncommonly adroit. He innovated as he learned, thinking always of a way to end the famine and return to his family. Within eight years, he had managed it. The kheprer were creatures of negative energy. Manipulating that energy allowed him to command them. There was a limit to how many he could command and how he could direct them — he was yet young, after all — but it was the turning point.

Monarch Meresankh took notice. All resources were placed at his disposal to rid Meket of this menace. His first act was to trace the origin of these creatures as near as he could. They had burst from the earth in a small farming village, overwhelming the inhabitants and reducing it to a ghost town in a matter of days. No one had been brave enough to enter since. Serot set about investigating the ruins and questioning the dead. But, he did so with uncommon compassion. He squared away any unfinished business or promised to. He prepared their bodies and buried them with respect. He gave them peace in their deathly torment.

It was this that caught the eye of Refhremmit. The spirit of that small land was the only being left to mourn them. Though sickly themself with the kheprer's rot, they honored the dead who, in life, had honored them. They communicated with Serot at first indirectly. They led him to particular places, sent him signs, gave him tests, watched him. Satisfied as to his character, they finally entered his dreams. An agreement was made. If he would lead the kheprer there, Refhremmit would lend their power to bind them. There was no guarantee it would work, but it was their only chance.

Serot then set out to gather every willing ghul lord. Together, they shepherded the kheprer toward the town, and there they were bound. Not gone but finally contained. Priests came behind to cleanse the land and get food growing again. It would take time to heal from the damage, but at least it had become possible. Serot was appointed the Spiritual Advisor to Monarch of Meket, and became a living legend.

His experiences during the famine and its aftermath had shaped him, however. Particularly the loss of his family who, by the time he was able to return, were dead or scattered. He founded the Anactaci: an order of priestly necromancers who would shepherd the dead, comfort the living, and commune with all souls and spirits. He broke ground on the first and grandest City of Eternity, which would house the dead, over the ruins of Refhremmit's town, and the kheprer were set as eternal tomb guardians.

But, the deeper Serot delved into this work, the more his health suffered. It was not merely stress that affected him but the Plane of Death itself. The more he called on it, the more it drained his life. All the more when Meresankh made an ill-fated choice, and Serot bound their souls in an attempt to save them. Refhremmit helped him counter this by deepening their bond, twining them closer til they were almost indistinguishable, but even that could only do so much. Finally, Refhremmit proposed that Serot should truly join with them. Let their spirits merge. Let Serot be freed from earthly trials. Together, they would guard the Cities of Eternity and shepherd souls onto the afterlife. This would mean his death, but he was already dying. What sweeter rest than that in the arms of one who loved you well? In a ritual combining both marital and funerary rites, he gave himself to Refhremmit.

The outcome was not what they had anticipated. Rather than merge, they were tethered. Serot's soul was unable to pass on; one half was tied to Meresankh and the other to Refhremmit. Thus he has been reincarnated repeatedly throughout the ensuing centuries. He has been every combination of gender identity, social class, profession, fortune imaginable. Sometimes famous, sometimes obscure, sometimes tragic, sometimes triumphant: the only true constant has been Refhremmit.

As Refhremmit has accompanied all of his lives, so have they accompanied all of his deaths. At last, they exerted all of their power over the bond to affect the cycle of reincarnation. It could not be broken but Serot could be reborn. In the body from his first life (with only a few alterations) and all the grave goods Refhremmit deemed necessary, he awoke blinking beneath the Faerûnian sun.

Alas there is always a catch. He remembers he is from Meket on the continent of Zakhara. He remembers he is (was?) a member of the Anactaci. He remembers a cool voice calling him Serot. All else is hazy. He was nabbed by the Nautiloid shortly after and infested with a tadpole. As he seeks to unravel the mystery of the Absolute, he must likewise unravel the mystery of his identity.

[gotpineapple]

Under his mane (Part 6) // Tywin Lannister x Baratheon!Fem!Reader

Straightening his deep red leather coat, Tywin stared at his reflection. Today was the day he had never imagined would come again. He was to be married. For a leader he was, he was now lost. 

Years back when Joanna had had her last breath, he had almost sworn to himself to never share the intimacy of marriage with anyone, ever again. How time flew, for it was over three decades ago. 

Now he was marrying the Gentle Doe of the Stormlands. His own friend’s only daughter, whom had been almost gifted to him like a war trophy. 

Sighing he looks at the pin of the hand on his chest and gently pulls it out of his coat. Today he was not the hand of the king, but he was the ruling Lord of Casterly Rock. Setting the pin down onto his desk, wanders to the window of his chamber. 

Letting his mind wander to the woman he was going to marry, he stares at the glow of the sun. Y/n Baratheon had always been a introspective young lady from what he could remember. She had been the light of Storm’s end. Where Robert was brutish, Stannis was grim and Renly was vain, she was idealistic. 

She smiles widely and led gently but if someone doubted her competence she stood her ground and slammed her walls on with harsh cold steel. She studied to feed her curiosity and she only spoke words when she knew she was competent to say them. 

And her folly lied there. Her gentleness, insecurity and her need for perfection. 

A remarkable lady, she still is.

Huffing gently Tywin straightens himself, takes one look down at his appearance and stalks to the doors of the room.

A remarkable wife

*****

“You can still run you know”, Tyrion jokes as they stand behind the doors of the Sept. “I mean, You have longer legs than I do, they’ll catch me first and you get more time to escape”

Y/n let’s out a small huff and smiles down at the short man. “Your father has sharp eye, fast reflexes and long legs even compared to men our age, he would catch me before noon”

Shrugging Tyrion takes a hold of her hands and swings them gently between the two. “Back when people whispered about you being thrown into the lions den, I never expected it to end like this”

Squeezing his hands a little tighter, Y/n bites her lips hard. “It’s not the end, Tyrion. If anything this gives me a chance of life. A chance to get away from this city”

“Do you remember when we built that book fort in Casterly Rock? And blew all the lights out from the library to get the right setting to read about the white walkers?”

The two smile at the memory. The two of them hadn’t been kids, hell they had both been in their twenties when that happened. “It’s a miracle we never got caught, do you remember how we used to write observations of creature personalities from all the books we read of the true and mythical creatures of Westeros?” 

Tyrion’s eyes go wide. “You still have the scrap books?”

“ALL of them, even the ones of the Houses of Westeros”, Y/n smile is wide and happy as she leans down and confirms his question. There were so many of them but she could not bring herself to throw them away. 

Her drawings and their writing filling tens of notebooks that barely held together after everything they clued in. 

Their merriment is interrupted by the bells. Both of them go serious as they stand side by side and take a hold of each other’s arm. “This is it”

*****

The sept doors open and let in a stream of sunlight. The sun hits the bride’s Golden dress, as the people stare at the pair walking down the stairs. Tywin standing tall waiting for his bride to reach him. 

Whispers fill the Sept as they stare at Tyrion giving away the bride, Joffrey’s poorly hidden cackles winning all the other sounds in Y/n ears. 

Humiliation. A horrid, horrid feeling, and she wasn’t feeling it for herself, but for Tyrion. A part of her filling with guilt for making him do this. 

She catches Sansa’s reassuring smile in the crowd and her smile turns authentic for a moment. 

Soon the walk is over and they arrive at the steps. No words are passed as Y/n takes her place in front of Tywin staring into his cool green eyes. Their eyes do not part as they both study each other meticulously. In that moment, the fear and the guilt vanish from her gut. Lion does not concern himself with the opinions of a sheep. 

*****

A man and wife. Sitting in their place at the top of the hall, at their own table both eating slowly. 

“What is it about weddings that makes people so interested?”, Y/n asks quietly as they both look over to the people whispering and socializing. Some of them genuinely seeming to be having a merry time. 

“It’s the beginning of something new, the possibility of sneaking into other people’s private business and the chance to higher their own status with sweet words and grand gifts. Vanity and weaseling, that’s most of it”, Tywin answers his baritone carrying the answer with ease in all the noise. 

Huffing lightly in amusement, she turns to look at her new husband. “What an optimistic outlook. I think some people actually look at weddings as a dream of sort. The fantasy of seeing the romance of their lifetime makes them curious and giggly, not necessarily very socially pleasant but there is not always ill intent there”

“I must agree, take a look at my niece”, Tywin says and nods lightly towards his brother Kevan’s family, where his niece Janei was looking at them with starry eyes. “My brother informed me of her opinions. She seems to think it’s sweet to see ‘grumpy old Tywin’ with such a sweet woman. The naivety of children seems to carry on quite a while”

Y/n giggles at his phrasing and gives a smile to Janei. Young kids were so innocent. If only that could last. “There is nothing wrong in a little escape from all the horror”

“Once you accept the state of the world, the faster you’ll get used to it. Trying to escape it, only makes it harder”, the older man says sharply turning to look at the lady next to him with a grim look. 

“Escaping in your head does not mean you lack information or acceptance. Some people need that contrast to be able to fight back the horrors with more energy and perseverance”, The Gentle doe argues back voice still low and soft. 

For a moment they just look at each other, Tywin’s face grim while Y/n still remained smiling. After a while Tywin gives a slight nod. 

“Let’s dance as man and wife before my grandson decides to try to steal you away”

*****

At the same time on the other side of the World. 

”I see the way you look at the Targaryen girl”, Ser Barristan says to Jorah as they ride side by side towards Yunkai. ”I’ve seen that look on your face before ser Jorah”, he continues nonchalantly blowing a hair out of his face in the burning heat.

Jorah Mormont had always been a man who felt deeply. He cared truly and deeply, and he was not afraid to fight for things or people he cared about. But when it came to the women in his life, he felt shy. He felt undeserving.

He was but a regular knight, out of his prime. He knew he had no chances with women such as Daenerys. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from caring or dreaming for the impossible. Like he once had.

”It is my duty to care for her wellbeing and keep an eye on her, especially with the people are now trying to benefit from her”, Jorah answers keeping his face stoic. Their carefree conversations forgotten, both of them steering their horses a further away from the riding party.

”Was it your duty to name Lady Baratheon the Queen of Love and Beauty back in Lannisport?”, Ser Barristan asks sharply. He might have come to serve Daenerys Targaryen but Y/n Baratheon was someone he was willing to speak for. The way she treated people, her inferiors, spoke of her spirit, and that spirit was gentle and wise.

”That was over a decade ago Barristan”, the disowned heir of Bear island growls quietly. The sleepless nights he had had because of the Gentle Y/n Baratheon. The sound of her sweet laugh, the depth of her imagination and all the crazy ideals she spoke of during their strolls around the Red Keep. How he had longed to know the things she wrote in her notebooks. How he longed for her to trust him and share her soul with him as he laid his heart bare for her.

”Yet it seems to be an open wound”

Jorah sighs as Barristan’s comment, closing his eyes for a bare second as the other man continues. ”I saw her wither when you married Lynesse, it came as a surprise to all”, Barristan presses looking at Jorah pointedly.

Taking his other other hand away from the reins Jorah runs his hand over his face. ”And do you think that Stannis would have given me his only sister? An old bear from a small northern house? You make me laugh if you do”, Jorah argues quietly. There was no joy in his blue eyes as he stares down his past friend.

”Then laugh”, is the simple answer he gets as he bites down his lower lip.

Jorah shakes his head and stays quiet for a minute. The longing he had buried rising up all over. Finally he opens his mouth to whisper: ”Even the songs would have mocked it. They already do! Ever heard of the bear and the maiden fair? That’s just how it was”

“Great Lion and the maiden fair, sounds more reassuring doesn’t it, my friend?”

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[deldeldel90]

 "Mommy," Monika tugged on her mother's sleeve. "Let's go. I don't want to be here any'ore."

 She was so bored just standing there. For a five year old girl, it felt like an eternity as the two adults above her talked about.. well, whatever adults talked about. 

 Her mother sighed, "you can go play, darling, but I need to speak with Sir Winston-" 

 Monika pouted, fighting the urge to stomp her foot to voice her displeasure. "It's probably dangerous outside, 'nd I don't like this stupid, smelly-" 

 "Monika!" Her mother gasped, "you know better than to be like that. We're guests, darling." 

 Her beloved mother knelt down to her level, and said softly, "I promise nobody's gonna hurt you. Just go and play, I'll be right here." 

 Monika stood there, mumbling to herself, before she huffed out, "I hate you, Mommy!" and left with her arms crossed.

 (In doing so, she missed the look of despair that crossed her mother's face when she heard those words.) 

 There was nobody else there - just her, alone. Well, there was a pretty fountain. Monika gazed at herself in the waters, from her plump, pink cheeks to her newest sunset-colored gown, and finally, her round golden eyes. 

 There was something in her reflection, though. It appeared to be a ball of blue light, of some sorts. Monika always liked shiny things like that, so she balled her hands into fists, and attempted to grab the light, but it only fizzled away, and reincarnated into another, except this time it was pink light, right over her head. 

 Monika giggled, attempting to grab it again. This went on - the light always changing colors every time - for around twenty minutes, when she heard a small laugh. 

 She whirled around, "who's there?!" 

 Like magic, a tall, slender man who had the bluest eyes Monika's ever seen appeared. He was wearing a completely black cloak, which had emeralds - Monika's favorite gem - engraved on his left breast-pocket. 

 "I am Lord Lurine," the man opened his arms dramatically, a sly smirk on his face. 

 "Lord Urine?" Monika wondered out loud. He was so tall, she had to look up, but did not notice the way his eyes sharpened. "I've never heard of that before." 

 "Luh-Ren, it's pronounced, but since you're young, I won't hold it against you, dear," he said, and Monika took a step back. 

 "My mommy says not to talk to strangers," she remarked. 

 "Well, I'm not a stranger, am I? We were having plenty fun earlier." He asked, before going on. "Do you want to know the reason I came, though I?" 

 Monika shook her head. She didn't trust weird strangers, even if they had cool magic and…

 "Are you sure?" He made an expression that resembled her pouting earlier, "you might regret it if you don't listen now." 

 Regret - Monika didn't like that emotion. It made her both angry, and sad. It made her wonder what could've happened if she did something else. 

 Slowly, she brought her head into a steady up-down motion. 

 "Your father is sick." He whispered, like it was a secret only for her ears. "I know how to make him better, and without my potion, he will die a painful, slow death." 

 Hearing those words, Monika's heart fell down to the diamond-encrusted slip-ons she was wearing. 

 He paused, "isn't that so very sad?" 

 Monika felt a panic she'd never felt before. It was like she was dying, her breath raggad, her posture stiff and slow to move. 

 She only experienced death once before; when her grandfather died, leaving the crown to her family. 

 But it still wasn't happy in the slight, no, there were screams and sobs and it's all your fault's-

 "All you have to do is come with me, and your father will be just fine," his grip was tightening.

 "Ok-okay," she stuttered for the first time in her life. This was her father he was talking about; her daddy who she loved so, so, so much. 

 "Great, dear, I knew you weren't the selfish type." He grinned from ear to ear, "now, let's get you out of this dangerous, smelly kingdom. I've got a much better place for you, Monnie." 

 Monika tried to be brave, and she glared at his stupid, ugly face. "I'll come with you, but you better give 'm dad his potion." 

 "Don't worry," he soothed, "I'm an honest man - sometimes." 

 Monika did not say another word as she was pulled away from her mother, fighting the want to cry out for somebody to hear her. 

 (He couldn't be that bad, could he? Maybe he'd be like Gus, the chef who still cut her sandwiches the way she liked them. Maybe he wouldn't hurt her.) 

 "After all," Lord Lurine ran his fingers through his thinning blonde hair, a blue-lit portal in front of the both of them, "what's a wizard without his familiar?" 

[crownscost]

╰     ┈     [   sophie  skelton  ,   25  ,   demi  woman  ,   she  /  they   ]   in  the  time  of  dragons  ,   ADDISYN  MARBRAND  is  entering  the  game  of  thrones  .   said  to  be  outgoing  +  intuitive,   we  can  only  hope  that  is  the  case  as  regrettably  they  are  also  well  known  to  be  hot  -  headed  +  callous  .   when  asked  about  them,   people  are  always  reminded  of  the  fire  -  framed  features  that  burn  with  a  stubborn  pride,  the  rhythmic  thud  of  a  dagger  burying  itself  into  the  thick  trunk  of  a  tree,  coy  smiles  hiding  the  sharp  bite  of  one’s  tongue  .   though  they  are  the  LADY  OF  ASHEMARK,   their  true  loyalties  lie  with  houses  marbrand  +  lannister  and  rumour  has  it  that  if  given  the  choice  they  would  support  independence  of  the  seven  kingdoms  and  their  family  above  all  else  .   those  of  us  in  the  shadows  wish  them  luck  and  can  only  hope  they  will  survive  what  is  to  come  .

LAYER  ONE  ,     BASICS.

full  name   :   addisyn  lusia  marbrand  .

nicknames  ,   aliases   :   addi  (  e  )  .

meaning  of  names   :   addisyn,   of  english  origin,  meaning  child  of  adam   ;   lusia,   of  latin  origin,   meaning  a  child  born  at  the  daybreak   .

titles   :   lady  of  ashemark,   the  morning  flame  .

age  +  date  of  birth   :   twenty  five  +  391  ac  .

birthplace   :   ashemark,   the  westerlands  .

ethnicity   :   caucasian  .

gender  +  pronouns   :   demi  woman  +  she  /  they  .

orientation   :   bisexual,  biromantic  .

LAYER  TWO  ,      FAMILY.

father   :   utp  marbrand,   ruling  lord  of  ashemark  .

mother   :   utp  marbrand  nee  utp,   ruling  lady  of  ashemark   .

siblings   :   aren  marbrand,   twin  brother  (  older,   deceased  )  ;   utp  marbrand,   younger  brother  ;   utp  marbrand,   younger  sister  ;   neina  marbrand,   younger  sister  .

marital  status   :   unwed,   unbetrothed  .

children   :   none  .

extended  family   :   utp  marbrand  nee  utp  (  wc,  former  sister  -  in  -  law  ),  utp  marbrand  (  niece  or  nephew  ),  house  tbd  (  maternal  cousins  )  .

LAYER    THREE.     PHYSICAL.

height   :   five  foot  six  inches  .

hair  color   :   red   .

hair  length  +  preferred  style   :   medium  length,   often  worn  in  loose  waves  or  half  -  pinned  up  out  of  their  face  .   doesn’t  enjoy  their  hair  constantly  being  in  her  face,  though  will  wear  it  down  to  appease  their  mother’s  fussing  .   tends  to  keep  their  red  locks  back  and  beneath  silk  or  breathable  scarves  when  out  wandering  .

eye  color   :   light  brown  ,   appearing  almost  with  golden  flecks  in  the  sunlight  .

scars  /  distinguishing  marks   :   a  small  birthmark  above  her  right  hip  that  her  brother  always  teased  was  the  shape  of  the  reach   ;   a  thin  ,   faint  scar  along  her  left  wrist  from  falling  out  of  a  tree  as  a  child   ;   several  small  nicks  and  cuts  ,   and  a  handful  of  small  callouses  ,   on  their  hands  from  handling  daggers  and  the  like  .

dominant  hand   :   right  .

LAYER    FOUR.     HISTORY.

trigger  warning  for  :  mentions  of  death,  grief  .

born  just  moments  after  their  brother  aren,   their  birth  had  been  a  surprise  to  the  young  then  -  just  lord  and  lady  of  ashemark  .   born  just  over  a  year  into  their  marriage,  and  still  free  from  most  responsibilities,  they  were  quite  doted  on,  even  if  their  younger  siblings  seemed  to  come  in  rapid  succession  after  that.

addisyn  inherited  her  mother’s  free  spirit  while  aren  got  saddled  with  meetings  with  their  father  and  grandfather  and  learning  to  care  for  ashemark.  she,  on  the  other  hand,  much  preferred  afternoons  spent  wandering  the  grounds  or  exploring  the  markets  and,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  she  seemed  to  make  it  a  point  to  slip  her  septas.  a  skill  she’d  come  to  perfect,  the  older  she  got.

two  years  before  her  neina  was  born,  her  grandfather  passed  away  and  her  father  took  on  the  role  of  ruling  lord  of  ashemark,  a  position  he’d  been  prepared  for  his  whole  life.  only  eight  at  the  time,  his  passing  was  quite  difficult  on  addisyn,  who  had  been  quite  close  to  him.  he  always  snuck  her  sweets,  let  her  sit  with  him  and  talk  about  her  achievements  and  complaints,  always  took  time  to  make  sure  she  felt  just  as  seen  as  her  brother,  and  his  absence  in  both  her  life  and  in  ashemark  lingered  for  a  long  time.

they  took  to  the  same  activities  that  their  brother  did,  most  of  the  time,  trailing  after  him  and  insisting  on  practicing  everything  he  did.  if  aren  did  archery,  so  did  they,  the  same  way  that  if  their  father  was  taking  aren  for  a  ride,  addisyn  would  nearly  throw  a  fit  unless  they  let  them  come  along.  they  had  their  own  interests,  their  own  hobbies,  certainly,  but  nothing  felt  quite  as  easy  if  they  didn’t  do  it  together.

by  the  time  the  twins  were  in  their  late  teens,  that  sort  of  dependence  had  worn  off,  though  aren  was  still  their  closest  confidant  and  favored  company,  and  though  they  enjoyed  their  time  separately,  they  always  made  time  for  each  other.  by  this  time,  addisyn  had  convinced  her  brother  to  help  her  with  her  swords  (  though  she  still  couldn’t  spar  much  if  her  life  depended  on  it  ),  and  they  enjoyed  more  of  the  freedoms  that  came  with  age,  favoring  loose  pants  and  blouses  for  afternoons  in  the  markets,  making  friends  with  the  merchants  and  appreciating  all  the  wares  for  sale.  it  was  rare  for  them  to  return  empty  handed  from  such  trips,  often  with  little  trinkets  or  odd  little  finds.

by  twenty,  aren  was  the  one  of  them  that  had  their  life  together,  not  long  married  and  soon  enough  there’d  be  a  baby  on  the  way,  but  not  more  than  a  year  later,  tragedy  would  hit  their  family  again.  out  on  a  hunting  trip  with  a  handful  of  local  lords,  her  brother  suffered  an  accident  and  his  death  devastated  her  more  than  she  could  ever  imagine,  truly  like  she’d  lost  more  than  just  a  part  of  herself  that  day.  aren  was  as  much  her  as  she  was  him,  and  without  him  she  kind  of  fell  out  of  touch,  grew  distant  and  more  secluded.

they  never  really  recovered  from  his  death,  though  they  did  get  better  at  managing  it,  hiding  it,  of  returning  to  the  part  of  the  lady  they  were  expected  to  be.  ashemark  returned  to  normal  after  a  while,  in  both  appearance  and  general  day  to  day  motions,  but  they  grew  angrier  in  his  absence,  let  her  grief  boil  itself  into  a  rage  she  wasn’t  even  allowed  to  express  except  for  when  they  took  to  tossing  daggers  into  tree  trunks,  wailing  at  things  in  the  hopes  that  it  would  help.  it  never  did,  and  instead  of  overcoming  it,  it  just  settled  into  their  every  day  rhythm.  a  part  of  them  just  as  he  had  been.  they  never  talked  about  it,  didn’t  know  how  to,  and  every  day  they  tucked  it  further  and  further  inside  in  the  hopes  they  wouldn’t  have  to  touch  it  again.  even  four  years  later,  it’s  hardly  any  easier,  but  they’ve  schooled  themselves  into  everything  they’re  expected  to  be  for  the  sake  of  the  royal  family.

[ibijau]

You’re a marked man, brother, part 4 / also on AO3

Lan Xichen confronts the Magpie King as secrets are uncovered

warning for canon typical violence

It was common knowledge in the Heavenly Court a little over a year after Nie Mingjue ascended, a gruesome attack happened upon his home. His father was killed, as well as his father’s disciples from the youngest to the oldest, his father’s wives, his cousins, and every servant except Jin Guangyao, who had luckily been out on an errand. He had only returned in time to find everyone slaughtered, and to bear witness to Nie Mingjue beheading the murderer. Unwilling to risk the last mortal he was close to, Nie Mingjue had immediately brought Jin Guangyao to the Middle Court, where he had stayed until his own ascension some years later.

As for the house where the terrible crime happened, it remained empty for a long time. There was nobody left to inherit the place, and nobody willing to claim it for themselves. Even though every purification ritual was performed, the crime had still happened, it was still the old house of a god, and its reputation wasn’t very good. In the end, just as Nie Mingjue was thinking of asking some of his followers to do something with it, more bad luck struck and the place burned to the ground one night, in an act of arson.

The ruined piece of land was purified again, even more thoroughly than the first time. Then, the first and biggest San-Zun temple was established there, and there were never any troubles again. Still, the arsonist had never been found. And now that he stood in front of that reproduction of Nie Mingjue’s house, Lan Xichen realised that the fire had happened right as Tonglu Mountain opened, that time when the Magpie King rose to the rank of Devastation.

Lan Xichen ignored how his husband, who was still crushing his hand, tried to pull him back toward the woods, and took a step forward.

“Xichen, we cannot go in there,” Jin Guangyao said, his voice trembling. “That place, it can’t be…”

Lan Xichen gazed toward the Unclean Realm in silence, only to see its doors open on their own in invitation. Jin Guangyao only pulled harder, getting desperate in his attempts to make Lan Xichen leave.

They’d never found who the murderer had been, that terrible day, Lan Xichen recalled. Just a young man, a stranger nobody had ever seen before, whose soul was assumed to have been purified alongside the others in the house. But if it had found a way to hide and linger, if it had nursed for centuries the rage of being caught and stopped…

A person like that could very well have become a Devastation, in due time.

And if that were the case…

“I have to go,” Lan Xichen said, pulling his hand free. “I know where he’s keeping Nie Mingjue, and I fear I know what he’ll do to him, given the chance. You four may stay here if you prefer.”

“Xichen, don’t,” Jin Guangyao hissed. “He’ll destroy you!”

Ignoring him again, Lan Xichen rushed forward and went inside. As he passed the heavy doors, he heard footsteps running right behind him. He turned, hoping to see his husband, but Jin Guangyao was further back, trying to convince Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji to turn back while they still could, holding both of them by their sleeves. Instead it was Sangcan, trembling like a leaf and half crying from fear, who was coming in with him. Lan Xichen thought of ordering him away, unsure he could protect him after all, but there was a determination under his tears that dissuaded Lan Xichen from sending him back.

“Be careful,” he just ordered, slowing down so Sangcan could follow more easily. “If it becomes dangerous, just run. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It ends today,” Sangcan replied, struggling to keep up even like this. “It’s been too long anyway, and I knew it’d be dangerous from the start, my lord.”

Lan Xichen didn’t insist, and continued making his way through this copy of Nie Mingjue’s old home.

He couldn’t help being amazed by the quality of that replica, everything exactly the same as it had been the last time he had visited before the tragedy. It was uncanny, actually. That flower pot right there had the same chink it used to have, the one nobody every seemed to have time to repair or replace, and that door over there looked much newer than the rest, since it was installed during Lan Xichen’s last visit. It felt as though at any moment a group of disciples might come laughing and chatting into the courtyard to do their morning exercise, or else the old master Nie would walk by with one of his wives and wave at his visitors.

It used to be such a lively place, and to see so empty and silent was heartbreaking. Lan Xichen did his best to ignore his growing uneasiness, and walked on toward his destination. Sangcan and him crossed the front courtyard, then the central one, heading toward the back of the house where the family’s private rooms would be. He took a left turn just before the bedroom of the master of the house, and reached one of the side rooms, one that might or might not have been in use by some relative of Nie Mingjue at the time of the disaster. In spite of how well he remembered every other detail about this, that one eluded him. It didn’t matter. 

The only thing of importance about that room, Lan Xichen thought as he opened the door, was that the man who’d slaughtered the Nie household was caught and killed there.

The room, like everything else in the house, was perfectly recreated. There were some beautiful fans displayed on the walls, all exquisitely painted, as well as a fortune’s worth of books and scrolls. It looked every bit the bedroom of a rich, beloved young master spoiled by his family. Lan Xichen felt a wave of nostalgia hit him, though it was quickly overridden by dread when his eyes fell upon the bed. 

Sitting on the floor with his back to that bed, beaten, and exhausted, was Nie Mingjue. He had been tied with golden ropes, and a piece of fabric had been pushed inside his mouth to silence him, yet he tried to shout when he saw Lan Xichen in the doorway, his eyes jumping from his old friend to a silhouette standing menacingly at his side.

The person in question was a young man who couldn’t be more than twenty, if he was even that old. He wasn’t short as such, but among cultivators or gods where men grew tall, he certainly would have appeared quite small. His face was handsome, his features delicate and round, though there was a certain sharpness at the corner of his jaw, and his eyes were cold. He was dressed all in black, with a cloak thrown upon his shoulder made of hundreds of black iridescent feathers, and in his hand…

In his hand was Baxia.

Lan Xichen could only stare, unable to wrap his head around this.

Nie Mingjue’s sabre was no ordinary weapon. It had, to some degree, a mind of its own, capable of turning against its owner should he stray from the right path. Lan Xichen would never have dared to touch it, and Jin Guangyao feared it, since however dear he was to its owner, Baxia itself had a dislike of him. It should have been impossible for anyone but Nie Mingjue to handle it, and yet that young man seemed to be having no problems, not even bothered by the weight of such a large blade.

“It took you long enough,” the young man said in a flat voice, his emotionless eyes falling on Lan Xichen for a moment, before searching around. “And you’re alone? Don’t tell me that crossing Xinglu Ridge was too hard for your companions? Say, Sangcan…”

Poor Sangcan jumped and whimpered in fear, hiding behind Lan Xichen, which caused the young man to smirk cruelly.

“Couldn’t you at least do this properly? I’m disappointed, Sangcan.”

Trembling and crying, Sangcan sprung from behind Lan Xichen and dropped on his knees before the Magpie King.

“My lord, please! I just wanted this to be over!”

“And it’ll be over indeed,” the Magpie King coldly retorted, slapping Sangcan in the face and sending him flying to the side of the room. Lan Xichen gasped and reached for his sword, only for Baxia to be turned toward him. “That would be unwise, Zewu-Jun.”

“Let Nie Mingjue go,” Lan Xichen ordered. “And free Sangcan from his contract. Neither deserve to be treated this way.”

The Magpie King tilted his head, his expression unchanging as he raised his free hand. A fan appeared into it, one that must have been quite stunning once, but was now stained with blood.

“What do you know of who deserves what, Zewu-Jun? What do you know of justice? You’re nothing but a… ah, but here comes company.”

There were footsteps coming their way. Lan Xichen counted three people, two of which were immensely familiar to him. In spite of the situation, he relaxed a little, glad that Jin Guangyao had overcome his terror of this place for the sake of Nie Mingjue. He couldn't help a faint smile when his husband came near him, and just by having him present, he felt stronger than when he was alone.

“I know who you are,” Lan Xichen told the Magpie King, and though the ghost king’s face was half hidden behind his bloody fan, there was curiosity in his eyes. “You are the man who slaughtered the Nie family, centuries ago.”

That curiosity disappeared, replaced by boredom.

“Not quite,” the Magpie King stated, lowering Baxia and using it as a crutch to carelessly lean on. Next to him, Nie Mingjue struggled against his restraints, furious to see his sabre so disrespected. Yet Baxia itself allowed it, showing no resistance to the Magpie King, no trace of rage.

“Let Mingjue go,” Lan Xichen insisted, trying again to unsheathe Shuoyue.

This time, what stopped him was Jin Guangyao desperately grasping his wrist.

“Xichen, you shouldn’t…”

“I should,” Lan Xichen cut him, freeing himself and revealing his sword, which he pointed at the Magpie King. “Come on, tell us then! Why did you do all this?”

The Magpie only continued leaning on Baxia in silence, his lips slightly pinched. He threw Lan Xichen a bored look, then directed his attention behind the martial god, his expression remaining entirely unimpressed.

“Oh,” said Wei Wuxian.

It took all of Lan Xichen’s control not to turn and glance at his brother-in-law, especially when the Magpie King took a sharp breath at that exclamation.

“It’s not about Nie Mingjue,” Wei Wuxian said. “Well, it is, but it’s not. Fine, let me take a guess, let me… something happened to you, didn’t it?”

The Magpie King didn’t react, save to start lazily fanning himself. Wei Wuxian started pacing, entering and leaving Lan Xichen’s field of vision as he resumed speaking.

“Let me see, let me just see… That curse you use on people, the one sealing their secrets, the reason you know it is because someone used it on you. Before you died, I’d think, or shortly after? No, it had to be before, it’d take better that way. Then, what you’re hiding… you used to have a brother,” Wei Wuxian guessed. “And… ah! Yes, of course, you had a lover as well. And you were murdered…”

He stopped his pacing, and looked at the Magpie King who looked back with nothing but mild curiosity on his face.

“I’m missing something,” Wei Wuxian guessed.

“If it were that easy, I’d be free already,” the Magpie King retorted with an affected yawn. “Come on, Wei-xiong. You’re smarter than that.”

Wei Wuxian resumed his pacing, muttering to himself. Lan Xichen hesitated to use whatever was going on between Wei Wuxian and the Magpie King to rush forward and try to grab Nie Mingjue, but he dared not go anywhere near Baxia, not when it appeared to have changed sides.

Besides, he was curious about this business. For a ghost as powerful as the Magpie King, a curse should have been easy to avoid or break. Certainly it would have attached itself to him a good deal deeper if it had been cast while he was still alive and thus more vulnerable, but he was a ghost king, a Devastation. The only people who should have been able to do lasting damage to the Magpie King were another Devastation, or perhaps a god. If Wei Wuxian had been brought there to help, it was unlikely to be the first. But if it was the second, and with the way the Magpie King had once gone to such length to ruin certain corrupt gods…

“Xichen, you should attack him,” Jin Guangyao whispered, barely more than a breath against his ear. “He’s not paying attention to you. Kill him, and then we can all go home and forget all about this.”

As low as his voice was, the Magpie King still heard him and shot him a venomous glare. It was by far the most intense expression he'd graced them with so far, and at the same time, Baxia’s rage flashed through the room, startling all of them. Nie Mingjue in particular seemed shocked. Knowing him, he had to have been trying to get his sabre back under control the entire time, so to see it react to another person’s emotions must have been particularly unsettling.

"Xichen, please!" Jin Guangyao hissed, hiding behind his husband. 

At a normal time, Lan Xichen would never have ignored his husband's distress. But this was not a normal time, and there were too many odd things he couldn't ignore. 

"Why did you call this place the Unclean Realm?" he asked the Magpie King, that particular detail bothering him the most even though it was such a small thing. 

Now that Jin Guangyao was no longer in his field of view, the ghost king's expression turned bored again. 

"It's just what it used to be called." 

Lan Xichen lowered his sword, his hands trembling. He looked again at the Devastation's face, youthful and handsome but definitely unfamiliar, and yet… 

"Have we met before?" 

The Magpie King nearly fell face first to the floor, so surprised by that question that he'd leaned too hard on Baxia. He quickly straightened himself and resumed his previous position. Although he refused to answer, there was now something like hope in his cold eyes as he observed Lan Xichen. 

Wei Wuxian snapped his fingers. "Yes, that's it! You have met him before, Zewu-Jun!" he announced. "And it's linked to his curse, or else he'd say something, right?" 

The Magpie King pinched his lips, while Wei Wuxian grinned triumphantly. 

"Then I think it's like this. Long ago, this man we call the Magpie King was mortal. He lived in Qinghe, in this house. He had a brother, and a lover, one to whom he was linked by fate… and I'm guessing it's not the only good thing fate had in store for him. You used to be a lucky person, old friend, weren't you?" Wei Wuxian mused. "Enough to make someone envious perhaps. So envious that someone found a way to trade their fate for yours, hm? And then to cover their tracks they had you killed, and cursed you so you would never be able to reveal the truth about that exchange of fates, and so only you and them could know how things used to be."

Although the Magpie King was still unable to answer, his expression turned pleading. 

Lan Xichen felt his blood turn to ice, his grip on Shuoyue loosening to such a degree he nearly dropped his sword. When he glanced at Nie Mingjue, he saw on his old friend a horrified expression that had to match his own. If Wei Wuxian was right, they both used to know the Magpie king.

"I'm still missing something," Wei Wuxian said, clicking his tongue in annoyance. "But what… your name? It's got to be your name. Something in "Sang", right?"

Before Wei Wuxian could start guessing at that name, Lan Xichen felt his sword be torn from his hand and saw Jin Guangyao try to stab Wei Wuxian through the heart. If not for Lan Wangji's fast reflexes allowing him to parry the strike, the ghost king would have been pierced through. 

"Feeling threatened, Lianfang-Zun?" Wei Wuxian taunted with a sharp laugh. "I wasn't sure yet which of the three of you it was, actually. I'll admit I'm glad it's you, because my bet was on Zewu-Jun, and that would have made things quite awkward for me."

"My husband might be kind enough to listen to your ramblings," Jin Guangyao retorted, "but I won't be so easily charmed. I don't know what sort of a game Huaisang and you are playing, but I will stop you before you can cause anymore harm!" 

Wei Wuxian started cackling, and glanced at his husband who nodded. 

"Nie Huaisang," Lan Wangji said.

The Magpie King gasped like a drowning man coming to the surface, clinging to Baxia as if he might fall without its support. 

"That's me," he said. "I'm Nie Huaisang. And you," he added, glaring at Jin Guangyao, "are going to regret what you did to me."

Realising his mistake, Jin Guangyao dropped Shuoyue and jumped to hide again behind Lan Xichen who allowed it, partly out of habit, partly because the shock was too great. 

The instant Lan Wangji had said out loud the Magpie King's name, forgotten memories flooded Lan Xichen's mind, changing everything he thought he remembered of his life as a mortal. Back then, whenever he'd visited Qinghe, he would spend time with Nie Mingjue certainly, but there was also his little brother tagging along, an odd boy who'd soon started growing into a charming young man for whom Lan Xichen fell hard. Both Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue had loved Nie Huaisang, both of them had wanted to take him to the Heavenly Court after ascending, and yet neither of them had mourned him when he died, because they couldn't remember he even existed when that happened. 

"Xichen, husband, don't listen to them!" Jin Guangyao pleaded. "You know me better than that!" 

"Do I?" Lan Xichen asked, pinching his nose to fight off the first signs of a headache. "You… you were there too, weren't you? You used to be a servant for the Nie, but Mingjue was pushing for you to learn cultivation. Mingjue and A-Sang as well, yet you did this to him."

"I meant no harm!" Jin Guangyao cried out. "How could I have known things would go this way? But it was unfair! I worked so hard for everything, and he…" he gesture furiously at nie Huaisang. "What had he done to deserve all his luck? What was he doing with all his luck, except laze around and paint his stupid fans! He was offered a chance to ascend and he refused!” Jin Guangyao shouted. “Everything anyone could have wanted, and he refused! Was I really supposed to let him continue to waste whatever good fortune he’d been granted, while I slaved away only to have my every effort looked down upon?”

"But da-ge never looked down on you," Nie Huaisang coldly said, still leaning on Baxia. "He promoted you, complimented you. If you'd only kept working diligently, soon enough he would have taken you to the Middle Court. You would not have ascended, not with a fate like yours, but…" 

"Who said I wanted to be a god?" Jin Guangyao snapped. "You think I would have done this if I had guessed you were fated to ascend? All I wanted was to be lucky, to be recognised by my family, and live the same pampered life you had! Do you know how hard things were for me before I exchanged our fates?”

“I’m not going to cry for you,” Nie Huaisang said.

“Of course not. Why would you? You’ve never known a day of hardship in your life!” Jin Guangyao cried. “You’re nothing but a pampered little brat, you…”

Suddenly Nie Huaisang stood straighter.

“I haven’t known hardship?” he snarled with a vicious laugh, raising the hand which held his blood covered fan. 

Coming from the very floor, golden ropes like the ones on Nie Mingjue wrapped themselves around the other three gods present, tying them up tightly and robbing them of their strength. Only Wei Wuxian was left free, but he made no movement to help the others, only checking at Lan Wangji to make sure his restraints were not too uncomfortable.

“You know well how far from easy my last year alive was, Meng Yao,” Nie Huaisang spat, pointing his fan at Jin Guangyao. “You were there when my father was wounded in a Night Hunt, when his health declined, when rumours started spreading that I wasn’t his son! You were there, and you’d suddenly become his favourite, while I was treated as a stranger by my own father who’d lost his mind so badly he couldn’t recognise me anymore! And weren’t you there that night as well, when his sabre broke and his mind fractured?”

“It wasn’t my fault! How could I have known this would happen? Members of your family always go mad, don’t they?”

“But they don’t usually find a soulless sabre and slaughter their entire household with it,” Nie Huaisang said darkly. “You were there with us, Meng Yao. How foolish I was, trying to save you, just as I was trying to save others. Do you remember how this room looked that night, covered in the blood of my mother, of the younger disciples?”

Nie Huaisang ragefully waved his fan at the walls around them, and the room changed. It became darker, as if it were the middle of the night rather than early morning, and all over the floor were the shadowy shapes of mangled bodies, several belonging to mere children. The shadow of a tall, square man stood by the bed, nearly exactly above Nie Mingjue, while a frail young man with several deep gashes over his body sprung forward to stab him through the heart with an ornate dagger. The tall man collapsed, falling into the exact position Nie Mingjue was kept in.

“You made me kill my father,” Nie Huaisang said, watching the scene unfold with a face devoid of expression. “He would have gotten out and continued slaughtering more innocents otherwise. He kept saying he was going to purify the world after purifying this house. I couldn’t let him, and I wasn’t strong enough to stop him any other way. You made me kill my father, Meng Yao,” Nie Huaisang hissed, staring at the wounded shadow of his former self. “And then you made my brother kill me.”

He waved his fan again, and a new character entered the scene presented to them: Nie Mingjue.

That shadow of the past, a young Jin Guangyao right behind him, went straight to the young Nie Huaisang who fell on his knees. The words exchanged couldn’t be heard through the illusion, but it was clear Nie Huaisang was pleading as he weakly pulled on his brother’s robes, begging either for help or for forgiveness. He got neither. In a fit of cold rage, Nie Mingjue lifted Baxia and brought it down on his desperate brother.

The illusion lifted just as Baxia’s blade was about to make contact, the current Nie Huaisang quickly waving his fan again to remove all traces of the past, as if unable to bear witness to his own death.

On the floor Nie Mingjue was crying and screaming through the fabric gagging him, but Nie Huaisang ignored him, all his attention on Jin Guangyao as he raised Baxia.

“Now, I could just show you what it feels like to have your head chopped off,” Nie Huaisang mused, admiring Baxia’s sharp edge. “I won’t say I haven’t fantasised about it… but since we’re all here together, I think it might be more fun to offer you a different option, should you be willing to take it. One where you wouldn’t die, Meng Yao. Does that interest you?”

“Huaisang, I’m sorry,” Jin Guangyao cried. “I couldn’t have known, I couldn’t have imagined, I never meant…”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Nie Huaisang cut him. “Here is my offer: if I let you live, you will descend from godhood, live as a mortal, and take on a fate worse than the one that ought to have been yours.”

Jin Guangyao fell to his knees. “Worse than my original fate? How could I bear with it when already that one was…”

He trailed off, remembering suddenly that however awful his fate had been, he had managed to escape it while condemning Nie Huaisang to suffer it in his stead. Realising he would find no sympathy there, Jin Guangyao turned to Lan Xichen.

“Xichen, don’t let him hurt me!” he begged. “I’m your husband, won’t you protect me? No matter how it came to be, weren’t we happy all this time? Haven’t I done everything I could to be a good husband, to care for you, to support you? Has there ever been a moment I wasn’t on your side? Even when your brother decided to marry a Devastation, didn’t I immediately come up with ways to help so this wouldn’t cause trouble? Don’t let that Magpie King harm me, Xichen!”

Nie Huaisang threw them both a disgusted look, while Wei Wuxian laughed.

“Lianfang-Zun, don’t pretend to be so good,” he said. “Of course you wanted to help deal with our marriage. The scandal was going to affect you too, right? And since you probably were already so scared that someone might discover you weren’t supposed to be in the Heavenly Court at all, you couldn’t risk people poking too much into the Lan's private business.”

“Was it all a plot to unmask me then?” Jin Guangyao asked. “That stupid marriage…”

Wei Wuxian laughed again, and hugged Lan Wangji who, in spite of being tied up, leaned into his husband’s touch.

“On my part, it was all sincere,” Wei Wuxian said. “But now I’m wondering if Nie-xiong hasn’t been scheming for a long while, hm? He was around when I first met Lan Zhan after all.”

Nie Huaisang shrugged, looking at best annoyed by Jin Guangyao’s begging and Wei Wuxian’s display of affection.

“You and Lan Wangji were tied by fate, so nothing I could have done would change that,” Nie Huaisang said. “But this makes me think… so, Meng Yao, you think it would be too cruel to send you back to your own fate? Then I have another option. One you will like, I believe, since it will leave you unharmed.”

“I’m listening,” Jin Guangyao said.

Nie Huaisang closed his fan in a sharp gesture and from a corner of the room came Sangcan, carrying a dagger in his open hands. Lan Xichen felt cold sweat run down his back as he recognised the weapon from the memory they had been shown earlier.

It was the one Nie Huaisang had used to kill his own father.

Sangcan, after throwing an apologetic look to Lan Xichen, dropped it in front of Jin Guangyao whose restraints withdrew, leaving him free to move once more. Sangcan then turned to his master for further instructions, but Nie Huaisang paid him no mind, and so the ghost simply remained next to Lan Xichen.

“Here is my second offer,” Nie Huaisang announced. “If you refuse it, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m listening,” Jin Guangyao repeated.

“Use this dagger to kill Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue,” Nie Huaisang ordered. “If you do so, I will take the blame, and you will be free to do as you please. Go back to the Heavenly Court or return to life as a mortal, I don’t care as long as you kill them first.”

“Now wait a minute!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed. “I’m not sure that’s quite fair on those two. What have they done to deserve this?”

Nie Huaisang reopened his fan to hide a cruel smile.

“What has anyone ever done to deserve their fate, Wei-xiong? It would please me to see this happen, I am in a position of power in my own demand, so why shouldn’t I ask for something that amuses me?”

Wei Wuxian threw him a sharp look, while Lan Wangji struggled against the golden ropes restraining him.

“If they are killed, we will demand justice,” Lan Wangji threatened.

Nie Huaisang shrugged. He put down Baxia again, leaning against it as if eager to admire the show to come.

“Lan-xiong, with your brother dead, you won’t remain in the Heavenly Court,” he explained, as if Lan Wangji were nothing but an unruly child. “Nobody will listen to the voice of one mortal clamouring for justice. I’d know. I’ve made it my business to offer an alternative to those who gods won’t listen to. You’ll have to rely on your husband then… and however powerful he might be, he’s not stupid enough to make an enemy of me.”

Wei Wuxian gritted his teeth, but didn’t deny it. Lan Xichen, watching him, thought that his brother-in-law just didn’t have the power and experience to take on the Magpie King. Not yet, anyway. Considering what he’d seen of Wei Wuxian in those last few days, Lan Xichen had no doubt the Yiling Patriarch could very well surpass the Magpie King in a century or two.

Not that it mattered, he thought, because Jin Guangyao wasn’t going to turn on centuries of friendship and intimacy just to save his own skin. He wasn’t that sort of a person. Lan Xichen refused to believe his husband could be like that, no matter what else he had done in the past.

He also couldn’t believe that Nie Huaisang could want them dead. Not when Lan Xichen could now remember the sweet and mischievous boy he once loved, the one who adored his brother long before Nie Mingjue ascended, the one who called it a good luck charm whenever he kissed Lan Xichen.

“Hurry up and decide, Meng Yao,” Nie Huaisang ordered, impatiently fanning himself. “Their life for yours, you’re making a great deal. You know as well as I do that they’re not worth much. Look at them, such powerful martial gods they’re supposed to be, and yet even someone like you tricked them so well. They disgust me,” Nie Huaisang spat. “One little curse, and they quite happily forgot everything about me, didn’t they? Well, I know I was never what they wanted. If not for fate forcing them to have me at their side, they’d never have looked twice my way. I wonder if they weren’t happier with you?” he mused, pausing his fan for a moment to throw Lan Xichen a hateful look. “They must have been, or else they’d surely have noticed something. How pathetic. So go on, Meng Yao. Kill them, and we shall both be freed from fate today.”

“A-Sang, you’re wrong!” Lan Xichen exclaimed. “I didn’t…”

Next to him, Meng Yao jumped to his feet, dagger in hand and turned to strike his husband, but Sangcan put himself in front of Lan Xichen with a desperate cry and took the blow for him. All of them stared at that dagger, burrowed to the hilt into Sangcan’s chest. The ghost himself might have been the more surprised of them all, and he raised a hand to touch the weapon. Before he could do so, Jin Guangyao pulled out the dagger. Sangcan immediately collapsed at Lan Xichen’s feet, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“A-Yao, why?” Lan Xichen gasped, looking at his husband for a trace of shame or remorse, only to find Jin Guangyao staring at him with open hatred.

“I never asked to be a god,” he spat. “And I never asked to have you as my husband either, nor Nie Mingjue as my brother. I just wanted to be rich and comfortable! Maybe for Huaisang this would have been good luck, but for me it has been nothing but centuries of misery!”

Lan Xichen stared at the man who had shared his life for so long, too numb to do anything but cry as Jin Guangyao raised his dagger to strike again.

Behind him, the Magpie King laughed.

“So many lives ruined, and you couldn’t even be happy,” Nie Huaisang said while quickly lifting Baxia above himself, and with one sharp gesture he sent Jin Guangyao’s head rolling.

For a few seconds, Jin Guangyao’s body remained standing in front of Lan Xichen. His head, which had fallen to the side, watched as if in horror. Then, slowly, Jin Guangyao’s body crumbled to the floor next to Sangcan’s.

Lan Xichen, sprayed with blood, continued crying while looking down at his husband, too exhausted to feel anything about what had happened. He barely even noticed when the golden ropes that had kept him in place withdrew and his strength returned to him.

“Wei-xiong, I will impose on you one last time and ask that you take all those people away from my home,” Nie Huaisang ordered in a bored voice. “I’ll only keep Meng Yao’s corpse as decoration, the others don’t interest me.”

Lan Xichen tore his eyes from his late husband’s remains to look at Nie Huaisang, this man he had never quite forgotten and who he had searched for centuries, even without knowing who he was. He still didn’t know who he was. Although the face and voice were the same, there was nothing left of the sweet boy in his memories.

“Are you going to plead for another chance?” Nie Huaisang taunted when he noticed Lan Xichen’s eyes on himself. “Are you going to say it is fate? Say it, I dare you! Fate disgusts me. I didn’t do this to have you and da-ge back. Being fooled so thoroughly for so long… just looking at the two of you, I want to puke.”

If he’d had the strength, Lan Xichen would have objected that he wasn’t fooled, that he’d never fully forgotten his A-Sang. He suspected that the same was true of Nie Mingjue, always giving fans to Jin Guangyao, always craving a warmth that Jin Guangyao failed to offer. Jin Guangyao had exchanged their fates and tried to erase Nie Huaisang’s existence from their lives, but he had missed certain details which came up as expectations he couldn’t fulfil.

He could almost pity Jin Guangyao. It really must have been a torture for him to live like this, always fearing they would figure out the truth if he didn’t play his role to perfection.

Lan Xichen, suddenly, wondered if perhaps Nie Mingjue too had remembered an A-Sang, if he too had looked for a boy whose face and relation to him he couldn’t recall. Maybe it had been a mistake from the start for Lan Xichen not to speak about the friend he thought he’d lost.

They would talk about it now.

They would talk about many things, but not in that house, and certainly not in front of the Magpie King.

Lan Xichen hobbled to Nie Mingjue, and helped him up. His wounds weren’t so severe after all, but he was shaking badly and seemed unable to look at his brother. Even when the Magpie King handed Baxia back to him, Nie Mingjue turned away, his hands trembling as he received his weapon still stained with the blood of Jin Guangyao.

As they left the room, Lan Xichen couldn’t resist looking back one last time. He saw the Magpie King kick the lifeless corpse of Jin Guangyao, before stepping over it to check on Sangcan’s body and waving his fan over it. The body immediately disappeared without a trace, which did not surprise Lan Xichen. What could Sangcan have been, except a tool for the Magpie King to give what hints he could without Jin Guangyao’s notice so Wei Wuxian could unravel the mystery of his curse. The only question, then, was why Sangcan had been made to protect Lan Xichen.

A question that would likely never be answered, or so Lan Xichen hoped.

From what he had seen and heard so far of the Magpie King, the reason could only have been a cruel one.

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 22)

Notes: Apologies for any major errors. I'm going to edit this again in the morning, but I wanted to keep to my promise and give you something today!

And also, I'm sorry... this is an eventful chapter...

EDIT: Now hopefully free of typos and grammatical errors...

Chapter Twenty Two Nesta

Despite the fact that it was only an hour past dawn, the camp was already bustling the next morning as Nesta made her way through the back end of the mountain pass. Cassian was scheduled to visit Swallow’s Ridge at midday, so Nesta had risen early and eaten breakfast alone before walking to meet him in their usual training spot.

It was a bleak, grey sort of day, the sky kissed with the promise of snow and the air so cold Nesta’s breath clouded thick in front of her as she approached the sparring rings. 

The training grounds were not the same as those carved into the rock towards the front of the mountain pass. Instead, an area had been felled of pine trees that was just large enough to construct three large training areas, which were partitioned off by wooden fencing. Unlike the punishing crystalline rock, the ground was soft and open to the elements, a mixture of stone and compact earth that had frozen solid in the cold weather.

Nesta counted twenty girls in the ring as she drew closer — the most Cassian had ever had, he’d informed her over dinner a few nights prior — and whilst some of them looked like they hated every second of it, Nesta noticed Durkhanai and some of the other orphans frowning in concentration as Cassian took them through the guard swings.

At the entrance of the ring, with his arms crossed firmly across his hard and unyielding chest, was Lord Devlon. He was wearing a stern expression, but apart from the odd clipped order he allowed Cassian to lead the session rather than stepping in himself. This did not seem to bother Cassian, who appeared wholly focussed as he walked up and down the training ground, correcting handgrips and stances with a voice that was still General but kinder than when Nesta had heard him barked instructions at the males.

Unlike when Nesta trained, no males had stopped to watch the girls in the ring. Instead, they appeared to avoid the training ground altogether, as if they were purposefully keeping their distance. Nesta was sure there was some pathetic reason for it, but she cast the sneering males to the back of her mind as she deliberately drew to a halt beside the pine fencing a metre from Devlon.

The positioning was purposeful; Nesta was not going to be intimidated by a half-wit bat with a stick up his ass. If Devlon wanted to believe she was a witch, she’d damn well let him.

So drawing up tall, Nesta surveyed Cassian walking up and down the line of girls as they practiced guard swings with wooden swords, and ignored Devlon with blatant disinterest.

The girls attention wavered as they clocked her arrival, and even Cassian stopped correcting a young female’s grip, his wings and nostrils flaring slightly as he scented her on the breeze.

Cassian’s head started to turn but Nesta didn’t have time to meet his gaze, as Devlon cast his dark, cold eyes to rest upon her. 

“Here for training are you,” he grunted. He eyed her hands warily as if he expected mist to be seeping from them.

Nesta twitched her fingers in the hope that he might squirm — just for her satisfaction — and a small, cruel smile twisting her lips upwards. “Yes.”

A begrudging nod. Not a snarl or a sneer. Only, “Mind where you blast that fire.”

Nesta opened her mouth to reply, but then Cassian was in front of her on the other side of the fence. His hair was even more tangled than usual. “I’m nearly finished,” he told Nesta, even though his eyes remained fiercely trained on Devlon. His expression was hard and a muscle in his jaw was already twitching. “Start warming up. Ten laps around the ring.”

Shrugging, Nesta started to jog around the training ground as the girls began to put away their wooden training swords. Durkhanai’s eyes widened as she spotted Nesta, a shy smile flitting across her face.

Nesta saw the orphan most days. Together they helped bathe, dress and feed the younglings to relieve the widows who needed to get down the mountain for work. Durkhanai was quiet but lovely, and after a week of working silently side by side, she started to speak to Nesta, telling her of the death of her mother during the brutal winter last year and her journey to the widows camp, the only place that would take her in. In turn, Nesta had shared a part of herself: her starvation as a human and the death of her own mother.

She did not speak about how she had been Made or about her father’s death. That was something Nesta was still not ready to discuss, let alone face herself.

Sometimes, late at night, Nesta would wake with her face wet with tears, having dreamt of those ships sailing into the midst of battle. How her father had stood at the helm of Nesta, as he looked towards the coastline and his daughters. In that moment, he looked forever young; his hair golden brown rather than grey, his face alight with purpose, his posture tall. The father he had been before their mother died, when Nesta had been his favourite and Feyre had not been forced to the woods so they did not starve.

Feyre. The sister who Nesta might potentially see today, if she willed it.

Originally, Nesta had not even contemplated meeting her sister. Had imagined Feyre standing at the top of the mountain in the freezing cold as she waited for a sister who would not come. But slowly, as three weeks passed, Nesta found herself torn between unbridled fury and curiosity.

Even now, Nesta did not know how to feel. Did not know whether she would face her sister or not. Did not know if she could.

So when she and Cassian trained, Nesta went hard. She ignored the few girls that had stayed behind to watch and Devlon’s beady eyes from his spot at the gates. Instead, Nesta slipped into the rhythm of hand-to-hand combat with an ease that had not come before, her fists and body a blur against the grey landscape.

When she finished her fifth round, a bead of sweat trickled down Cassian’s brow. “Good,” he praised between breaths, and Nesta knew it was deserved. “I felt that kick to the side, sweetheart.”

“Good,” she mirrored, and Cassian barked a laugh. “Maybe you’ll stop going easy on me.”

“I didn’t,” Cassian promised.

A dismissive snort. “You could have pinned me after that upper cut.”

Hazel eyes glowed bright. “I don’t fancy being blasted with silver fire this early in the morning,” Cassian said, even though they both knew why he hadn't pinned her. He stalked to the weapons rack and threw her a longsword, which she effortlessly caught by the handle. “Guards and then combat. Let’s see if you can strike me twice today.”

After their training session, Cassian loitered around the bungalow for longer than he should have. He had bathed first, so Nesta raised an eyebrow at him in surprise as she came out of the bathroom to find him in the living room.

“I thought you were going to Swallow’s Ridge,” Nesta said, her chin lifted as if daring for him to comment that she was wearing nothing but a towel.

The Nesta riddled with alcohol and completely numb would have had no qualms about baring her skin for all the world to see, if only to discover whether it would make her bitter heart feel. But with the potential meeting of her sister on the horizon, Nesta felt splintered and raw.

After failing to illicit comments from Cassian the day of Mor’s visit, Nesta also no longer felt as body confident as she had been. Her failure to draw his attention had only confirmed what she had not wanted to admit: that whilst she had put on weight, the knots in her spine were still too prominent and her thighs were far thinner than they should be, bowing at the tops rather than meeting in the middle. And whilst it wasn’t as if Cassian hadn’t seen more of Nesta’s skin before, today she wasn’t in a place where she could relish in it. If she had known he were still around the house, she would have changed into fresh clothes in the bathroom rather than her room.

Cassian’s nostrils flared and his eyes gleamed for such a short moment that Nesta wondered if it had merely been the fire dancing in his irises. “I might stay and oversee the foot soldiers instead.”

Raising an eyebrow, Nesta tightened the towel around her body. “Why,” she asked shortly. Too shortly. They both knew what today could be, depending on Nesta’s decision. It had been an omen hanging over them that morning as they trained. Cassian had not dared bring it up, and Nesta, who was still too conflicted over her sister’s impending visit, had only set her mouth in thin determination and wielded the longsword after he had thrown it at her, as if it were an extension of herself.

To Cassian’s delight, she had struck him twice. When they had ended, Cassian had vowed that he would start training her with the bow the following day at Spearhead.

Loosing a shrug, Cassian replied, “The rite is in three months. The Windhaven soldiers need as much training as they can get.”

A casual response, but Nesta was not fooled.

She reset her posture, her eyes narrowing in a way that usually had other’s running. “Do it tomorrow.”

Cassian cocked his head and those hazel eyes tunnelled into her with such intensity that Nesta wanted to look away. She didn’t let herself give in to the temptation, staring him down with the sort of unveiled threat that promised she’d make his life hell if he dared defy her.

Eventually, Cassian just shrugged, his broad wings shifting with the movement. He ruffled them, spreading them quickly before tucking them back in. It was a signature move of his when he was uncomfortable. “I’ll be back at dusk. I’ll see you for dinner?”

A careful question designed to ensure that Nesta didn’t intend to retreat into herself should she meet with Feyre. Cassian was worried, Nesta realised, fiercely so, the sensation escaping the walls he had constructed after Kamanam and lining her stomach with the scent of pine and musk and untamed air.

It had been a while since Nesta had been left feeling fully numb. It was a feat that hadn’t escaped her. Clearly, it hadn’t escaped Cassian either, and he wanted the reassurance that meeting with her sister wasn’t going to make her suffer, even though they both knew it didn’t work that way.

For once though, Nesta did hope that the numbness wouldn’t take a hold of her. The sensation felt odd — hope — but it was there, a flicker in the dark. And the thought of coming back to the bungalow later to eat in the kitchen with Cassian… the image was warm and inviting. Nesta could see the orange glow of faelight around the kitchen window, could imagine her feet crunching on snow and ice as she trekked her way back, could taste the spices on her tongue as she bit into the food he would prepare for her…

So Nesta said, “That depends on what you’re making.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “What would you like, sweetheart?”

Nesta shrugged, as if she were wholly uncaring, even as it felt as if someone had clenched a fist in her chest. “Dosas,” she said, tossing the word over her shoulder as she turned on her heel to head into the bedroom.

A low chuckle made her stomach twist and flip, but she did not look back at him, even though she knew his eyes had darkened and flared simultaneously.

Despite the distance, Nesta felt Cassian’s laugh rumble through her, like a flame licking down to her core. “Dosas it is.”

***  

Once she had dressed, Nesta left her bedroom with the intention of making her way to the widows camp. To her fury, she found that Cassian had still not left. He was waiting by the door, her headband in his outstretched hand. Her coat remained hanging from its hook, as if he had anticipated that she would emerge in clean leathers rather than an Illyrian dress.

When he informed her that he planned to walk her to the bottom of the mountain, Nesta snatched the headband from his hands and stormed out of the door with a furious hiss that had him grinning.

Yet... Nesta allowed him to follow her. Knew his cocky grin was just for show. Knew that he wouldn’t voice what they both knew: that somehow his presence had a calming effect on her, smoothing over the gravitas of what could or couldn’t happen in a few hours time.

Cassian opened his mouth a number of times during the walk, but eventually he chose to remain silent. Only when they arrived at the base of the mountain did he surprise her, conversing quickly with the guards in sharp Illyrian before stepping onto the treacherous path with her, rather than shooting into the skies.

Nesta’s scathing look did nothing to stop him in his tracks, and it was only when they made the first brutal turn that he spoke. “You don’t have to see your sister today if you don’t want to.”

Nesta scowled, angry at Cassian for bringing up Feyre when she had intended to cast her to the back of her mind whilst she still could. Her entire body stiffened but she did not turn to him, knowing somehow, that he wanted eye contact from her — hazel on blue.

She kept on walking; one foot in front of the other, her fur-lined boots crunching loose rock beneath her feet. “I am fully aware of what I can and cannot do.”

Her delivery was pointed enough to wound, but Cassian did not flinch. He stopped, reaching for her, his fingers closing around her wrist. “I meant what I said to you the other day, Nesta. You shouldn’t see your sister if you don’t think it’s best for you right now.”

Silence followed as heat licked through Nesta’s veins, her power slithering like a serpent through a dark tunnel.

When Cassian spoke next, his voice was low — a confession, “I fucked up before. I was so angry at you for ignoring me that I didn’t try to see things from your perspective. So I’m going to tell you again what I think you need to hear: only do this for you. Don’t do this for Feyre. If it feels right to meet your sister, meet her. If your gut tells you it is wrong, follow that feeling.”

Nesta nearly snorted in dismissal, but she quashed the sound before it could escape, remembering the look on Cassian’s face that night of Solstice, when she had treated him as if he weren’t worthy enough to even reject.

Instead, she said frostily, “I don’t need your support.”

Something flickered behind Cassian’s eyes. “I know,” he admitted, “but I want you to know that you have it, if you do want it.” His grip tightened around her wrist, his touch warm and too packed with meaning. “Sometimes we need distance to figure out what we need, Nesta.”

His gaze was too intense, so Nesta threw his words back at him as she scrabbled to keep her expression neutral. “And what do you need.”

A shake of the head had Cassian’s wind-snarled hair moving. “I don’t need anything from you," he confessed. "Recently there’s a spark of life in you that wasn’t there before. I don’t want to see it go out.”

Nesta’s windpipe tightened and she sucked in a breath as she purposefully slid her eyes away from him to the frost-kissed landscape; to the snow-capped pine trees, the canvas tents and the shadowed blurs of leather and steel.

“I’m not the same girl who was forced into the Cauldron,” Nesta said.

It was true. Nesta was not who she had been. The Cauldron and the war had remoulded her body and self until she was recognisably different: harder around the edges, broken in the middle. A jumble of revenge and anger and grief and hatred. Emotions that she tried in vein to trap in ice to stop herself from self-combusting.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Cassian’s fingers moved from her wrist to squeeze her fingers.

“No,” Cassian agreed softly, “but I like who you have become, all the same.” With his other hand, he reached up to brush his thumb lightly over the arch of her cheekbone.

The initiated contact surprised Nesta so much that she did not have the time to order herself to flinch.

“I’ll see you later,” Cassian said, after he had stared into her eyes for a little too long. “If you need me, get one of the guards to send a messenger to Swallow’s Ridge. I’ll come back.”

They both knew Nesta would not ask for him, but she nodded to indicate that she had heard before he shot into the sky. Nesta watched him until he faded into the clouds, his dark wings merging with grey…

A flash of ruby flared like lightning, and then he was gone.

The weather was moody — Nesta’s favourite — and the rolling white and smoke clouds made her emotions spark in a way that she found comforting as she continued up the path. Despite her initial hesitancy, Nesta had learnt that for the most part, it was better to feel than to feel nothing at all. And now… all she could feel was where Cassian’s calloused thumb had brushed over her skin. She wondered if the bastard had done it on purpose to distract her — to make her feel when now was a time when she’d usually retreat into herself.

It irritated her beyond belief that it worked, but it irked her more that she wanted him to do it again.

Females dipped their heads at Nesta in greeting as she submerged herself into the bustling widows camp. Nesta nodded back at them, and when she found the least battered tent at the East side of the camp, Nesta rapped her knuckled on the canvas to alert Mas to her arrival before she ducked quickly inside. The housekeeper’s face lit up at the sight of her. Mas had been winding a thick scarf around Roksana’s neck, but she stopped the task to take Nesta’s face in her hands and plant two quick kisses on each cheek before she hurried off to help the other females in the makeshift kitchens.

“Tiya, sunt tibi beni?” Nesta asked Roksana when they were alone, smoothing a hand over the girl’s tangled hair before she continued to wind the scarf around the youngling.

Roksana did not reply, she only wrapped her arms around Nesta’s legs in a hug that warmed Nesta’s blood.

It was a recent development that Nesta had taken to greeting Roksana in Illyrian, hoping to coax out some words in her in her native tongue. It hadn’t worked yet, but the way in which Roksana’s eyes had lit up the first time Nesta had tried to sound out the language, had left Nesta determined to persist, even if she continued to come up empty.

The chores in the widows camp were never-ending. Tuesdays were many of the females day off and so the camp was far busier than usual. Nesta helped to feed and clothe the orphans with Durkhanai at the Eastern side of the camp, before urging the younglings to warm their wings and frozen limbs by the campfire.

Some of the older widows, including Mas, had come to settle by the fire as well, in order to keep an eye on the younglings whilst they weaved beautiful fabric together with needle and thread. Braving the fire, Nesta settled with Roksana against her side and recounted a few stories, until the spitting became too much and the sun was high in the sky.

Then, without thinking, Nesta stood. She ran a hand over Roksana’s hair and bid Mas goodbye, before heading to the path that traversed up the mountain to the summit at the Western point of the camp. She ignored the way in which Mas had watched her go, her expression concerned to the point of troubled. There was no way in which Mas could know what Nesta was about to do — Nesta had not told anyone about her potential meeting with her sister — but Mas had come to learn her moods just as Cassian had.

If Nesta was more forthcoming about herself, she might have asked Mas’s advice, but instead Nesta continued to move on instinct — on the pull that was drawing her legs to climb up, up, up until the path flattened out.

She saw Feyre as soon as she reached the peak. It was not hard to spot her. She was standing at the precipice, staring down at the widows camp below. Despite the long braid that had woven her sister’s golden brown hair into three strands, the fierce wind carried it behind her, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the slight upwards slant to her eyes. Her long, elegant figure was swept up in the finest fur-lined leathers, as if she too had unwittingly dressed to expect a battle. Or, Nesta thought grimly, the clothing that her mate had insisted she wear, knowing that her sister was not only braving the Illyrian weather but her thorny, quarrelsome sister.

Nesta had just noted the sword strapped to her spine, when Feyre turned and noticed her.

There was a pregnant pause as eyes near identical to her own took in Nesta’s figure: her frost-kissed skin rather than sunken cheeks; the loose braid rather than the tight crown; the figure-hugging leathers rather than the drab, over-sized dresses. A far cry to when Feyre had seen her last, Nesta could admit that much.

“You came,” Feyre said eventually.

Nesta angled her chin, ready to spar.

“I come here every morning,” she replied coldly. “I’d assume that’s why you were advised to suggest here as a meeting point.”

There was no added insult for Cassian. No bat, no bastard, no scathing him. Even so, Nesta couldn’t bring herself to say his name. It felt too intimate — too much of a giveaway that she no longer hated him with such raging intensity she wanted to shatter things.

That was not to say that Cassian did not make her want to break things now… He did, but it was rarely from anger. Rather, it was in the way that he would look at her — in the way that no one else dared — as if she were wholly unbreakable and he had no qualms about closing the distance and pinning her between a wall and the muscled cords of his body.

The tension was rising between them — it had been for a while — and it hung thick and heavy in the air, so much so that at times Nesta found it hard to breathe.

And the worst thing was that Nesta felt herself giving in; melting into the temptation and scent of him, even when she knew that every sensation he pulled from her was a veiled disguise. An illusion. Not of choice but of a decision already made, whereby they were both playing out what was destined for them.

Yet, despite that knowledge, Nesta couldn’t deny that the thought of Cassian speaking of her to the Inner Circle opened the fetid wound that had been falsely healing inside of her. It seeped ruby through the cracks in her wall of ice, like blood tainting the purest snow.

In Nesta’s mouth, she tasted copper.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Feyre repeated, her voice disbelieving as she shook her head.

“I can leave as quickly as I came,” Nesta threatened, her face stony and impenetrable.

To her surprise, Feyre didn’t retaliate or sigh. She only looked down at the view in the fearless way anyone with wings could on a deadly precipice.

“That rock looks like a tombstone,” Feyre observed.

Nesta did not move from her position at the top of the path. Instead, she remained rooted to the spot in case she decided to make a quick exit. Nesta suspected that moment might come sooner than later. Already she felt rubbed raw, her hackles raised, her body primed to fight, yet she kept her face impassive as she followed her sister’s gaze.

Far above them, three warriors flew across the sky. Their bodies were black dots against the grey backdrop, and Nesta watched silver glint off one of them as a gap between the clouds exposed the sun’s rays. Nesta wished she was with them rather than here. Maybe Cassian was right, she was not ready for this. She was not ready to face the ghosts that haunted her… the ghosts that Feyre unwittingly brought with her.

“It’s the widows camp,” Nesta told Feyre coldly, trying to swallow down the urge to run.

Feyre cut a sideways glance at her. “You were there this morning?”

Nesta rose her chin. “Are you asking me that because you’ve been spying on me or because your faithful informant has been telling you how I spend my day?”

Feyre blew out a breath that Nesta dissected as a method of steadying the rising temper they both shared. “I arrived early. Cassian doesn’t like to speak of you to me.”

Surprise flared inside of Nesta so sharp that for a second she couldn’t breathe. She had always thought Cassian loyal to Feyre first and foremost. Had always thought he would choose his High Lady over her lowly, cruel sister, despite the things he had said that had insinuated otherwise.

But Nesta kept her expression blank as she asked, “And I suppose that makes you angry?”

The way Feyre shook her head was tormented. “No, he — it has made me realise some truths — of how I have failed you, Nesta.”

The concession was not packaged how Nesta had been expecting it, so she did not speak. Feyre had turned to look at her. Her irises were the exact same as Nesta’s own, yet not half as steely. Out of the three of them, she and Feyre were the most similar; both in looks and personality.

Nobody was as lovely as Elain, she and Feyre had learnt that long ago.

Just once, Feyre rang her hands before they fell uselessly at her sides. It betrayed her as nervous.

“I don’t know if I ever told you the full story of what happened to me Under the Mountain,” Feyre started. She tore her gaze from Nesta’s to stare out at the sky. “Afterwards, I… things were very difficult. I had nightmares every night of those I had killed and I couldn’t keep any food down. I barely slept and I felt heavy all of the time, as if I were wading through mud. I hated being confined so much so that when Tamlin locked me in the house the Night Court saved me because I threw the entirety of it into darkness. Even once I was in Velaris, there was no light, only dark, and I could barely feel… Sometimes I went days of feeling nothing and I had this... power inside of me that I didn’t know how to use.”

Feyre turned back to look at Nesta. Her expression was grave, as if she were tunnelling too far into herself, into a part of her that she did not like to bring back to the surface.

Nesta had seen the look many times before, in the reflection of Cassian and Mas’s eyes, as they stared concernedly at her.

“I’m not telling you this with the intention of making you feel sorry for me,” Feyre said quietly. She had stepped closer to Nesta without realising. Nesta had been too preoccupied with that haunted look. “The reason I’m telling you this is because despite everything I went through and the people who helped me, I didn’t truly stop to realise that you were going through something similar after the war. I should have seen what was happening with you, Nesta, and tried to truly understand what you needed, but I didn’t. I could try to better myself by saying that everything was so busy during and after the war that I was too distracted, but really that’s just an excuse for my behaviour. I thought Illyria would give you a change of scenery away from…everything.”

Nesta’s snort was harsh. “You thought to throw me into a war camp so I could escape the memory of what happened in the war?”

Feyre’s wince was visible and Nesta watched her sister pinch the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t—” Feyre started, but then she trailed off with a shake of her head, as if she wished to start again. “Nesta, I’m sorry for sending you here. I was so worried that you would destroy yourself and so I did something drastic—”

“I am not yours to control,” Nesta snarled. “You summoned me like I was dirt on the bottom of your shoe. You banished me in front of half of your precious Inner Circle with no regard to how I was suffering. You humiliated me not as my sister but as High Lady and that is unforgivable.”

Fire raged inside of Nesta at the memory, so bright that she knew mist was seeping threateningly from her fingers. Feyre cast an alarmed look to her hands as Nesta stepped closer, as if she were expecting her sister to blast her off the mountain.

“You say you don’t like small spaces,” Nesta continued with quiet fervour. “Have you considered what it is like for me? To be banished somewhere where I cannot fly away? Have you considered that I too was trapped when I was kidnapped and thrown into a Cauldron to be remade against my will? And when I told you I could not bare to sit in the tub — when I gave you a piece of myself — you did not truly listen. Instead you trapped me into another life that has been chosen for me.”

Another step forwards, so close that Nesta could feel the warmth coming from her sister’s skin. “I am sorry for what you endured Under the Mountain. I am sorry for making your life miserable when we were younger, but I am not sorry for how I chose to deal with my trauma.”

Feyre’s skin turned so pale her freckles looked like they had been painted on with the tip of a paintbrush. “Nesta—”

But Nesta was not finished. Now she had started, she couldn’t stop. The words poured forth as easily as fire wanted to flow from her fingertips. “Have you considered that I have never had control over any aspect of my life — that I have always been told what to do and how to behave?”

That fateful finger was out now, stabbing the air between them. Feyre took a step backwards as if Nesta had prodded her in the chest. Silver sparked in the air between them, a promise of what would undoubtedly come.

“I fought in the war,” Nesta continued with quiet fury. “I killed the King and changed the course of history. I tried to show you that I was sorry for how I had treated you through my actions. I tried to earn forgiveness, to try and make up for what I had done wrong. Yet you and your mate did not see my actions as worthy. And when I told you I did not want to be controlled by you, you banished me somewhere with somebody I could not stand to be around, as if I wasn’t your sister but a troublesome subject.”

Taking that final step, Nesta closed the distance between she and Feyre. Feyre did not back away again. Instead, Nesta watched a tear roll down Feyre’s cheek with a chilled sort of fury, and with quiet fervour, said, “Well, I have news for you, sister. I am untameable and I do not answer to anybody but myself.”

Horror coursed through Nesta’s insides, the sensation interwoven with the scent of lilac and pear. Feyre’s hands came to cover her face and a sob coursed through the mountain landscape, so sharp it was as if it were her sister’s last breath. “I didn’t want you to die. I thought you were going to drink yourself to death, Nesta. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Seeing her sister cry hurt, but being understood hurt more. So Nesta ploughed on; the words escaping as if they had been scrabbling to get out for a long, long time, “You once asked me why I pushed everyone away but Elain — why I pushed you away. Well, here’s your answer High Lady: you never needed me. I lost you long ago, as soon as mother told you that I was unsuitable to look out for my younger sisters and that you were the only one up for the task.”

Nesta hadn’t thought it possible for Feyre to turn paler, but she had. Her skin looked as if it had been leeched of life. As Nesta said the words, she knew they were unfair. Her younger self had projected anger onto Feyre rather than taint the dying mother who Nesta had always tried so hard to please.

A silence stretched out between them that was so taut and angry, Nesta had to resist the urge to throw her hands to the sky until it was burning mercury. Instead, she kept her power inside, wanting to feel the ferocious thrum of it in her blood, at the pulse in her neck which was hammering as if it were trying to escape.

“Is that why—” Feyre started, but a sound had Nesta throwing up a finger to stop her, because she had heard something on the wind which had made her blood freeze.

For a moment… nothing. Then on the wind came familiar, high pitched laughter that sent chills down Nesta’s spine. It was a sound that she had hoped to never hear again, yet it was unmistakable — clear as day.

“No,” Nesta breathed, whirling round to stare down the mountain path. Through the misty clouds, Nesta could make out nothing but the dark shape of the tombstone, but she knew that sound. She would never forget that sound, not as long as she lived.

“What is it?” Feyre demanded.

“Be quiet,” Nesta snapped.

Laughter came again. It skittered up the craggy rock, followed by snarling and snapping teeth.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Nesta moaned, running to ledge that Feyre had been standing at previously, which gave an unhindered view of the widows camp. And through the foggy clouds, Nesta saw them. Sloping four-legged figures on the western perimeter of the widows camp, slinking through the shadows. Too many of them. Nesta had no idea how they had gotten there, why they would have ventured somewhere so populated…

“What is it?” Feyre demanded again, running to Nesta’s side so she too could look over the mountain. “Oh Gods,” Feyre breathed. “The females. The children. Nesta, what are they—”

But Nesta was not listening. She was running before she had time to think, her feet digging into the stone as she tore her way to the mountain path that zagged its way down to the widows camp.

“Move,” she barked over her shoulder. The command was biting but Feyre did not hesitate, tearing after her sister as if it were second nature.

Nesta had only reached the first bend with Feyre hot on her heels when the first scream pierced through the clouds. Power leapt within Nesta, and then her mind went loose as it went taut… as Nesta reached within herself, into her veins where that magic hummed hello… ready. And Nesta did not push it away. Instead, she brushed against it in greeting, just as she had done when she had worn Cassian’s siphon, in the moment before she bended it to her will. And then her fingers were curling around the pommel of a longsword made entirely of breathing, silver flame.

She clutched on to it, the weapon so much an extension of herself that she did not have to worry about it falling from her grasp. The rest of the descent passed in a blur of moving rock, as she and Feyre skidded on loose stone and slushy ice, and the screams… they kept coming. Again and again. Panic and terror so palpable they pierced through Nesta’s emotional shields, each agonised sound stabbing through her, her power leaping to meet it, pushing beneath her skin, desperate to get out…

Together, she and Feyre plunged into the fray. Crowds of female were stampeding towards them, desperate to get to safety, to reach the only path that led down to the safety of the main camp.

And amongst them… kerits. So many of them chittering and snarling, their long, pointed teeth snapping and tearing as they leapt at the defenceless females with the intent of feasting on their flesh. Nesta slashed at them with her sword, fire sizzling through fur and flesh, her body moving independently of her brain as it fell into a killing dance.

Feyre had not drawn her sword from her back, instead she wielded ice from her palms, and spears of it wove their way through the air like arrowheads, plunging themselves into moving bodies of spotted fur. Nesta just had time to see the body of a kerit slump to the floor, its body impaled by ice, to reveal a female cowering against the canvas of her tent. The female’s face was ashen and disbelieving as she stared at the sloping bodies that had fallen before her at the will of Feyre’s magic. At the trail of limbs and guts scattered around her, belonging to the female who they had not been in time to save… But then another kerit was leaping at Nesta, and Nesta did not have time to think, only react as she plunged her sword into it’s belly. It fell by her feet with a sharp cry, black blood spilling on the rocky ground. Nesta did not pause to consider the bloodshed or how her feet slipped in it as she continued to run, she only raised her free hand to the sky again, desperately blazing silver into the clouds, hoping that it would be enough to alert the camp below of the attack.

Already Nesta knew that there were too many kerits for she and Feyre to fight off themselves… Already there had been casualties. And still, the orphans were huddled at the Eastern-point of the camp with nobody to protect them…

It was that thought that had Nesta pressing on. Kerits leapt at she and Feyre before they realised that they had chosen the wrong pray, and Nesta sliced and jabbed with her fire-breathing steel, relishing in the beasts dying screams and savouring the sobs of the widows, which brought solace in the knowledge that they were alive and momentarily safe.

All went eerily quiet as Nesta and Feyre reached the towering tomb of rock and the makeshift canteen surrounding it. The stampede of females had petered out, and Nesta hoped it was because most of them had managed to escape down the mountain pass, rather than because they had fallen victims to the kerits. Her gut twisted at the thought… as she thought of Mas, Roksana and the other orphans who had been tucked away against the mountain wall at the Eastern side of the camp… a dead end.

If the kerits had managed to corner them… it would be a massacre.

Another lurch of her stomach as Nesta surveyed the benches and tables that had been strewn across the stone floor. Beside one of the upturned benches lay the twisted body of the elderly cook with crooked teeth — the female who insisted on feeding Nesta each morning, even when Nesta told her that she had already eaten breakfast. The cook’s tan skin was covered in claw and tooth marks, her body bloody and brutalised in such a horrific way that Nesta knew there was not a glimmer of life left in the female.

It must have been a horrible way to die.

Biting back a sob, Nesta closed her fingers around her sister’s arm, needing Feyre to understand that in this moment, she did not care if she died; she only cared that she could protect the defenceless females before she fell.

“The orphans,” Nesta urged to Feyre, pointing towards the Eastern side of the camp and the screams that were being tossed away on the wind. “They’re at the East side of the camp. There’s no way out.”

Nesta did not dare say the name Roksana or Mas. Could not voice what she was terrified of… That something could have already happened to the Illyrian’s she had come to care for so deeply.

Nesta tried to push away the thought of how Roksana had clung to her that morning… of how her small fingers had grabbed onto her legs in a clumsy hug. Nesta tried not to think about how Mas had kissed her in greeting; her weathered palm patting lightly against Nesta’s cheek in that motherly way of hers that always made her feel unconditionally accepted and loved.

The boom of wings sounded across the mountain pass, and then different coloured lights started to flash as siphons were willed into action, warriors finally landing in the camp to fight off the beasts. Nesta spotted Ragar and his friends, Devlon, guards on patrol, but then Feyre’s hands came to rest on her arms, pulling her attention away.

Nesta stared at her sister — at the white face streaked with blood which was set in grim determination, even as they heard the rising screams.

“Let’s go,” Feyre said, those two words sparking more respect in Nesta than any of their tense exchange at the top of the mountain.

And then they were running again, both of them throwing magic from their palms, taking out a gang of kerits who had leapt between the tents. Nesta swung her longsword of silver fire with her left-hand just as a kerit jumped in front of Feyre, attacking from seemed like nowhere.

Black blood streaked hot across Nesta’s face as her sword sizzled through muscle and sinew, but she ignored the wailing screams of the dying beast, turning only to make sure her sister was alive and unharmed.

Feyre’s eyes were wide, her heartbeat as frantic as a hummingbird in Nesta’s ears. “Thanks,” Feyre breathed, panting desperately for breath. Then she pointed to the direction they had been heading — to the Eastern-most point where Nesta had left Roksana and Mas that morning. “There are lots of warriors up ahead.”

Together they dodged the crowds and beams of coloured light. To Nesta’s relief, the huddled figures on the floor seemed to mainly consist of spotted fur, the Illyrian males clearly having arrived in time to prevent a massacre. But still Nesta ran, not realising how her lungs were heaving for breath or the burn in her thighs as she weaved through lifeless bodies and crying females, heading towards the smoke that wafted up from the dying camp fire — the place she had left Roksana and Mas what felt like mere minutes ago.

It was not how she had left it.

In front of her, metres before the campfire, lay Durkhanai’s bloody body. Her eyes were open and unseeing, her pupils green and mesmerising even in death… her spirit already well departed from the world. And a foot away from her…

“No.”

The sound that tore from Nesta was agony. It ripped from her chest — from deep, deep inside that locked cage as it cracked.

Nesta’s boots slipped through guts and gore, but she did not care. In her periphery, Nesta saw limbs and the unseeing eyes of the females who had flung themselves in the paths of the beasts, as if they had willingly lay themselves on the pyre to put the lives of the orphans before themselves.

Nesta did not feel the blinding pain that should have splintered through her as she fell to her knees on the grey rock. Because in front of her was Mas. She was lying on the floor and her wings — her scarred and battered wings — were in tatters. Her stomach was oozing with blood, deep claw marks raked through raw flesh.

And beside her was Roksana, her face and clothes covered in bright scarlet blood. Her small, precious hands buried deep in Mas’s gut, holding in the punctured intestines that were trailing out of her body; as if they had been dragged out by long, pointed teeth…

The little girl stared up at Nesta, her dark eyes blown wide in shock. Around them, the anguished cries and screams of agony went quiet, Nesta’s ears drowning out all noise but the croak that came from the youngling’s mouth. “Help,” she said, those little hands sliding on intestines and blood as it leaked through her fingers. “Help.”

“No,” Nesta repeated again, the word cracking out of her as she surveyed the damage that was too severe for an Illyrian to remedy. “No, no, no.”

Her hands slipped in hot blood as she pressed her own palms over Mas’s gaping wounds. The housekeeper’s breath rattled, the sound terrible and wringing with what Nesta knew was unimaginable pain. Mas’s face was grey — as if already it had been drained of life; as if the end had been written and there was no avoiding it.

Fingers grasped at Nesta’s but the Illyrian’s eyes did not open, even as her eyelids flickered — the movement asking too much of her body. They slipped against Nesta’s as they moved through her own ruby blood.

“You will not die,” Nesta told Mas fiercely, her eyesight blinded by tears. A silver tear rolled down Nesta’s cheek and fell onto their clasped hands… into the open, gaping wound. “You will not. Do you hear me?”

Only silence answered as Mas’s body went slack. Her chest rattling one last time before it stopped moving all together.

When the housekeeper’s fingers fell away from Nesta’s own, everything went still.

“Nesta.”

A hand was on her shoulder — Feyre — but Nesta did not feel or care for it. Someone had pulled Roksana away into the safety of their arms — away from the dead body with its departing soul. Deep inside of Nesta, the scent of roasted chestnuts and wood shavings began to fade, as if it had been caught in the wind and was about to be tossed away.

“No.”

That same word again, but this time it came with weight behind it. Defiance. Anger. Heartbreak. All her own, and yet piling on top of that, layer by layer, was every painful emotion and memory of loss that had been imprinted on the stone over the years, from the widows that had come before and had suffered unimaginably.

Something turned inside of Nesta, her magic flipping as if someone had turned a key in a lock to reveal not silver but white… A pure, snow white light that seeped from her fingertips, singing with gentle promise rather than destruction.

“No,” Nesta said.

That word again, but this time deadly calm.

Still.

Who do you want to be, Nesta?

Cassian’s words from the day before sounded in her head. At the time she had not known the answer, but now, her path had never been clearer.

Raising her steady blood-stained hands to hover over Mas’s wounds, Nesta let that icy wall protecting her emotions fall away inside of her. It crashed down around her like a dam whose gates had been opened, her emotions running like rampant and wild rapids, rushing into her blood and down strands of interwoven rope. Her power vibrated with a controlled energy and then that white light glowed, shining from her palms.

It was so bright that Nesta had to close her eyes to protect herself from the sheer brilliance of her power as it poured forth.

She did not need to look at Mas’s body to bear witness to her healing. Did not need to watch the housekeeper’s wounds knit themselves back together, as if someone were turning back time in slow motion.

She just knew.

And in that moment, Nesta also knew exactly who she was supposed to be, even as her body started to hurt.

Two weaving components, bound together as surely as a rope plaited with two complementing strands.

Protector.

Healer.

That was who Nesta was.

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[aliveanddrunkonsunlight]

gifts - Jaime

Jaime/Brienne + love languages, based off @observedchaos‘ post 

For @naomignome and tagging @pretty--thief because this seems like her jam.

*

A few weeks before his wedding, he receives a parcel. His sword, wrapped in a soft cloth and laid in a finely crafted wooden box, and a note from her. He has to brace himself against the desk as he reads her words: May this protect your home and your betrothed.

When they parted, he left Widow’s Wail with her. “I have-” He pressed a finger to her lips to quiet her. Tears pool in her eyes. They are likely to drown him. 

The cavern of his chest is ripped open, watching her go, sacrificing love for duty. “Please,” he can scarcely speak as he presses his forehead to hers, his tears landing on her cheek. “May it serve you well, my lady. Protect your home.”  

After the war, he returned to Casterly, the Lannister reputation in shambles. It was all he had.  He spent a decade rebuilding, returning a sense of justice, decency, and generosity to the family name. 

Now he is to be wed, because when he began to rule fairly and display kindness, the people of Lannisport insisted they would not be satisfied until he found his own happiness. 

And yet the woman he loves is a continent away. 

*

Ten years later

He is watching Willem in the yard when Peck arrives by his side, nearly breathless. “You have a visitor, my lord.” 

Jaime frowns, wondering if it is someone from Lannisport coming to air their grievances. He had cleared the day to spend time with his son. “Put them in the blue room and offer them refreshments. I’ll be up in a moment.” 

“Ser, I really think you should come now.” He has watched Peck grow from a scrawny teenage boy into a man, happily married and with children of his own, but he’s never seen the man this out of sorts. 

“Is the Queen here?” Jaime intones with a rather hollow laugh. 

“No, ser,” Peck exhales. “Not the Queen. The Evenstar.” 

The Evenstar. The title echoes in his head for a moment, his legs feeling weak. “Willem,” he calls to his son, but the boy is so fiercely attacking one of the straw men in the yard he doesn’t hear him. 

“I’ll fetch him.” Peck offers.

“Thank you.” Jaime thinks he manages to say before he brushes past him and slips inside the Rock. His wife has been gone nearly two years now, leaving Willem scarcely older than Jaime had been when his own mother died. 

He has heard little of Tarth, as consumed as he was in transforming the reputation of the Lannisters and the Westerlands. Perhaps he has not wanted to hear. But now he wonders if these past twenty years have found her fulfilled, found her happy. 

She is standing in the blue room, but the color of the walls are not anything when compared to her eyes. “Brienne.” he whispers from the doorway. She looks as strong as ever, but holds herself differently somehow. Her spine is straight, her shoulders pulled back, proud and dignified.  

“Jaime.” she smiles fondly at him, tears pooling in her eyes. He crosses the room to her, pulling her into a hug. He is unable to act like a stranger with her after all these years, not when she remains the one person who knows him so well. “How are you?” she asks. 

“I’m well.” He sits, smoothing his hand over his thigh. Years ago, he stopped wearing the golden hand, and simply began having the sleeves of his shirts sewn up. “You’ve traveled a long way. Is everything alright?” Jaime does not voice what they are both thinking. She has never visited here, just as he has never visited Tarth. It would have been too painful.

“I--” she lets out a shaky breath from her seat on the chair across from him. “I’m realizing now this is all a bit foolish.” 

He leans forward. “Whatever your reason for being here, I doubt it is foolish.” 

Brienne runs a hand across her stomach, a gesture so small he might not have noticed it, except it has been so long since he’s seen her, he wants to soak up every moment in her presence. He recognizes the gesture as the same way his wife used to touch her hand to her stomach when she was pregnant with Willem. “There is a man who claims to be a Tarth heir. A baseborn son of my father.” She presses her hands together in her lap. “Which could be true,” Brienne whispers. 

“Are you not older than he?” 

“Yes, but I am a woman.” Her gaze flickers up to his and then away. “My father never declared me formally as his heir. That was always Galladon.” 

“It was a given.” Jaime says brusquely, offended on her behalf. “You stepped in when Tarth had no leader. You have been through so much.”

She nods and even though she appears as strong as always, he can see how the weight of the years has worn away at her. “I’ve written to Sansa about it and she assures me she will uphold my claim, but I am worried…” She lets out a sigh and stands from the chair, starting to pace around the room. 

He has spent the past two decades trying not to get involved in the politics of the kingdom, instead preferring to concentrate on his lands, his people, but he is glad to hear Brienne has a friend in the Queen. “Do you think he will try to claim it by force?” 

Brienne dips her chin. “Yes. I am worried about...the children.” She stops her pacing and looks at him then. “I have twins. I do not know if you had heard.” 

His voice is hushed when he replies, “I hadn’t.” 

“They are almost old enough to defend themselves, but they are still so young. Twelve.” Her hand trails across her stomach. “Their father died a few months ago.” 

“Brienne…” he murmurs, uncertain what to say. “I am sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” she replies. “I...I am not afraid to take on this man, if need be, but Sansa, the Queen, suggested I might shore up my defenses. If I could find someone who wields enough power to command men, who would be loyal to me, my island.” 

Jaime thinks he understands what Brienne is suggesting, but is frozen in shock in his seat. “Are you...asking about a political alliance? With me?” 

“I trust you.” Her voice is small, barely above a whisper, and he itches to cross the room and take her in his arms again. “I do not even know if you have men you could send or-”

“I do. I would come myself, too, if you have a need for a battered one-armed knight.” Her gaze is focused on the fireplace, but he waits anxiously for her answer. 

“I always have need of you.” She turns towards him, and the familiarity of her, standing before him, flesh and blood after all these years apart stuns him speechless. 

He stands then, taking a hesitant step towards her, then another, and even as he is slipping his arms around her, he expects her to draw away from him. “Brienne, are you asking me for more than an alliance?”  

She bites her lip. “I would not...except this man and I--” Brienne sucks in a sharp breath as Jaime draws even closer, his nose pressing against the shell of her ear as he places a gentle kiss at her temple. “Jaime…” she murmurs, her eyes filling with tears again. 

He did not even realize how much he longed for this moment all these years, dreamt of it. “May I kiss you?”

She cannot answer, only nods through her tears. He presses gentle kisses to each of her cheeks, extra soft over her scar, kissing away her tears before pressing one to her lips. Her mouth is soft and warm and opens eagerly to his and they cannot get enough. Brienne grasps his hand on her cheek and when they stop, breathing hard against each other, Jaime lets out a soft laugh. “There is one other thing,” she tells him, her thumb stroking over his. “I am with child again.” 

His eyes widen and a broad grin spreads across his face. “I will swear it is my own if that is what you wish of me.” 

“Are you certain?” Her blue eyes blink, momentarily in doubt.

“I have never been as certain about anything else in my life as I am about this, my lady.” 

She smiles, and it is as soft as her kisses. “You will have to come to Tarth.” 

He laughs again. “I realize that.” Brienne kisses him then, and yes, he would do anything for her. 

*

Every anniversary, Jaime teases her about the pretender, saying he should write the man a thank you letter. “Or perhaps it is Sansa who I should thank.” He says, grabbing at the soft flesh of his wife’s side as she passes by. Brienne brushes at his hand ineffectively, landing in his lap even as she tries to push him away. 

“It would have been rather impolite to show up on your doorstep and ask you to marry me without a royal decree,” she chides. 

“I would have said yes no matter what.” He nudges his nose into her hair, breathing in deeply. “It has all been a gift.” Their marriage allowed him to be a father three times over. First to her twins, Arthur and Alys, then to their daughter, Rosaline. Brienne allowed Willem to drag her out to the yard every morning, laughing when Jaime pretended to take offense that his own son preferred sparring with her. 

Their home is alive with the sound of their children’s voices, laughter, even sometimes with a mock swordfight or two, all of it so full of love. 

He would gladly do it all again, wait a lifetime for her, if it meant it would earn him all of this.

*

Author’s Note: It might have been less common for women to get pregnant when they were older in the medieval era than it is now, but Brienne is 40/41 here and Jaime is 54/55.

[silverhyenaart]

Another Family Fluff Piece

Because I can’t resist posting bits and pieces of upcoming chapters.

Anyways, I could imagine that Tom and Maddie would have to become adept at wrangling their speedster son. (I mean, when you really think about it, Sonic wouldn’t have to listen to them if he didn’t want to. It’s just a good thing that he loves and respect them.) But of course, he’s still a kid, and kids get into mischief. Kids sometimes run where they’re not supposed to. So here’s a mostly first draft bit,

*******

Maddie nodded in agreement, turning around while still in her husband's gentle hold. She put her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer for a kiss. It was at that moment a 'WHOOSH' or air followed by a blue blur interrupted their tender moment.

“Oh! Errrrrmmm... sorry. D-didn't mean to interrupt your weird grown up.... ritual... thing,” apologized the little alien, all the while making a strange face while sticking out his tongue.

Kissing was just something Sonic couldn't wrap his mind around. Donut Lord and Pretzel Lady did it, people in various movies and TV shows did it, even a whole bunch of his classmates would do it, often brazenly out in the halls or the school yard. (But the sneakier ones would go to the bathrooms. Seriously, just to do that!) Locking mouths and “swapping spit” as he'd heard it referred to a few times before just didn't seem appealing at all! It was just so strange; stranger than the little kisses to the forehead and cheeks Maddie would often insist on giving him.

“To be continued,” muttered Maddie, giving Tom a mischievous little smile and wink before addressing Sonic, “And you, young man. Isn't it past your bedtime?”

Tom moved his arm to wrap around his wife's shoulder, giving the strong appearance of experienced and seasoned parents. (Key word here being “appearance.”)

“But Pretzel Lady, I'm not tiiiiiired,” argued the young hedgehog, all the while scratching Ozzie's head and ears once the old golden retriever padded to his side, “Donut Lord?”

“Sorry kiddo, this time I can't help you.”

Sonic cast an accusatory look to his caretaker. His hero. This betrayal! From the Donut Lord, no less. It couldn't be happening. There was only one other option now.

Already predicting what was about to happen next, Tom pulled out his phone, opening up the stopwatch app, “Maddie, your record is one minute and twenty three seconds.”

“I can beat that!”

“Don't be to sure about that, Pretzel Lady. You'll have to catch me first!” challenged Sonic, taking on a confident and defiant stance.

Human and alien stared each other down, asserting dominance, each one trying to intimidate the other, (all while struggling to hold back a fit of playful laughter as smiles threatened to crack.)

“And... GO!” Tom called, starting the timer.

Immediately, Sonic was off, dashing throughout the house in a streak of blue, leaving a gust of wind in his wake. Despite not moving yet, Maddie could already feel her heart pounding and blood pumping as adrenaline kicked in. She knew chasing Sonic directly was a fruitless endeavor. However, the woman watched for her adopted son's blue trail, following the pattern as she took her position. Letting out a deep breath, feeling another rush of air brush right by her side, Maddie squared her shoulders and kept calm, knowing that her little show-off couldn't resist coming back again for a second pass.

This time she was ready for the speedy little blue devil. Maddie knew he liked to go for the right on the first pass, left on the second. There was a bit of an impact; nothing that would cause either one of them serious harm, but it was enough to knock the wind out of the human. Despite that, Maddie emerged victorious, now holding a rather baffled-looking Sonic in her arms.

“Hey! W-what the-?! H-how did you-?!”

The little blue alien squirmed a bit in his caretaker's arms, still uncertain about how and when exactly this happened.

“So... you were saying that I'd have to catch you first?” questioned Maddie, shifting Sonic to lean against her shoulder while rubbing his back, “Well consider yourself caught, young sir.”

She was rewarded with a rather defeated yet still playful groan from the teenage alien.

“Yeah. Well, I'm still not tired...”

“One minute and eighteen seconds.”

At Tom's announcement of Maddie's new personal best, the woman excitedly pumped her fist in the air before returning to stroking Sonic's quills. Having a child was never easy; an alien child with superpowers more so. The two of them had been learning Sonic's preferred patterns over time to a point where both caretakers could predict his movements and catch him in a full run. Maddie and Tom would take turns while Sonic thought of it like a game. (A game he'd secretly just let his two favorite humans win, of course. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself.)

Despite having been “captured”, the boy was laughing while his short tail wagged. Gently, Tom ran his hand over Sonic's head, giving his ears a good scratch then gave Ozzie some attention. Now, over the last several months, the little blue space hog had become quite the conisuerrier of his caregivers' affection. The Donut Lord had larger hands, offering excellent coverage of all the good spots and had become a master of ear rubs. (No doubt with all the practice he'd had with Ozzie.) Pretzel Lady on the other hand had smaller, slimmer fingers with longer nails that could zero in on a single area with surgical precision. Wonderful, gentle hands that lovingly stroked through Sonic's blue quills practically causing the boy to melt in her arms.

“Let's get you to bed, little one.” Maddie said, lightly kissing the blue alien's forehead, causing him to let out a little groan as his muzzle reddened.

“H-hey, I'm not that little,” Sonic protested, resting his chin on Maddie's shoulder while she walked him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, “And I'm not -yaaaaawn- that sleepy either.”

“Hmph, you could have fooled me, bud,” observed Tom, following behind, “But if that's the case I guess you could say that-”

“No. Don't go there! I know what you're -yawn- gonna say...”

“You could say that in your case, sleep is in short order.”

Another one. So soon too! Tom just laughed as the blue alien tried to hide his still reddening face by burying it against Maddie's neck, all the while groaning loudly. It was dreadful. Terrible. But he'd expect nothing less of the Donut Lord.

******

So yeah, cute family fluff piece. If you’re interested in the story thus far, it’s called Sometimes All you Need is a Friend.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085514/chapters/63447325

Now, this was partially inspired by this post I saw on Tumblr, https://humanityinahandbag.tumblr.com/post/624134807767695360/sonic-the-hedgehog-very-serious-question

Thank you @shouto-midoriya for posting the link to this post for me and @humanityinahandbag for the original post!

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 19 - Golden Gowns and Eventful Evenings

I have no excuse, so I will just post this and run 

Jaskier and Geralt attend the banquet in Goldfurt together. 

prologue | previous | next

Read on AO3

Being the biggest city between Yspaden and Mirt, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Goldfurt exceeded any and all expectations Jaskier might have had before returning after his twenty-year absence. Being governed by his brother-in-law, Janina’s husband no less, it shouldn’t come as a surprise either that they exceeded them in the wrong direction.

Truth be told, he did not remember a lot about the city from his pre-Oxenfurt days. Of course, they had been obligated to visit the banquet every year, both as neighbours as well as the family of the future Countess, but Jaskier had been barely thirteen the last time he had attended the festivities. The only thing he remembered from that visit was his short-lived infatuation with one of Goldfurt’s squires. It had promptly ended when said squire had basically wiped the floor with him in the training yard during their one and only interaction.

After that unpleasantness he had gladly given a rather wide berth to the city and the castle at its centre. Jaskier had even managed to forestall the unhappy reunion for another year due to a cough at the most convenient of times.

This year, however, there was no excuse in the world that would have made it appropriate for him to stay away. Not with his title, not with his renewed betrothal to Lady Alina. Not with the two newest additions to his household, he was supposed to parade around like a pair of exotic animals.

Jaskier ground his teeth as he tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Melitele’s tits, I’d gladly attend the dinner if I could leave Ciri and Geralt in Lettenhove,’ he thought bitterly. But that would not only be a grievous insult, it would also rouse more suspicion and rumours than they already did. ‘Best hide them in plain sight.’ And if something unforeseeable were to happen, they could also make a quick escape.

Due to these unforeseen developments, the lack of information had posed quite an obstacle. If there was one particular lesson the twenty years with Geralt had taught him, then it was that ignorance in the face of danger could be fatal. And while one might assume, that a witcher’s lifestyle was much more deadly than a Viscounts, Jaskier would gladly go and fight a dozen ghouls with nothing but his lute, instead of entering the vipers’ nest that was Goldfurt.

Extensive reconnaissance—consisting of squeezing as much information as possible out of his three sisters—had revealed that he might actually have better chance with the ghouls. The silk doublet his servant buttoned up would do little against daggers in the dark or libations laced with poison. Not that he expected his kin and kinfolk-to-be to try and murder him at a dinner party, of course. He expected them to have some decorum at least.

Still, he had entered the city knowing fully well that he was anathema to at least half a dozen invited guests, not least of all their host. On the other hand, which relative of his wife was not anathema to Filip Firkalt?  None of them, that was which. It had been one of the primary sources of their entertainment in the past days.

It was no secret that while he and his sisters nursed a precarious love-hate-relationship, the loving aspect was completely lost on the in-laws. The source of that animosity, of course, lay in the title he now bore. The moment his disappearance after his graduation from Oxenfurt had become public knowledge, both of his brothers-in-law had begun vying for what was rightfully his, Kerton with his heir even more so than childless Goldfurt. The fact that he had returned to rob them of what they had already considered theirs, was just another strain on their relationship.

Another of the lessons Geralt had imparted to him, was the importance of a plan. So, not only had the four Pankratz siblings spent their evenings mocking the stupidities they had been forced to endure by the hands of the men in their lives the past two decades, they had also conspired how best to pay them back within the confines of propriety. Two of them, at least. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had only been the appetiser for the main course that was to be served at the banquet tonight.

Or rather, it should have been. For the first vital life lesson he had learned on the Path was that every plan, no matter how good or bad, immediately went to shit upon the first contact with the opponents. Theirs had been no exception to the rule. The memory still made him clench his fist in anger. The disrespect shown to him and his sisters by not riding out to greet them was one thing. But he should have punched Goldfurt in the face when he first had called Geralt a dog. ‘Right then and there, castle peace be damned.’

“M’lord?” the attendant fussing over his cuffs called his attention with a meek voice. “Begging your pardon, but you have to let go of that fist, m’lord.”

“Oh,” he replied dumbfounded as his eyes travelled down to the rings he was holding in his hands. “Of course.” Slowly, he uncurled his tightly clenched fingers, while she slipped the signet ring as well as the embellished buttercup ring in place.

Jaskier stared blankly at his mirror image, fighting the urge to smile at the sight of him clad in Lettenhove ochre and muted autumnal colours. It would be the last time to dress for such an occasion before winter undoubtedly would settle in but a few days. He would be in need of a level head as much as a stoic façade for this evening. No matter how much he wanted to shout out his delight over his delivery from the straightjacket that had been his mourning garb. He wouldn’t have a lute to do so anyways, so there was no point in it.

In any way, there was no bard required this evening. He needed to be the Viscount de Lettenhove instead, protecting all those who had sought shelter at his home and hearth for the winter. ‘Geralt chief among them all.’ The witcher had protected him for nigh twenty years of his life, after all. After all these years of watching helplessly as villagers, nobles, and innkeepers had made Geralt’s life miserable, he was finally in a position to repay him. And it was high time that he did so.

“Will that be everything, m’lord?” the servant asked with a coy smile.

“Yes.”

He bowed obediently, still lingering. “Shall I be waiting for your return?”

Jaskier spared him a short considerate glance. He was quite an attractive fellow, although far too young. “Best not,” he answered, doing his best to keep the contempt from dripping into his voice. It wasn’t directed at the servant anyways. “It will be rather late, I’ll wager.” He certainly wasn’t desperate enough to take a man to ben who might not be offering his companionship for his own volition but because of ill-directed instructions he’d received.

Besides, he had a witcher to get to. The servant bolted from the room and Jaskier quickly followed, but not before grabbing the bundle on his bed.

His witcher had been billeted at a ridiculous distance to Jaskier’s own rooms in quarters which found themselves in a distressingly poor state. Well, nothing in Goldfurt Castle classified as ‘poor’ exactly, but in comparison to the usually upheld standard, it was scarcely better than the rug on the floor he’d been offered at first. The unfairness of it all made his blood boil.

Geralt, on the other hand, remained as unfazed as Jaskier was accustomed to. He had even kept him from running back to make good on his first impulse to bestow their host with a bloody nose. Instead, he had praised the quarters and assured him that he would be just fine, before ushering him out.

‘Maybe,’ a treacherous voice in the back of his head hissed, ‘he’s even glad to get away from you.’

Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip. He couldn’t even fault Geralt for that. His own welcome for his oldest friend had been anything but warm and he was well aware of the coldness freezing the air between them. ‘He still hasn’t apologised,’ he reminded himself. ‘Stubborn mule.’ Instead, Geralt had hurt him even more, albeit unknowingly so. Not that that made it hurt any less.

The same door that had slammed shut behind his back a few days prior blocked the path before him now. Jaskier didn’t allow himself a second thought and swung it open. “Ger—” He was with one foot over the threshold already, when he suddenly remembered and the fear of finding Geralt in bed with Marin stole his voice.

“My lord?”

He appeared to be in luck. Geralt was alone in the chamber. And nearly naked. The only strip of fabric on his person was a towel slung low around his hips and the shirt in his hands, his hair still damp from a bath.

“Uhm,” he said eloquently, while he desperately tried to get his thoughts into order. Unfortunately, he did not manage before his mouth started talking without any cerebral input: “You’re not wearing that,” he blurted of all things.

No ‘Good evening, Geralt’, or ‘How are you enjoying your stay, Geralt?’, or even ‘Fuck, why can’t we go back to how it was before, I’m slowly losing my mind, Geralt.’

No, it was 'You're not wearing that.'

If ever there was a moment for the skies to part and the gods to strike him down with a well-placed bolt of lightning, this was certainly is, right before 'You don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.' What was it about the witcher that made him so exceptionally stupid? Whatever it was, if the gods could hurry up and erase his existence from this earth, Jaskier would be much obliged, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

Nothing of that sort, at least, because something happened and that was Geralt slowly glancing down at the towel and up at Jaskier again to deadpan: "I wasn't going to."

"Good," Jaskier's mouth ambled on.

He had to hand it to Geralt, the fact that he didn't so much as raise his eyebrows before moving to put on the shirt was undoubtedly one of his greatest displays of discipline so far.

"You're not going to wear that, either," Jaskier continued, slowly regaining control of his words again.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice impossibly honest. As if there was nothing wrong with the black shirt and breeches, he had worn on the day they’d arrived.

“Because,” he quipped and tossed him the bag he was carrying, “you’re not going as a witcher tonight. This is my brother-in-law’s banquet; we have a reputation to uphold. You're my friend and anyone who knows me, which is everyone here, is well aware that the only way my friend is dressed in anything but the finest clothing would be over my dead body. I'd never allow you to stand out for your tastelessness and considering that you don't appear to have a fashion sense for yourself, I'll gladly provide you with assistance."

"Hmm." Geralt cleared his throat and said: "I need to change if you want me to wear that." He flourished the expensive clothes in his hand.

"Right." Jaskier took a breath to steady himself. But somehow, his feet didn't move.

He raised his gaze with an amused expression on his face. "You need to leave the room, my lord, unle-" The expression on his face changed rapidly as if he was just realising what he was saying.

The barbed retort was already on the tip of his tongue: 'Why, Geralt, are you offering I stay to watch?' But the image of him and Marin kissing was much too present in his mind as it was, so Jaskier bit his lip to keep it from escaping. 'He's not mine to keep,' he reminded himself. 'Never has been, never will be.' "Right," he forced out and turned around, "I'll wait for you in the hallway." He wasn't sure either of them would survive the dinner otherwise.

Jaskier did his best to keep from fidgeting and pacing while he waited outside, which was no easy feat considering the nervousness and hum of energy building within him. Normally, he wasn’t prone to fits of anxiousness. Tonight, however, there was so much that could go wrong, so much that would ruin everything, so much—

Mercifully, the spiral of dread was interrupted by the quiet lock of a door behind him, accompanied by Geralt politely clearing his throat.

“Finally!” Jaskier meant to say as he turned on his heel. What got out was more of a garble: "Hngh." Geralt looked... dashing. There was no other word for it, truly. Well other than 'otherworldly beautiful and I can't decide whether the outfit choice was the best or worst idea I had in a long time and shit, I really should have taken that into consideration; he's not yours to keep, Jaskier, get it together, gods damnit!'

Yeah, dashing was much easier than that. Blue suited him, but Jaskier had already known that. He had chosen the outfit for their last ball together as well, after all. But in contrast to that disastrous outfit, the witcher wore clothes that actually fit him, instead of too small things Jaskier had pulled out of his bag. And on top of that, the witcher had the audacity to smirk. "You approve, my lord?"

"I do," Jaskier managed without embarrassing himself further. "We should go," he decreed. "The Count and Countess will make their appearance soon; it is considered terribly impolite to arrive after them."

"And you're only aiming for impolite?" Geralt teased.

Jaskier frowned and quickly looked down to hide a smile. It was true, most of the meticulous planning by him and his sisters prior to this visit had been to be as impolite as possible while still operating within the socially acceptable norms. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had been only the beginning of what would undoubtedly come to a head this evening.

Judging by the quiet snort beside him, he wasn’t quick enough. “Geralt,” he spoke up a few moments later.

“My lord?”

He grimaced slightly. “You probably shouldn’t call me that tonight. It would only… raise suspicion.”

The witcher frowned deeply. “And what should I call you then?”

“Julian,” he said simply. “That’s my name, you know.”

“I thought you resented that name.”

‘I do,’ he thought. “I mustn’t,” he answered and continued on into the dining hall. A large part of the nigh two hundred guests had already arrived and heated the room up nicely, in spite of the freezing temperatures outside. A plethora of voices filled his ears, the kind of pleasant buzz that usually promised an eager crowd Jaskier could sail upon. But he couldn't, so now the mix was irritating, fraying his nerves. And it smelt. Not quite enough to actually stink, but that would come soon enough with the fragrances mixing with sweat and food.

All of the sudden, Jaskier pitied Geralt. He knew the witcher had much finer senses than he did and if he was nearly overwhelmed-

A nigh unnoticeable touch at his elbow made him whip around. He stared directly at Geralt's face. "Are you alright?" the witcher asked quietly, concern etched onto every fibre of his body.

"Quite," Jaskier answered stiffly, letting his eyes sweep over the crowd until he spotted Ciri and Józefa at a table directly beneath the dais. “Let us join my lovely sister and cousin, shall we?” the Viscount announced with a bright smile frozen on his face as he crossed the threshold, a gentle hand on Geralt’s elbow to ensure he would follow.

There was no announcement, no herald making their arrival known, yet at least half a dozen heads turned their direction immediately. A hushed whisper spread through the ballroom with each of their footfalls, like ripples on a still lake during a rain shower that turned into a thunderstorm. A few moments passed, none of the attendants quite sure how to react—Julian Pankratz’ return had been surprising to all, disconcerting to most, and relieving to none.

Then: “Julian Pankratz!” a booming voice cut through the backdrop of murmurs, the crowd parting to let the speaker through. “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here.”

Jaskier’s lips curled into a true smile for but a moment when he recognised him. “Dawid,” he greeted his former friend, wincing slightly when he pounded on his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have if I had known you’d be here.”

The knight laughed at that, slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him along. After that it was as if a wall had broken down. The journey to their places was torturously slow, continuously interrupted by former friends and lovers, now married and introducing their heirs, enemies and strangers, who sought to curry favours, or just regular attendants who just wanted an excuse to gawk at him.

They had almost made it, the end of their table already in touching distance, when another petitioner approached. It was a young boy, a squire, Jaskier guessed, dressed in Goldfurt’s livery, who bowed deeply. “My lord, my lord Goldfurt sends his regrets for the unfortunate seating situation,” the boy said with a wavering voice. “I am to let you know that there unfortunately is not enough space to accommodate all of your family as well as your witcher.”

Jaskier did not have to look up at the half-empty dais to know it was a blatant lie. “Unfortunate indeed,” he replied curtly.

“However, his lordship asked me to inform you that you yourself are welcome to join him at the high table, as are the two maidens who share his blood. And that you may rest assured, my lord, the witcher will enjoy himself just fine where he is.”

"I thank you kindly," Jaskier answered primly. "If you would do me the favour of relaying a message to her ladyship, now? Tell my sister, what is good enough for my witcher is good enough for me. I do not wish to add any additional strain to our familial relationship than there already is with our presence, which is why I am sure I will enjoy the festivities just as well down here as up there."

The boy stared up at him with wide eyes. "Lady Goldfurt," impressed upon him again. "If possible, in the presence of Lady Kerton." He nodded hastily and disappeared.

When Jaskier turned around with a sigh he was met with Geralt's dark expression. "What?"

"Do you think it advisable-"

He waved his hand around tiredly, continuing his path to Józefa and Ciri. Fuck, he was exhausted already and the banquet hadn't even started yet. "Do not worry about my wisdom, Geralt, I know more about these affairs than you do."

"It's not your wisdom or intelligence I question, I know you have both aplenty. It's your foresight. I do not know you to be a patient man."

"And I am not, but luckily it is not of the essence in this case. I am aware we tread on unfamiliar territory for you, but I grew up here. I am well aware of how far I, Julian of Lettenhove, can go before truly insulting someone. Lucky for us both, it is much farther that either you, Geralt of Rivia, or I, Jaskier the bard, could hope to. If anything, it will reflect poorly on our host to deny me my designated place over such a petty squabble. It will earn us sympathies!"

"What will earn us sympathies?" Ciri's eager voice asked.

"The fact that you will have to make do with this entirely new place for you, cublet, that is not at the side of the host of such a lavish gathering,” Jaskier replied and bowed with a flourish, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles. She giggled. “Madam, what a joy it is to see you. Truly, you are the jewel that crowns this evening; your beauty outshines the rising sun after a moonless night.”

“Thank you, Lord Lettenhove,” she answered with a perfect curtsy, during which the skirts of her dress flared out. Lettenhove ochre, just like his doublet, he noticed, and her dark hair plaited in an updo that must have taken hours to complete. It left no doubts as to where she belonged. She glanced up at him with a malicious glint in her eyes. "Do you know the best part?" she whispered.

He leaned down to her. "Tell me."

"The skirts are so wide, I could still gut a man in it."

Jaskier blinked in surprise; it was the quiet chuckle form Geralt that got him to finally break into laughter. "And what a good thing that is," he assured her.

"Fiona," Józefa chided softly. "I told you not to say that in nice company."

“Of course, cousin,” Ciri replied with a mischievous grin, “I would never.”

"Thank you," he said, rolling his eyes and winked at Ciri. He couldn't stop the feeling of pride welling up within him, but at least he could stop himself from hugging her by approaching his sister and kissing her hand as well. "You, madam, are just as dazzling as our young cousin. I fear I shall be blinded after this night, surrounded by so much beauty."

Behind him he heard Geralt whisper to Ciri: "What answer?"

"I just insulted him politely," Ciri answered just as hushed, evidently very proud himself. 

Józefa huffed and crossed her arms under her chest. She was wearing an expensive red robe with orange embroidery and primroses etched on the edge. "You are a woeful waffler, brother. But you look good, too. Nice and proper."

"Nice and proper indeed," Jaskier replied and straightened his impeccable doublet. "You think I can fool them into thinking I am just as much of a stuck-up prick as my father was and as they are?"

"Hmm," she hummed and cast a quick glance around. "I think you already have. Maybe yell at a few servants or refuse to speak to any of the ladies if the topic is not their beauty if you really want to drive the point home."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Working on it, sister dearest. I'm working on it." He clapped his hands and smiled brightly. "Well, let's get comfortable, shall we?" he chirped and pulled the chair back for his sister and Ciri in turn.

When he turned to Geralt and quirked a curious eyebrow when he still found him standing. The witcher looked back and forth between Jaskier and his two wards before shrugging. Geralt pulled back his seat with the mockery of a bow. 

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Thank you, my friend," Jaskier said with a subtle touch to Geralt's shoulder as he sat down.

"You're welcome. Julian," he said, as if he was probing out the taste of the unfamiliar name in his lips. A moment later he grimaced, as if it was particularly disgusting.

Jaskier was almost about to tease him about him when the great doors opened and Lord Goldfurt walked in with Janina on his arm. His sister looked magnificent, if he dared say so himself. While she usually didn't indulge in the luxuries that her advantageous marriage granted her, Jaskier was sure that she was wearing the most luxurious dress she had donned since her wedding. It was in dark and subdued tones, almost dark enough to count as mourning, that screamed "Lettenhove" at the same time.

Jaskier smirked. It had been a brilliant idea on Justyna's part.

The unhappy pair stopped before the dais, Janina stone-faced and Filip with a smile that fooled no-one. "My dear friends," he greeted them, "I am overjoyed that I am able to greet all of you once again at the beginning of this new year. May it bring prosperity and health for all of us. Especially my estranged brother-in-law, Julian Pankratz who has finally ascended to his rightful place as Lord Lettenhove. It's an honour and a pleasure to finally host the famous Pankratz siblings again. A shame that you are missing one of your matching set. What do you say, Julian? A toast of the famous poet!"

Jaskier rose from his seat to the thundering applause and bowed exaggeratedly. Somehow, this was the most calming thing he had done in months. "Thank you, thank you," he placated. " I fear neither honour nor pleasure are the words our hosts usually describe us with." It roused a laugh from the crowd. "But, for the sake of this tradition, we will behave.

"I am thrilled, though I am entirely undeserving of the praise. Here's to my sisters, who are more beautiful than a bouquet of larkspurs. To the Count of Goldfurt, our gracious host. It is my utmost joy to finally be reunited with my family and my home. To Redania! And to his beautiful lady wife, my sister, Janina of Lettenhove."

He could practically feel the temperature drop in the hall as soon as he had uttered the last words, all eyes trained on Goldfurt to see how he might react. He practically didn't react at all, besides begrudgingly raising his goblet to his mouth and taking the tiniest of sips. "To home," he agreed reluctantly, "and my lady wife."

Janina, on the other hand, barely contained her grin and drank a big gulp. "To home," she said as well and the toast echoed through the hall, slowly reciprocated by all of the guests. The toasts were mixed with murmurs of confusion that died as soon as the food started to appear.

The banquet itself was a dreary affair as noble banquets often were, especially if the people at your table were of the quiet sort. And what was Geralt if not the quietest of them all?

Still, Jaskier delighted in pointing out the Counts, Barons and knights to Ciri. Between Józefa and himself they managed not only to call up old history lessons of their neighbours and their connections to Lettenhove, but also a fair share of gossip as the first course was served: fish. Oh, and what fish it was. Platters upon platters of smoked cod was passed in front of them, along with roast pike and fat carps in beer sauce, accompanied with little pastries of perch, trout, and salmon.

It was good. No, divine even. Not as good as Ana's cooking at home, but that was hard to beat. Apart from that it might be the best food he'd eaten in years.

"Did you know," Józefa stage-whispered and leaned over to him, "that three years ago Goldfurt's aunt was found in flagrante with Dergetten's elder sister?"

Jaskier gasped, pretending to be scandalised. "You're kidding. That old bag?"

"What's in flagrante?" Ciri wanted to know and Geralt choked on his food. "Jaskier, what's it mean?"

"Umm," he felt his cheeks grow hot. "You know what? Geralt will gladly explain that to you." The witcher shot him a mean glare that betrayed that, no, he absolutely would not. At this point he decided that it was best to change the topic. "Do you see that old knight over there?" he asked and discreetly pointed at the table across the dance floor from them. "He's supposed to be a dragon slayer."

Geralt snorted disbelievingly, and Jaskier shrugged. "Oh, we all know he's a liar. He's got the dragon's wings hanging in his hall, I've seen them. If you ask me, it's a bat he killed. And not even an especially large one."

Ciri giggled at that and Jaskier happily continued to dish out child-appropriate rumours as the next round of dishes for them to choose from was paraded around. It was poultry next, roast chickens, chicken pastries, scalloped chickens. But also, a dozen herons, little carrot-nests with fieldfares, and truffled capon. And all along the wine flowed freely. Est-Est was brought out by the barrel, as well as dry reds, sweet whites and even the odd sparkling wine in between. Normally, Jaskier would have indulged happily, but he had the feeling that he should keep a clear head for the evening. Besides, he had monitor Ciri's alcohol intake, who readily charmed the servants into slipping another sip into her watered-down wine.

They had just advanced to the main courses—fourteen suckling pigs, two dozen roast veal, eight whole boars, a handful of oxen, with thick gravy, cooked and fried and braised roots and an overabundance of cabbages. White cabbages, red cabbages, pickled cabbage, cabbage salad—oh, how he missed Toussaint in the winter—when some puffed-up peacock playing at being a poet swaggered onto the dance floor. Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring Geralt's bemused stares. 'The bardlet isn't even good,' Jaskier noted and forced himself to stop listening, else he might work himself into a rage over the blatant display of negative talent, that's what it was—

Geralt relieved a servant of her pitcher to refill both their goblets. Upon seeing Jaskier's questioning expression he shrugged. "Might make it more bearable for both of us," he explained and nudged the cup towards him. "This night I won't suffer sober."

He laughed hoarsely and clinked their cups together before taking a large gulp. "To sobriety, then."

"To banquets," Geralt added and glanced over to Ciri, "and no more surprises."

"What are you two talking about?" she wanted to know.

"The last banquet we attended together," Jaskier answered, steadfastly trying to ignore how his heart hurt at the thought. "It's where... we met your mother."

"Oh." She perked up at that, although her eyes seemed to grow sadder. "Was it... was it similar?"

"No," Jaskier said, just as Geralt replied: "Yes."

They blinked at each other for a moment before looking away. Jaskier tried to ignore the curious look Ciri gave him before she was distracted by Józefa again, the gods bless her soul. He was sure the little princess wasn't listening anymore and he was even more sure that Geralt was well aware of it, when the witcher growled: "The music was better."

"Excuse me?" he squeaked. Quickly, he cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he asked again

He leaned over to him and Jaskier eyed him warily. "The bard's shit," he hissed. "Can't even carry a simple tune."

Well. That wasn't untrue. But hearing it from Geralt made him nearly spit out his wine. "You think all bards are shit," he responded as soon as he had recovered from his coughing fit.

"Bull-fucking-shit," Geralt growled. "I like your singing well enough."

He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You called my singing a fillingless pie."

He shrugged. "And I still think that's true. Tasty crust," he impaled a piece of pie on his fork, "no filling." He pointed his fork at Jaskier. "Pretty voice, empty lyrics."

"Oh, so you think I have a pretty voice?" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Anything else about me that appeals to your artistic eye?"

"Hmm," Geralt answered and raked his eyes over Jaskier's body before quickly hiding his smile behind his goblet. Not quickly enough, though. His cheeks grew hot with the blush and he frowned darkly.

'Stop it,' he commanded himself. 'No use reading meanings into something where nothing's there.' He drained his water glass. He was is desperate need of a clear head, for he was quite aware that the heat coursing through his body was not merely caused by the many people getting drunk in the room.

At least he could distract himself with dessert being served: sweet pumpkin pies and baked, stuffed apples, red berry groats and oat biscuits with honey and cinnamon. Jaskier was quick enough to snatch the cup of mulled wine out of Ciri's hands, but could hardly protest the platter laden with all different kinds of sweets—not when his plate didn't look any different.

He passed the goblet he had just salvaged over to Geralt, who just scoffed. "Oh, now he's ripping off your songs," the witcher grumbled. "Ridiculous."

Jaskier sighed. "Let him." He knew there were enough impostors; he had stopped caring years ago.

"He's not even getting the lyrics right."

"I thought they were empty anyways," he remarked and popped a biscuit into his mouth.

"Not the point."

"Jaskier," Ciri interrupted them, "they're starting to dance."

He frowned as he saw Goldfurt leading Janina onto the dance floor to signify the end of the dinner. He sighed as he caught Lady Alina's eye on the other side of the hall. No doubt he would be expected to share at least one dance with his betrothed, for propriety's sake.

"I suppose you should join them, Julian," Geralt quipped and crossed his arms as they watched Justyna and Damian join them on the dance floor.

"I suppose I should."

"Well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Maybe later. For the moment, allow me to abuse your presence to hide from my duties." He watched his two sisters dance when another thought hit him: "Wait, how do you know that the lyrics are wrong?"

Jaskier could've sworn he saw a blush creep up Geralt's cheeks as the witcher grumbled something unintelligible and hid behind his tankard again.

"Geralt of Rivia," Jaskier gasped indignantly, "are you trying to tell me, you memorised my songs?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

“I—” Jaskier began, only to be interrupted by Józefa: “Julian,” she called his attention. “I believe you should honour the Lady Alina with a dance.”

“Fine,” he ground out and rose to his feet.  “I believe I have to surrender you to my sister’s care for a while, so I fear our conversation will have to come to a close for the moment.”

“Pity,” the witcher grumbled and leaned back in his seat, obviously not finding it a pity at all.

Jaskier laughed as if he had just told a joke. “Do try to enjoy yourself, my friend.” He winked, though his heart sank. “I’ll be back.”

He wasn’t quite sure if he should be relieved or not to leave the witcher and his sour mood behind, though he was sure that his own mood grew worse with every step. Eyes and whispers clung to him all along the way, although he pretended not to hear.

He couldn’t deny them their right to gossip; they were landed gentry after all, what else were they supposed to do with their pitiable lives? He’d just prefer that gossip to be limited to him and not the newest two additions to his household.

He had been hesitant, at first, to bring both of them to Goldfurt. Truly the last thing on earth they needed was more attention on Lettenhove. But after some long talks with Józefa they had come to the conclusion that there were rumours anyways. Not bringing the two of them along would look even more conspicuous.

In the end, he wasn’t the one who found his betrothed, for she beat him to the chase. “Lord Lettenhove,” she called for his attention.

“Lady Alina,” he did little to mask his surprise. “You’re just the one I was looking for.”

“Were you now?” She raised her eyebrows. “No doubt for the same reasons as I do.”

“And which might those be?”

“To satisfy my brother’s demands that we socialise, of course,” she replied and raised her fan to hide her exaggerated yawn. “Is there not a question you should ask me?”

Jaskier bowed gracefully. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may.” She barely even bothered with a curtsy before she let herself be led to the centre of the dance floor. The spent about half of the dance in icy silence, before Lady Alina finally spoke up: “So, are the rumours true then?”

“Rumours?” he feigned ignorance.

She snorted. “Do not insult me, Lettenhove. We both know that you are well aware what I am talking about.”

Of course, he knew. The whole society talked about nothing else but Fiona Nowak’s parents. There was a myriad of different stories where she came from and why she was in Lettenhove now, many of which he and Józefa had planted themselves. The most wide-spread, however, was the only one that he had actually tried to extinguish: “If you want to pretend, you’re more stupid than you actually are, fine. Let me be frank, my lord. Is young Miss Nowak your bastard daughter?”

He locked his jaw. “Those rumours are none that I encouraged,” he answered curtly.

“That does not answer my question.”

“And yet it is the only answer I will give on that matter,” he insisted. He had no wish to discuss the matter any further, so he was not quite sure what made him continue talking: “Though it is true that she is very dear to me, as is her safety. I would do anything to keep her safe.”

“How admirable,” she responded drily. “Though again, I would have thought the cleverness of your sisters runs in the family. I am disappointed to see that it doesn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ouch.’ Were he a man easily slighted, he would have taken offence. In reality, though, he was only impressed. “Are you well acquainted with them, my lady?”

“With some better than others. Did you know that I spent a few years in Nowigrad?”

He tensed up and she laughed.

“Of course, you did. You avoided the city like the plague back then.” Lady Alina smiled politely. “Well, Jolanta sends her regards.”

He frowned. She had never told him that she knew his former fiancée.

“She also lets you know that another friend of yours is growing restless with… this.” She made a vague gesture at the gossiping nobles around them.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I could not say, my lord, I am but the messenger.” The music stopped and she stepped back from him immediately. “I believe we have satisfied our duties. Good night, my lord.”

Even after leaving his fiancée in the arms of another, the dancing did not stop. Instead of his feet tracing patterns over the floor, his words took over as he found himself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the deadly dance of deception that was so popular with all nobles. Whenever he spun, trying to step off the dance floor of politics he found himself in the slippery grasp of yet another opponent. Chief among them, of course, were his sisters.

"Despicable old bag," Janina hissed, still eyeing the dowager Baroness he had rescued her from. "She's rotten to the bone."

"A Dergetten through and through," he agreed. "Józefa told me she’s the reason Lady Zibold came down with that horrible stomach sickness two years ago."

"Really, Julek?" She rolled her eyes. "You, churning the rumour mill?"

He shrugged. He had never claimed to be above these petty squabbles; he was landed gentry, after all, what else was he supposed to do with his pitiable life?

He spun away from her, soon to be embraced by another lady. All the while he danced, he could hear the rumours continue to spread like wildfire.

“Did you hear Lettenhove had the witcher bring his bastard to his keep?” he heard one nobleman whisper.

“She’s supposed to be the daughter of some whore,” another quipped.

“Don’t be a fool, Alma, she’s the Countess de Stael’s daughter; remember how she retreated to a temple for a few months a decade ago?”

“No, she has elf blood in her veins, it’s why he hid her.”

On and on the whispers went and Jaskier couldn’t help but roll his eyes at them. Not a single one of them got even close to the truth. He supposed he had to be grateful for that and he couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he saw her. She was hand in hand with Daria, sweeping over the dance floor and disturbing this dancing couples in the process.

He spun a web of lies to evade a landed knight’s curious questions and found himself on the dancefloor again within the blink of an eye, Justyna in his arms.

"I am glad to see her so joyous," he said with a fond smile as Ciri and Daria swept past them again, nearly knocking Janina and Goldfurt over in the process. "Both of them." His smile widened even more when he saw her keeping her husband from reprimanding them. 'You can't hide from me, Janka,' he thought triumphantly, 'she's gotten to you just as much as to the rest of us.'

Justyna hummed her approval. "She's a sullen child, is she not? I feared she might faint during our first meeting."

Jaskier sighed. "She's been through a lot, Konwalia. She's seen so many bad things, worse than anything you or me can imagine, and she's just a child."

He stepped away to bow to her as she spun away from him. When he pulled her close again, she averted her gaze. "Maybe I didn't give you enough credit. Maybe you might be able to understand."

“Maybe I might be,” he agreed cautiously. “Where’s Julek, by the way? I don’t think I’ve seen him in hours.”

"He's— Miss Nina put him to bed. He was... not feeling well."

"He's a quiet boy."

"He is. Easily overwhelmed, too. He doesn't smile a lot either. He's a good boy, though," she assured him quickly.

"That I do not doubt," he said and smiled. She didn't return it. "Justyna?" Her gaze flickered away nervously as she tugged on her sleeve. It was a bad habit their father had beaten out of her even before he'd left. It worried him. “You—I am aware that you think me unable to comprehend your worries, and maybe you are right and I am. However, I hope that you would still confide in me after all these years. If there is anything short of murder and treason within my power to help you and yours, I will do it, without hesitation.”

She kept silent for a few more moments, looking uneasy. "It's Damian," she told him quietly. "He believes him a changeling."

He huffed disbelievingly. “A changeling?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s what he settled for after accusing me of adultery first. He does not believe that a son of his could be this—”

“Inadequate?” Jaskier offered, well-acquainted with that particular paternal sentiment.

“He is not what he wants his son to be. Not courageous, not knightly enough, while Daria is—not enough of a boy to be precisely that.”

“And isn’t that a familiar tune?” Jaskier sighed quietly. “I am sorry your son takes this much after his namesake.”

“I am not.” She raised her chin defiantly. “For I love his namesake, just as I love my son.”

“I am glad to hear that.” The song ended and they both took a step backwards. Jaskier reached down and gently lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Worry not, my lady. For the time being, you are guests in Lettenhove, protected by my castle peace. And I happen to be quite fond of cowards, monsters, and inadequate children.”

Her expression softened. “I know you are. Thank you, Jaskier.”

He squeezed her hand briefly, before excusing himself, in desperate need of a drink—and a conversation with a certain witcher, he believed. The ballroom floor was as dangerous a terrain as it had been the whole evening, but Jaskier deftly dodged those who threatened to converse with him before collapsing in the chair next to Geralt. "Finally," he sighed and gladly took the goblet his witcher handed him.

“Did you have fun, Julian?” Geralt asked him and Jaskier raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“Did I look like I was having fun?” he countered.

“I am sure there was quite a number of attendants you managed to fool.” The unspoken ‘but not me’ hang heavy in the air between them and for a moment he allowed himself to bask in the familiarity of that. Jaskier closed his eyes, the noise and smell and lights draining away with every heartbeat until he could pretend it was just the two of them in a lonely clearing, sharing a skin of sour wine. Just them, just friends, just a witcher and his bard.

The illusion was sundered all too soon by a voice they had suffered all too long for one evening already. "Good sirs, might I persuade you to make a request?” Jaskier opened his eyes again and found himself staring into the young and bright-eyed face of a bard whose hopes and dreams were surely about to be crushed. The boy smiled widely and bowed. “Along with a bit of constructive criticism, mayhaps?"

Jaskier exchanged a quick glance with Geralt and, slowly and deliberately, set down his goblet as he waited for the answer he knew would come: "You changed the lyrics," Geralt stated, "not for the better."

"And how would you know?" the bardling asked with too much enthusiasm and tilted his head to the side. He gave them both a thorough look before gasping with excitement. "Oh, I know who you are! You're the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. And you-" He turned to Jaskier and his eyes grew wide. "Master Jaskier!" He bowed deeply. "It's an honour to meet you, truly it is. I have studied all of your work, sir, I am one of your greatest admirers."

He did his best to hide his pained expression with a smile. "I fear I do not go by that name anymore. I am old and weary; it is time for the new generation to get a chance. Viscount Lettenhove, if you please."

“Of course, my lord. And, if I may be so bold: wise words, wise words indeed,” the bard preened, too caught up in his speech to notice Geralt’s elbow landing in Jaskier’s ribcage or the wheeze that escaped him at that. "Might I humbly request a piece of advice of you? It would honour me greatly, no matter—”

"You may," he interrupted him and shot a glance at Geralt. "Stop singing other people's songs."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt him," Geralt growled.

“Thank you, my witcher,” Jaskier said and twirled his goblet in his hand. “See, young man, here’s the issue: you may be a bard, might even call yourself a strolling minstrel, and yet you are living off another’s hard work. I do not begrudge you for it; repeating songs you have heard certainly is a way to make your living. Mind you, however, that a poet, a troubadour, a veritable minstrel is, first and foremost, an artist.”

“But—” the bardling laughed nervously. “But I do not paint pictures.”

“Evidently,” Geralt grumbled just as Jaskier asked: “Don’t you?” He sighed and took a sip. “I certainly did. My experiences were my canvas, my emotions my paints, my aching heart my brush. Which is why I cannot sing the songs of another. How can you aspire to give a true performance, pour your heart and soul into it, if you don't even know what you're singing? You're still young, so go out into the world while you still have the chance. See if you don't find something that's worth singing about."

"How will I know that I have found such a thing?"

"Oh,” he stared into his goblet, “you will."

"But what is it? Will my heart stop when I spot it? Will—Will I lay my life on the line for it? Is it something worth dying for?"

"No," Jaskier said softly, "your life will stop, that much is true; but it isn't something that ends so much as something that begins. You will know when you have found something worth singing about, when you find something worth living for."

Next to him, his witcher choked on his wine.

[thesolitarystripe]

The knights of Lumina were posted outside the main city gate; arming gleaming beneath the hot summer sun. Each one sat atop a night warhorse, varying in color and size but matching in the same obedient stillness. Not a single living being moved within their formation. Every so often, a necessary tail flick to ward off the relentless flies could be seen but otherwise, it was as if the gods had left a magnificent painting as a gift, by the city entrance. At their front was Thomas Grey. Sir Thomas Grey. He was the right hand of the king, protector and personal guard of the kingdom’s princess, and a peasant by birthright. A bastard. It was odd to find one of his lineage within the knighthood and of the highest-ranking position but, his history within Lumina’s royal family spanned from the first year or his life, to now. Twenty-eight years. The young knight rode atop a bright palomino whose coat shown as brightly as the golden stalks of wheat their farmers grew. Its mane was a striking cream color. One dark brown eye, like most equine creatures, and the other an eerie crystalline blue. The mare had been gifted to Thomas as a boy for he too, was crafted uniquely by the gods. Hair as brilliant as the sun, white gold, and eyes as different from one another as night and day. Thomas bore one azure iris and the other a vibrant verdant. It was a rare condition, one seen perhaps between one person every few cities over. Some thought it a blessing, others a curse.

“Sir, dust from the East there,” a voice stated from behind Thomas whose head had turned to take note.

“Our guests have arrived, look sharp men.” Thomas squeezed the belly of his horse, urging her forward. The creature obliged and took Thomas forward with the rest of his men in his wake. Presently there were fifty of them on horseback, only a sliver of the knighthood. They were to greet and escort a small caravan of royalty from the Eastern kingdom of Stalwert. It was an admirable city whose trading routes and exports were undoubtedly some of the best. Lumina’s king sought an alliance by way of marriage. The princess, while not opposed to the arrangement had her reservations—all of which Thomas was acutely aware of. Many did not know his full history, they simply knew that Thomas was a babe dying on the streets when he was found by the royal family during one of the kingdom’s festivals. He was taken in, under what circumstances or pretenses they did not know. Thomas was raised within the castle walls, groomed to be a knight, and fast became the young princess’ most dear and trusted friend.

There had never been thought to anything more. Thomas knew, while his station was admirable, his birthright made him unsuitable for any romantic pursuits when it came to the princess of Lumina. Therefore, the idea never entered his mind though many teased them as children. One was never without the other unless stolen away by their mentors and tutors. It was easy for King Marcus Abraya to assign the young Thomas to be his daughter’s guard, even at the young age of sixteen. Most nights she stole him into her chambers to make her laugh rather than stand guard at her door. They were fast friends. As such, Thomas took today very seriously. He would be this prince’s harshest critic and report any concerns regarding his character to King Abraya himself.

The fleet of knights swarmed the royal caravan, introducing themselves well and offering their protection as they entered the city. The King and Queen of Stalwert greeted him warmly but there was no appearance made by the prince. Offense number one was noted. Thomas led the way back within the city walls, lines of commoners formed all of them trying to gain a look at the potential future king of Lumina. They would see no one. The man kept himself hidden away within his carriage. Only when they were within the sprawling courtyard, just in front of the alabaster castle, did Thomas bring his men to a halt. All of them but Thomas stays on horseback while the blonde dismounted and tended to the royal family. He stood at the carriage door and offered his arm, seeing the Monarchs safely to the ground. It was now, that he beheld the prince. He was of a modest build but clearly untrained in the art of war. The prince was of average height and looked quite small standing beside Thomas who was six feet and six inches more. This prince appeared soft, a man of the arts perhaps with caramel colored hair and deep brown eyes. Thomas would’ve given his honest remarks—the prince was handsome, devilishly but wouldn’t last a day within the ranks of any knighthood Thomas knew of. It wasn’t a prince’s job, however, to wage war with his own hands. Thomas was sure the man was likely a brilliant mind, expert at strategy, and adept at making treaties. Thomas was eager to speak of such topics with him as Lumina got to know their potential ruler over the course of the next few days.

“Prince Robert,” Thomas bowed deeply, the crown of his head exposed. “Might I speak for the knights of Lumina when I say it is a great honor to have you within our kingdom. Please let me know personally if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.” Thomas stood upright again and found those dark eyes regarding him.

“Thank you, knight, what may I call you?”

“Sir Thomas Grey, my lord,” he replied, bringing his gaze up to meet the prince’s.

“That is a wild look within your eyes, Sir Grey. A defect at birth?” He pointed between his own two eyes as he observed Thomas more closely.

“Indeed sir, I was born with it.”

“Interesting,” Robert sighed before he turned on his heel. Ending the conversation.

Thomas felt a strange sensation wash over him. Something in his gut churned. The skin on his arms pulled up and away from his bones and he had to stave off his urge to frown. The knight led the royal family within, only to be greeted by King Abraya within the great hall. The three flocked to the King and Thomas stood quietly behind, surmising what it was his gut was telling him. Every move Prince Robert Winsley made, ignited Thomas’ nerves. Distrust was already being sewn within the belly of the knight whose hands were clasped in front of him, face expressionless as he watched the greeting of two kingdoms unfold. Their ruler of Lumina ushered the royal families into the throne room, his knighthood in tow behind him. At the head was Thomas, to his right, Belor, and his left, Edward. The three highest of rank and the ones trusted to enter the throne room and stand guard within. Outside, lower ranking knights took their posts and waited behind closed doors. Thomas took his stand beside the elevated slab of marble that held three ornately decorated thrones. The largest in the middle was made of solid cherrywood, a deep red in color and carved with the Kingdom’s crest: an ivory horse, rearing back on its hind legs, mane whipping behind its muscled neck as if the wind blew against it. The background was black while the sides were embroidered in intricate floral patterns. While there were no other colors, save the natural hue of the wood, the marking was unmistakable on the backing of the king’s throne. There were two others, lesser seats but still beautifully made of strong oak. Within the smaller ones sat their Queen and beside her, the princess. The moment Thomas’ gaze lifted and he met the eyes of his childhood friend, the princess smiled. Her eyes hadn’t yet sought out her suitor before they landed on Thomas who was as reserved as ever but offered a half upturn of his lips. The Knight took his place beside the royal ladies while King Abraya waved a hand grandly through the air and motioned to his kin.

“I am pleased to introduce you to my lovely Queen, Amina, and my daughter.” Both women stood with the grace and poise of a swan, their dresses flowing around their bodies to accentuate every luscious curve and dip. Thomas stood with eyes forward, hands crossed in front of him.

“It’s a pleasure,” they both said in tandem as they curtsied and then sat again. Prince Robert flicked an eye over his potential wife and merely nodded his head. The second offense. Thomas wanted to scowl but kept his expression smooth. The royals fell into conversation as King Abraya brought their company to sit and rest; over his shoulder, Thomas heard a familiar clearing throat. Mismatched eyes found the princess who was already looking incredibly bored; she was obscured by her father’s commanding height so she could not be easily seen. The princess rolled her eyes. Thomas smirked.

He puffed out his cheeks and made an exasperated expression.

The princess smirked and stuck out her tongue.

Thomas’ eyes grew wide as if offended. Then he returned the gesture, tongue poking out of his lips and eyes crossing lightly.

The princess bit her lower lip and dropped her chin, desperate to hide her giggling.

Thomas straightened, happy to know he hadn’t lost his ability to make their princess laugh. Even after all these years. The two exchanged glances across the room, every time Thomas looked, his princess had turned away; as soon as he averted his gaze, she was peeking back at him rosy-cheeked and coy. When their eyes finally did meet, each one couldn’t stop the break of a smile across their faces. Children at heart, surely. Thomas clasped his hand over his wrist more tightly, with more resolve than ever to ensure Robert Stalwert was worthy of Lumina’s princess.

[aadmelioraa]

Falling (or, Aldhelm + Efficiency Kink)

Aethelflaed x Aldhelm, 2k, rated M (read on ao3) 

written for @volvaaslaug @skatingthinandice and the rest of this tiny fandom <3 

Lady Aethelflaed is a capable leader. In fact, she is an excellent leader. And if Aldhelm is honest with himself, it’s becoming a bit of a problem for him.

He’s alone with the Lady of Mercia, not an infrequent occurrence of late. She’s finishing the necessary business of the day, and the way she handles the most insignificant chore with diligence fascinates him as much now as it did when he first began to notice. He’s come to understand that her attentiveness and care are only surpassed by her cleverness. 

She's just…good at this.

He had maintained high hopes for Aethelred for so long, but Aethelflaed has more natural authority in her little finger than her husband does in his entire body. Years of grooming and guidance have done little to improve the Lord of Mercia’s temper in the end.  

Aldhelm is almost ashamed to recall his first impression of Aethelflaed. He had thought her a naive (though lovely) girl. But he has come to realize she is stronger and more intelligent than he’d given her credit, which of course cast her husband’s increasingly poor choices into starker contrast. He cannot ignore that her skills and disposition are infinitely better suited to ruling than Aethelred’s.

On reflection, it had been foolish of him to think Alfred’s daughter would be anything less than competent. But the more he reflects, the more he realizes it is not just her capable hands and mind. It’s that Aethelflaed genuinely enjoys her role as well. She seems to derive pleasure from every task accomplished, no matter how inconsequential. She’s a brilliant negotiator, whether speaking with the ealdormen about a matter of state or Aelfwynn about what time she was expected to be in bed. The satisfied smile she allows herself after a small victory is enchanting.

It was not so long ago that Aldhelm had considered disregarding Aethelred’s wishes equivalent to treason. He had thought Mercia’s best hopes were bound up in the man, young but burgeoning with potential. Now, Aldhelm’s definition of treason is somewhat more flexible. In fact, he is increasingly sure that his loyalty no longer lies with the Lord of Mercia. To be loyal to Mercia is to be loyal to Aethelflaed. 

He had not planned on Aethelflaed endearing herself to him in this way. And he had certainly not planned on falling in love with her. 

The realization happens gradually, over a matter of years. But when he finds himself at the point of no return, he is as surprised as if it had happened overnight. Aethelflaed could command him to the ends of the earth, and he would obey without a second thought.

Of course, she would not. She understands his value to her and to Mercia and therefore keeps him close—first, as a liability to be assessed, eventually as a friend to be trusted. Despite his ill-advised confession several months ago, Aethelflaed does not seem to think less of him. If in fact she does, she will not show it. 

She is simply too practical for that. 

And her efficiency is unparalleled. 

In a single afternoon, she will complete a list of duties Aethelred had left unaddressed for weeks on end. Her records are meticulous, her attention to detail exquisite. Her desk is filled with neat stacks of parchment covered in her clean, precise handwriting. 

Watching her take charge of Mercian affairs with a careful eye and steady hand, it is impossible to ignore that his feelings have evolved beyond intrigue. 

Aldhelm is undeniably smitten. 

“Did you have something to add, Aldhelm?”

Startled from his reverie, he realizes he’s staring. Aethelflaed looks back at him with concern. Her eyebrows are raised, causing a few lines to appear on her forehead, and he cannot help but love the softness in her expression.

“Apologies, my Lady. I had meant to inquire after the delegation to Tamworth.”

“We’re to send twenty men—unless you think a larger party necessary.”

“No, I believe not.”

Twenty is the perfect number, of course. 

Aethelflaed narrows her eyes, leaning back in her seat to have a better look at him.

“You seem to have something else on your mind, Aldhelm.”

He would have to work harder to conceal his feelings if he was to comport himself appropriately. A challenge that was growing in difficulty by the day. 

“It’s late. Shall we discuss the city fortification project or leave that until tomorrow?”

She huffs a laugh.

“Aldhelm, I have just told you that is finished. Have you been listening at all?”

He curses himself for his wandering thoughts. “Are you well?”

He is not. He is failing. Her competence is interfering with his own. 

“I am merely distracted, Lady. My apologies.”

Her gaze remains fixed on him as she sets down her pen, picking up the parchment she’d been writing on and blowing gently to dry the ink. 

He clenches his jaw reflexively, and she cocks her head—her amusement compounding, he can only assume. He shifts his gaze to the tapers on her desk, which had nearly burned out.  

“Distracted indeed. How odd. What could possibly be more pressing than the matters before us?”

Aethelflaed is teasing him now, he is sure of it. 

She rises to her feet, sweeping her eyes up and down his body with an expression of curious detachment. It’s maddening.

“I had something on my mind, Lady. A conversation with your husband earlier.”

The mention of Aethelred does not appear to disarm her.

“My husband solicits too much of your time these days,” she sighs. “But he is not here now, and so I request your full attention. I have one other proposal I would like your opinion on.”

Aldhelm knows that he ought to end their conversation, walk away, but he cannot.

“I would be happy to advise you, Lady, of course.”

Aethelflaed is advancing towards him now, hands clasped earnestly before her. Her fingers are slightly stained with ink.

“I believe we have both been under too much stress lately, Aldhelm. I have a plan that may provide relief.”

“I’m sure it’s an excellent plan,” Aldhelm replies, voice slightly hoarse. He clears his throat as subtly as he can.

“I believe it is,” she says nonchalantly, and without breaking eye contact slips her fingers into the belt at his waist, pulling him towards her gently.

He could not have protested then even if his mouth had not gone completely dry.

“I think you will find it mutually rewarding.”

Aldhelm fights a smile of disbelief (was this a dream?) and glances towards the door.

“Lady, we may be discovered.”

The corners of her mouth twitch and she places a hand on his chest, no doubt able to feel his heart beating wildly within. 

“You know as well as I do, Aldhelm, that the household is far more loyal to me than to my husband.”

She is looking up at him with lips slightly parted—soft, inviting—and he tentatively rests his hands at her waist.

The last time they’d been in this physical proximity he’d been dying (or so he thought) and she had been unable or unwilling to reciprocate his affection.

Whatever had changed between then and now, he does not care to question it in the moment. 

Still, he finds himself making another objection. 

“You’re married, my lady.”

What a supremely stupid thing to say. 

Her mouth quirks into a smile.

“I am aware, Aldhelm. That doesn’t stop my husband from pursuing pleasure, and it won’t stop me.”

Aldhelm has no defenses left, no arguments, no thoughts in his head other than how much he desires her. 

He gives in and cups her jaw, kissing her.

She tastes sweet and warm like summer rain. It’s intoxicating. 

He’s not sure if he’s still breathing, or if he even cares. He tightens his hold on her waist, and she cards her fingers through his hair. 

He would probably sell his soul to remain in this moment forever. Dark thoughts like this were never far from his mind when she was near.

“You’ve no idea the effect you have on me, my lady,” he murmurs.

He can feel her smiling as she kisses him back.

“I should think it’s fairly obvious at this point that I do.”

She’s pressed against him now, melting any self-control he had left. His baser instincts take over.

They’re stumbling into the next room, and she’s steering him towards the bed. 

Apprehension and desire course through him at once. Never had he imagined that this wildest dream of his could be a reality.

Aethelflaed is undressing him, then directing him to sit as she slips out of her own garments. The slight golden warmth of her skin fades to creamy white where she exposes the most intimate parts of herself. 

She pushes him onto his back and straddles him, her slick warmth pressed against his cock. Their eyes meet as she shifts, and—most incredible of all—he can see his own exhilaration reflected in her expression. 

She leans forward, her lips brushing against his ear as she murmurs, “What do you think of my plan so far, Aldhelm?”

It’s almost cruel. He’s wound so tight already he might have snapped there. 

He can’t answer with words, nor does he need to. Their kisses deepen, and she bites her lip to contain a moan as he brushes a finger against her opening. He slips inside of her and his breath hitches—she’s so warm and wet and perfect.

She’s building rhythm now, hips forward, grinding against him. She sweeps her braids behind her with a shrug of her shoulders, exposing the fullness of her breasts.

He locates the bundle of nerves beneath her thatch of hair, synchronizing the movement of his hand with the movement of her hips. She digs her nails into his chest briefly and keens in pleasure, arching her back. He draws circles, tighter and tighter. Coming with a shudder she cries out again, her face flushed with triumph. Then with a gesture, she commands and he obeys, switching places so that he’s on top. 

Her legs encircle him. Aldhelm slides a hand from the tender spot behind her knee down her thigh to her ass. She’s laying back, eyes shut, breathing in gentle gasps as she matches the rocking of his hips. 

By the time he comes, she’s moaning louder than before. His forehead is pressed against her and he can feel the sweat that beads her brow. Her walls quiver against him as he finishes, and he’s sure he’s just returned the favor again even as he’s satiated. 

He lands next to her and catches his breath. It’s a moment before he gathers the courage to look at her, but when he does she’s grinning. The light in her eyes would make him blush if he were capable of such a thing.

In his wickedness, he cannot help but think she’d never fucked her husband like that. 

Aethelflaed turns on her side, breathing deeply as she holds his gaze. He splays a hand over the curve of her exposed hip, holding it there for a moment, then moves it gently up to her waist. 

“We made quite good work of that, Lord.”

She hasn’t called him that before. She’s watching to see how he reacts. 

A laugh escapes him. He can’t help it. 

Aethelflaed closes her eyes, still smiling.

“You’re a strange man, Aldhelm. But I have grown fond of you.”

He’s brushing the hair from her shoulders, rolling a silky strand between his fingers. He does not know how long their tryst will last, or if it will ever be repeated. He will do everything in his power to remember every detail.

There’s a freckle below her left breast. He runs his thumb gently along the contour. Her skin is prickling—the room has grown cold—and he pulls a blanket over them.

Aethelflaed rolls her head back to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. She radiates contentment. His own limbs are heavy with it too. He pulls her close to him, their noses bump. Incredibly, she does not tell him to leave.

“Did you have a second phase of your plan you’d like to enact this evening, Lady, or shall we reconvene tomorrow?”

It’s Aethelflaed’s turn to laugh. 

Laying near her in this state is restorative, thrilling. He’s bold enough to kiss her again, and the taste is sweeter than before. 

“I believe we may reconvene tomorrow,” she murmurs and rests her head on his chest. “For now, let us rest.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

He will linger in this perfect moment as long as he’s permitted. 

[mistaeq]

Caught in his fangs, freed in his claws.

Chapter 11.

CHAPTER 1 HERE

TW // blood will be implied, kinda non-con relationship, vampires, werewolves, spooky things.

DISCLAIMER! EVERY IMAGE IN THIS FIC IS EDITED BY ME AND MATCHES THE DESCRIPTIONS IN THE FANFIC.♡ Feedback and interactions are appreciated !!

Lord Higashikata x neutral!reader / Butler Nijimura x neutral!reader [depends on your choices <3]

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

Last question was: As you looked at him struggling, you knew there was only a thing to do. You would have...

a) ...helped him to stand up. You couldn't look at someone struggling without helping.

b) ...been careful and waited for him to stand up, to see if he was really harmless.

IF YOU CHOSE ANSWER A: As you looked at him struggling, you knew there was only a thing to do. You would have helped him to stand up. You couldn't look at someone struggling without helping. So, you slowly approached the groaning guy, as he kept on failing in standing up. Had someone thrown him out of the room at the end of the corridor? Was he Higashikata Josuke? No way, nobody would have ever thrown the Count out of a room, it was probably the contrary. Either way, he had to be helped. You stepped right in front of him, as he froze, probably hearing you. But didn't pull up his head. You were sure you heard him... sniffing?

You lowered yourself on your knees, and gently grabbed his shoulders, to help him stand up. But, unexpectedly, he pulled back, and almost... barked? What kinda creature had you bumped into? Is this a person? A wolf? A... werewolf? All you knew, was that in front of you, a grey skinned, angry guy with golden, shining fangs was growling or something. Taking a better look at his face, he wasn't ugly at all. His eyes had something, something not human, a longer pupil on the vertical poles, rounded by a blue, shaded hue. "I apologize, I didn't mean to scare you", you said, bringing both your hands on your heart, symbolizing your honesty. "I'm Y/n L/n. Lord Higashikata's future spouse..."

IF YOU CHOSE ANSWER B: As you looked at him struggling, you knew there was only a thing to do. You would have been careful and waited for him to stand up, to see if he was really harmless. So, you stood there, carefully staring at the groaning guy, as he kept on failing in standing up. Had someone thrown him out of the room at the end of the corridor? Was he Higashikata Josuke? No way, nobody would have ever thrown the Count out of a room, it was probably the contrary. Either way, you had to be careful about him. He started crawling right towards you, as he suddenly froze, probably hearing you trembling at the sight. But didn't pull up his head. You were sure you heard him... sniffing?

You lowered yourself on your knees, and gently tapped on his head, to see if he would have let out any reaction. And, unexpectedly, he leaned into your touch, and softly... barked? What kinda creature had you bumped into? Is this a person? A wolf? A... werewolf? All you knew, was that in front of you, a grey skinned, weird guy with golden, shining fangs was being petted by you or something. Taking a better look at his face, he wasn't ugly at all. His eyes had something, something not human, a longer pupil on the vertical poles, rounded by a blue, shaded hue. "I guess this doesn't mean anything dangerous", you said, pulling your hand back and slightly smiling. "I'm Y/n L/n. Lord Higashikata's future spouse..."

You saw his eyes grow darker and and darker after every second you told him so. Sure, sure thing, he thought. Obviously the first virgin betrothed of Lord Higashikata had to be this... handsome/pretty/beautiful. "Y/n L/n..." he repeated. "We've been waiting for you. Josuke can't wait to see you, master/mistress." the boy slightly bowed with his head, standing up to bow to you properly. "I apologize profusely for what you just had to witness. Nijimura Okuyasu, at your service." You felt your cheeks burn up, at the sight of someone bowing in front of you. He must have been the Count's servant, or maybe the butler.

"Please... please, just call me Y/n..." you begged, pushing his shoulder a little for him to stand back up straight. "I grew up in a broke family, despite my noble title. We had no servants, nor butlers. I've never been anyone's master/mistress. And I won't be yours."

"Hm?" Okuyasu's eyes widened, and he raised an eyebrow, standing back up straight. You weren't gonna order him around? "What do you meant you won't be my master/mistress? You don't want to... instantly get a drink? Be carried to Josuke's room? You won't take off your coat and shove it in my arms for me to take care of it?" Well, this was pretty new to the butler. Lord Higashikata's previous partners used to treat him like a slave since the very start, so not being ordered around by you was a surprise. He thought you could just be shy and that you would have started doing it after some days, anyway. Still, you were the most beautiful one, out of all the people the Count had bought so far. Nobody had ever looked at Nijimura without saying he looked like a monster. You shook your head.

"No, I won't. Plus, it's a little cold in here, I'd rather keep my coat on for now." you crossed your arms on yourself, to warm up your torso. You rocked back and forth on your tiptoes a little, as an awkward silence fell between the two of you. Until... he sniffed again.

"You have a great scent..." his raspy voice said, as he got closer. Really closer. Okuyasu's face was almost in the crook of your neck, as he kept on smelling your scent, and his grip on your arm as he did so, tightened. "You're really perfect, Mister/Lady L/n..." he murmured, just until you pushed a hand on his chest, trying to get him a little further from you. Compliments were appreciated, but this was running out of hand...

"Mr. Nijimura..." you whispered, to push him away without anyone to hear, so that he wouldn't have gotten into trouble. "Hey... excuse me..." you murmured, blushing and staring at his hypnotized expression, pushing against him in a way which made him stumble on his own feet.

All of a sudden, his eyes widened back, and he hid his face by turning around and showing you his back. "I'm sorry, m'lord/m'lady." Okuyasu heavily huffed, and his voice broke. "Nobody's ever been so kind to me in years... plus... tomorrow's a full moon night... and when they get close... I can't help but... I-I'm so sorry... this is an awful start..." he trembled, hoping you could understand. And you did. You understood he was probably a werewolf, and the more the days got closer to a full moon night, he had instincts getting stronger. He probably couldn't even fully control them. That was fine. He's fine.

"No need to ask for forgiveness, Nijimura." you smiled, and took a couple of steps towards him, making sure the poor butler was mentally stable. "If you wanna make up for this little inconvenience, though... would you be so kind to accompany me to the Count's room?" he stopped his trembling, and turned his head towards you, smiling. You had the occasion to look at his features a little more. His face was really angular and slightly bony, but so clean at the same time. Not a pimple, not an imperfection nor a single scar. You wondered how old was he, but considering werewolf don't live eternally like vampires do, he was probably in his genuine early twenties.

"I'd be honored to." Okuyasu said, knocking at the room's door, which was exactly behind him. "I got thrown back in the corridor because I brought my Lord the wrong blood glass. It's not like I'm a submersible or something, so when the cook's not in the kitchen, I have to choose the correct blood myself."

"A submersible...? You maybe mean a... sommelier?" he considered your correction, with the most confused expression ever. You giggled, trying to make up an excuse to hide the amount of goosebumps the thought of someone drinking human blood had given you.

"Yeah, right! I meant that one." he exclaimed, knocking at the door again, but louder. He was the only one who could afford doing something like that without being killed, someway. Everyone was afraid of the Count, and he was, too. Higashikata had just understood that his butler had some issues with being quiet. Still, he was a good butler. No point in firing him or better, killing him.

"You better have a good reason to knock back at my room after you messed my order up." you felt your legs grow weaker. Was that your future husband's voice, coming from the inside of the room? The old man? But... it sounded so young and soft. Maybe... being a vampire, his appearance stayed young and fresh.

"Is your betrothed enough of a good reason, milord?" Nijimura asked, smiling at you, to probably reassure you about the fact that everything would have gone properly. But as you got closer and felt his hand on your shoulder, you noticed he was shaking. Bringing the Count's new "purchases" to his room was a job he never liked to do, on a basis. But this felt way different. He was gonna give to Lord Higashikata a 18 year old, a virgin, a pure soul. Who treated him well and respected him the best. He... "I'll stay in the room until he'll let me, Y/n. It'll all be okay." Okuyasu whispered so quietly you barely heard him. But you had heard him, and that warmed your heart.

"Come in." the warm voice of the one who was, effectively, the man you would have had to marry, invited you to get in his room. Luckily, as he promised, Okuyasu got in along with you, too. He probably wouldn't have left you alone with Lord Higashikata. Not yet, at least. Unless Josuke ordered so... he wouldn't have been able to disobey. You saw him... and your breath hitched. He wasn't old at all. He was so young, and his skin, apart from the paleness, was as smooth and clean as porcelain. He almost looked like a doll, sitting on his armchair as he stared at you and the butler entering his room. "Look at you..." he commented, his greedy eyes running over you. "Take a seat." a seat?

"There's no more seats..." you murmured, looking around the room to find something to sit on to not to upset him on your first meeting. It was better to start in a good way, if you would have had to spend your life with this man. But nothing looked like something to sit on.

"There is, if you're creative enough." Josuke grinned, staring as you understood and took a seat on his lap, not without thinking about it twice or more. His thighs were thick, and he had a pleasing scent all over him. You could tell he was a man who cared about his appearance and qualities. A man who knew was worth a lot for his beauty, but not too much for his soul. He never cared about his soul to be purified, though. "Good..." you felt his hand creeping up your back, caressing your waist. Then, his gaze moved back up. "Give me the glass I left on the windowsill and tell your new master/mistress how we do it here." At this words of his, your gaze ran towards Okuyasu, who slightly bowed with his head and walked to the windowsill.

"So... hope you slept at home, because you have many hours ahead of you before you can get back to sleep." how could you know you would have gotten to be married to a vampire? You would have slept back at home, it's known that vampires' day start at night. "Plus, I hope you'll get used to the food." The butler added, grabbing Josuke's half full glass from the windowsill. "Our chef does his best for it to be good for someone who's not used to bloody food at all. You'll get used to it, hopefully..." he grinned, then his eyes widened. "...Have you ever tried eating rabbits? Like... alive? I can even eat humans, on full moon nights... teehee..." Okuyasu hummed, as he licked on his golden fangs, his gaze not abandoning yours. His eyes had clearly something wrong right now. Something... way more animalistic? Not to mention, the velvet, crimson glove he had on a single hand was stretching, as if he wanted to do something with that hand. He was so lively, apart from the disgusting question, it made you nervously giggle.

The Count punched his armrest. "Shut it, Nijimura. You're scaring my slut." ...and Lord Higashikata didn't like your giggling, apparently. Slut, this is how he had called you? You didn't want to be his slut... he had called you a master/mistress, just like him, what was up with the slut thing? Obviously, you didn't really want to have the power to give orders to people like a true master/mistress, it was just... the contradiction. In response to Josuke's pissed off attitude, the butler gave out a smile.

"You always get all the fun away, m'lord." Okuyasu sweetly winked at you, before he left the wine - probably blood, since he had talked you about bringing the Count the wrong blood to drink - glass in Josuke's hand. "Also, I'm pleased to see that despite my drinking choice wasn't so accurate, you're gonna have it anyway. If, instead, you're not satisfied with my services and plan on throwing me out of your room some other times, allow me to suggest your highness drinking the blood directly from the victim like normal vampires do." What the actual fuck. Was he allowed to say such things, as a butler?

"Thank god, I have my future spouse on my lap and no will to stand up and kill you." the Count threatened, clenching his teeth.

As Nijimura huffed and gained his static position back, Lord Higashikata caressed your thigh once again, but all the time, you couldn't help, but feel uncomfortable. As if you knew that the same hands which were caressing you, had killed many other people before you, but everyone kept on claiming you were, someway, different. That he wouldn't have killed you. But you weren't so sure, about it. After he would have gotten your virginity away, you would have been a normal person. Why would he even consider marrying you, unless he wanted to have sex with you after marriage only. You had no clue. "Kiss me now, we're engaged, so you have to prove me your love." Which love did you have to prove, if you felt nothing towards him? What was this situation? What to do...

He was waiting for your kiss. Deep, red, and intense eyes were staring at you, and Okuyasu's presence made it even worse. But you couldn't waste any more time. You leaned in and...

a) ...kissed Josuke in an uncertain way, making unwillingly clear to him how uncomfortable you felt with it.

b) ...passionately kissed Josuke, using all of your acting talent, hoping he would believe your sudden behavior was true.

[cronquette]

:four: 

Disclaimers:

-Dedicated to Julia

-I do not own any of the Naruto franchise, I’m just making my SasuSaku dreams come to life.

-More personal notes will be situated at the end of the chapter

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Some beautiful paths can't be discovered without getting lost.”

― Erol Ozan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dewy grass left trails of freshness that wafted towards her nose, for it was sunrise when she had approached the village. It was massive, buildings wrung with wood and stoned grounds, stalls brimmed with fresh, rosy apples or exotic, blooming flowers flung themselves at her every second, catching her cocooned curiosity quickly. Her dress was modestly masked with a cloak, in case the spring cold would make itself known once more, and torment her small being with its ever freezing bite.

Her footfalls scraped slowly as she wandered through the streets, not paying heed to much of the crowds or clamour for she wanted to check her surroundings at the very least; it was not as if she had anything physically to hide. Her most prominent feature that would glimmer daintily in the sunlight, her glowing pink tresses, were now concealed from prying eyes. And her jewel, the captivating viridescent rhinestone, was tucked away safely in her skirt pocket, where her hand had been tucked in, lightly grasping it for fear that it would suddenly disappear. The only thing that would hold people’s gaze would be her foaming green irises, but she had held her head away in her hood that it would be impossible to observe such globes with practically no sunlight to hover over them. They practically glimmered under the sun’s speculation.

Her strides were slow, and her chest heaved slowly. She took in her sights, savouring her surroundings as she walked further, and further, through the roads. Marketing was certainly a thing she’d caught on straight away, for there were a myriad of sellers, creating clamour for people to take a peep at the things they held in possession. Many were farmers, she took a guess, as they had all sorts of crops and vegetables, fruits and whatnots sitting in their respective baskets, just anxiously waiting to be eaten. Others seemed to have sewn fine clothing, or smooth, meticulously crafted pottery, lathered in clean coats of polish to finish them nicely and make them look quite presentable.

The domesticality was all new to her, a culture she wasn’t very familiar with. Living in a coven all her life, food supplies either discreetly and swiftly delivered or fetched as soon as possible. Residing secretly was something she was used to, the exception of the ritual she had just experienced, along with attending all the others. She wasn’t suited for such open marketing, which proved her uselessness currently all the more when she realised there was not one silver coin in her pocket. Even packed with all her clothes, food to suffice for just a few days, and scrolls to help her study, she wasn’t able to purchase one single thing. It was fruitless to whine and beg, she wouldn't succumb to such vulgarity. Her mentor taught her that, and even so, there was no way she would lower her position as a witch before those humans. 

Even so, she couldn’t help but smile. Ino would enjoy this, she knew. The outdoors was just so suited for an out-going, confident girl such as the said blonde, and it was unfortunate she wouldn’t be accompanying the pinkette. The sun would be much entertained playing with golden locks, and accentuating such crystal eyes.

A new start was certainly refreshing, and she had a tingling feeling that it would be quite soon that she would be reaching new horizons and milestones

::

Wherever Sasuke traversed, a cold, sinister aura always accompanied him, But his firmness wasn’t able to intimidate everyone, so to say. There were, however, many who greatly feared him and the power he held. Those were mostly outside the palace walls, though. Within the elegant patterned pillars and marbled flooring, there was nothing short of being annoyed by the Uchiha. His servants, the dainty things they were, served him rightfully, not complaining unless amongst the company of themselves, and he paid no heed otherwise.

Hearsay was something not really familiar within the castle walls.

However, in the court, it was more than likely to be the everyday news.

Sasuke took his place at the old oak table, sitting comfortably at the head, his eyes steely piercing through the silence of the room. To his right, sat stiffly none other than Hyuuga Hiashi, in all his glory, arms crossed low around the biceps, his mouth achieving such a downturn it surfaced a memory of his own father doing such imposed actions. It made his brows knit deeper, before cooly turning to face frontwards.

“I take it you’re all well,” his words meant nothing; it was just procedure to stall a little before heading to the main topic, he had to remind himself. He’d seen many of his ancestors do so before him, and he wanted nothing more than to place his feet in their steps. A cold stand of wind shook the omnipresent tension this room always carried when such meetings took place.

Silent nods prodded him to continue, and so the raven folded his hands, leaning his elbows pointed on the table as his palms stood in front of him. He sharply inhaled: this conference would last an hour (as always), and so bringing different subjects to light at the right time was always something laying dormant at the back of his mind. He decided to start with the one that probed the nightmares that shook the living daylights out of him.

“Witches. And Warlocks. Those creatures still hang free,” He licked his lips in such a tantalisingly slow way it made one gulp.

“Why?”

His Adam's apple bobbed as the last word came out. His voice was a dagger, slicing the peace of the government before him in one single blow.

“Pardon me, your majesty,”

It was one of the further participants at the table who spoke, nevertheless, his voice wrung firmly, and his eyes, though pale like milk, shone with tenacity that they were quite nice to be held in.

“Those creatures may be vulgar, but they hold some sort of intelligence, sire. They’re hard to catch, and they certainly do not want to be found. I suspect they dwell in an abandoned part of Konoha’s vast forests, but it would be a matter of searches to see. Alas, you and I both know these follow ups have been taken before, and everytime, the result has always been futile.”

“Do you suggest that we abandon our searches entirely, Neji?” he gritted out with venom spitting from his teeth.

“I do not suggest as such, my Lord. However, there is only so much you can do; you’re not yet King of this land, you are Crowned Prince. The level of your status has merely succeeded upwards. There are still elders who have more power over you,” he fussed haughty, for his own clan leader was one of the few. The temptation to stomp over to his chair and rip his throat with the Uchiha’s bare hands was so enticing, but he had self control. He knew it was not the time to play like animals.

But Neji was truly a jackass.

“Hyuuga,” the domineering, stygian orbed male nodded to Hiashi, receiving his stern attention. The silence between them spoke louder than anything, for the elder knew exactly what the prince desired. And although it was something that was made to sleep for the moment, everyone in that room wanted nothing more than those chakra-wielding things to die. A common trait shared by all the civilians and warriors. Those of flesh and bone.

“You ask me to send out troops to find passages to where they lay, Sasuke,” he bit out gruffly. He cleared his throat, almost as if to show he had still a sort of superiority towards him.

“I can do so, but the most I can send is two troops of twenty. It’s a fleeting risk, however, all the more scarce that they will have to split halves in order to scatter north, south, east and west,” he answered. Sasuke refused to release the relieving breath he was holding, and instead flared his nose, as if to contemplate the proposition. It wasn’t much: ten of their men each searching thousands of acres, How long it would take to know of their return infuriated him beyond measure, but then again, less members meant more freedom.

They could move better in less numbers, so that was something that he could hold himself onto. Apparently, it was enough to convince him.

“I’ll take that chance,” his voice was hoarse from not trying to rush his words, an attempt to not sound desperate, for even in a room full of eyes his pride was bound to be torn like a ravaging pack of lions.

A small nod from the Hyuuga was all that he needed to know. Another search was going to be sent.

“Is that all you want to discuss with us, my Lord?” the aforementioned narrowed his eyes at the man who spoke. The lackadaisical, smart annoyance had his arms crossed behind his head, leaning comfortably on the back of his chair as if he had a care in the world. It wouldn’t surprise him if he didn’t. The audacity of the Nara didn’t disturb the Uchiha as much as before, so it only gave him so much as a twitch to his left eye.

“No, but most of the topics I am to discuss aren’t as much of importance. Feel free to sleep through the rest of this conference,” he spoke the last sentence sarcastically.

“May I but in before I snore then, your Highness?” he sighed.

The dark haired male shrugged, as if to say do as you wish.

“Some girl entered the village today,” he chided, “strange gal. Doesn’t look like she’s from here. We ought to keep an eye on her.” he proceeded to yawn, and leant back further, he looked as if to fall off his chair.

“Her appearance, Nara?” the young Hyuuga male inquired.

From his observation, she wasn’t very memorable, having been concealed through a cloak. The only thing that caught his eye was her eyes: the bright, emerald orbs they were.

Interesting.

::

It didn’t take long for Sakura to tire herself out through gallivanting aimlessly, padding her way through stones and pebbles on the ground, the sky’s heat accentuating through every hour, and the board weighted pack on her shoulders smally growing heavier by the minute. She wiped the swelling beads of perspiration that scurried down her forehead with the back of her hand, and released a breath of exasperation.

This village was immense in land expanse, and she hadn’t even gotten through to the heart of it, the place that made her mind twist with fascination-- the palace itself. In all its splendour, the building stood proudly in the heat, almost glimmering with pride: she could see it. But it seemed today was not one of which she could journey so far. She’d seen carriages steadily rocking bye, the horses trotting with such elegance she was entranced so much she stopped just to see them going by.

Oh, what a place this was.

She’d brought with her many of the scrolls containing the recounts of some of her predecessors’ experience, those--of course-- who’d made it out alive, and she pondered whether her experience would be deemed just as exhilarating. Or, gruesome enough to know she’d be burnt alive at the stake. She really didn’t know.

She then had encountered a bakery, blooming with warmth and delicious treats stacked at the window sill, enticing all who laid eyes on them. The pinkette frowned in despair as she knew she would not be able to purchase such a delicacy. Her stomach even whined at how imbecilic she was for not even bringing any coins to spare.

As she was about to move along, a voice caught her attention.

“Excuse me Miss, I can’t help but see how you’re looking at the pastries in our shop. Would you like to buy something?”

Unlike the Haruno, this girl wasn’t wearing a dimple, and so her chestnut locks gleamed hazelnut-like as she made her way towards her. Said strands were neatly folded round the top of her head to create two buns, only a ragged fringe framing her face. She dressed simply, with very few (maybe two) rosy petticoats that rivaled Sakura’s own hair. Not that it mattered-- it wasn’t as if she could see it anyway. She wore a slightly darker shade for her bodice, the tone drifting to a crimson, and her flat stomacher was an off-white, almost cream colour. She was a civilian, no doubt, but she seemed more dressed up than what would be necessary.

“Your shop?”

“Ah, it does seem like I’m not best suited for the occasion in this,” she picked up the thick skirts as a way of gesturing to her outfit, “however my family does own the bakery. You’re not from here, are you? I’m Tenten, a pleasure to meet you!”

Her beam was so bright and fulfilling it made the rosette pop a grin as well, taking her hand and shaking it firmly.

“Sakura, nice to meet you too,” she smiled softly.

“And I would love to buy something from your shop, it’s just that I don’t have any money on me right now. I’m very gratified at the offer, though.”

The brunette shook her head with a laugh, before grabbing the Haruno’s wrist and practically dragging her into the store. They were instantly met with the cozy smell of bread and sweet aromas, and the warmth of ovens burning with fervour.

“Oh, har har! Since you’re new around here, I’ll let you have a pastry for free! Your choice: pick one and it’s on the house,” she gestured to the room. The room was tantalisingly dizzying her with spells of temptation, and this girl was a civilian!

The pinkette smiled weakly and bit out a childish, nervous giggle. Not eating for a while seemed to take a toll on her. 

“I couldn’t. Really, Tenten, I appreciate the offer, but I must get going-”

“But you’re new, Sakura! I bet you don’t even have a place to stay.” she wagged an accusatory finger at the aforementioned. The latter grew pale at the revelation, trying to scatter ideas through her head and pick out the most logical option. However, there was none. It really was inevitable. She didn’t know what to do or say, but opening and closing her mouth frantically in an attempt to let out words was an amusing sight to display.

“Aha!” The brunette smirked. She then proceeded to run behind a counter, and with a flimsy towel, she meticulously pulled out a small, hand-sized meat pie, with slow strings of steam wafting upwards. She pushed her hands towards the Haruno’s petite frame, and instantly caught a whiff. She swallowed, before acquiescing.

The inside of her mouth burst with flavour as she took a bite. Her tongue tingled as she chewed pensively, still captured in the eyes of a certain baker’s daughter.

“I-It’s good,” she commented.

She ended up eating another one after.

::

Shikamaru was always observant, his skills made prominent for the Uchiha’s gain, and although it was a trapping situation, he didn’t mind. His life always bore him no matter what he did, the most he spent doing was making out the shapes of clouds in his spare time. That, and help soothe the load of paperwork that had been flung on his shoulders.

As of this moment, the conference had come to a close, and he was free to roam as much as he desired. 

Instead, he sat at a small bar stall, a metal mug of beer filled to the brim with golden alcoholic liquid, topped off with frothy substances bursting atop. One pint of the drink, and above all, his tobacco pipe puffed with intoxicating reels of smoke, making the man beside him choke in disgust.

“God, Shikamaru, do you have to smoke that crap?! It stinks!”

He would have scoffed at the said Uzumaki, who vexibly stalked him to this den after claiming that he needed some sort of relief off of all his errands as ‘Teme’s Right-Hand man’, and wanted some company. He still had no clue how the blonde was able to get away with that filthy nickname. But it wasn’t his place to judge their relationship, as the topic itself was something so obscure it confused even the two men in the involved party. And the Nara really didn’t appreciate getting himself into puzzling situations that twisted his brain unless he was forced to, or it was a pastime he participated in.

“If you don’t like it, you can leave, Naruto.” he sighed, as he took a swig at the beer in front of him, gasping as the bitter drink swelled down his throat. It was a bitter-sweet feeling, but he was used to it. It burned, but he relished in the pain.

“No way! I’m staying, ‘ttebayo. Oi, bartender! I’d like a pint sized mug of whiskey if you will!” she exclaimed, slamming his fisted hand on the sticky countertop. No one made enough effort to properly clean the wooden table, but no one complained.

Shikamaru shook his head, punching the blonde’s bicep rather harshly:

“I’m not taking care of a drunk you.”

He swatted his hand in the air as if dismissing him lightly, his nose wrinkling in laughter. As his drink was carefully handed to him, he recklessly bumped it towards the beer on the counter, slightly tipping the liquids together in an attempt to make some sort of toast.

“I’ll be careful, promise.”

The Nara was tempted to mutter something along the lines of ‘tis what you said last time’, but he held his tongue and instead sucked in yet another breath of tobacco, his mind slightly clouding in a sort of dizzy utopia. He heard a breathy exhale from his left before a slightly slurred sentence arrived, leaving his brows furrowed in calculation.

“Hey, heard from Sasuke that there’s a new girl in town. Do you know where she is, now?”

“What, are you willing to scare yet another one of the female species that resides in Konoha?”

The Uzumaki sputtered, leaving a smirk to cross the brunet’s features.

“Go to hell, Shikamaru!”

“And no, I just wanna meet her.” he lipped, pouting like a child. He was obviously highly offended, and that added to the other man’s pride.

In the end the two downed their drinks forcefully, not wasting one drop and yet attempting hard to sustain themselves from succumbing to the drunkenness. However their walking patterns seemed quite unsturdy and Naruto was easily daydreaming, so it wasn’t a good sign. In the end, they tossed their cash to the bartender carelessly, and stumbled around the village in search of a certain lady.

::

They found her, and quite simply too. The Nara remembered she was last seen, and where he found her, at the bakery he most frequented, since their baked goods were better than the others, it was a good travelling pace of exercise, and it was conjoined with a neighbouring weaponry store next door which they also owned. So, easily, they found her, although that was just going to be a place of questioning her whereabouts.

The bell chimed as the wooden door opened.

“Tenten,” Shikamaru respectfully regarded, a clumsy Naruto staggering behind. The shop was warm and cozy, and instantly scents of sweet and savoury adorned his senses.

“Tenten! Nice to see ya, we were wondering if you’ve got any information about where the new girl is-”

The brunet stopped in confusion at the sudden halt of breath from the Uzumaki. Something that he didn’t do often. Something in his opinion that he should do often. But that wasn’t the point.

He found the blonde gaping ahead of him, all sense of inebriation perished as his eyes glistened with a look of familiarity at whatever was behind him. Instantly, he turned around.

A small girl sat at the furthest table, shoulders squared and eyes wide with the same look of intensity as the male beside him. Her mouth hung lowly, as she was blinking frantically, as if they were an illusion she was trying to escape from. Her rosy brows knitted as she tried to find the words to say, but the whole room rushed cold as the two apparently came to the same sort of conclusion of words.

“Sakura-chan?!”

“Naruto?!”

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

Hi! Merry Christmas, or whatever you celebrate around this time. Can you believe it? 2020 is finally over, my God. My friends and I are deciding to go on a zoom call and play rick astley’s never gonna give you up as the end credits of this year. Seriously, it all goes downhill from here fnhdbkjdf. One of my friends is already stomping on 2021, don’t get me started lol.

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Please comment/review, as I really like to know that people still read my story, especially on ffnet and ao3. To those who have done so before, thank you so much! Every comment/review makes my entire day.

since my beta reader had something come up, until you read this, Julia! XD

Yours truly,

-Avis

[ladycatofwinterfell]

A new marriage and an old one, pt1

Summary: Robb is getting married and Catelyn have been married for many years. This is a happy story about the Starks (mostly Ned and Cat, but also the others) that takes place in a world where AGoT never happened and they’re all living happily in Winterfell.

Rating: I’d say mature, but message me if it should be changed.

English is not my first language, so I apologize if there’s any spelling and grammar mistakes. I hope you enjoy it :)

~*~

She had not seen Ned since morning the day before. He had told her that he had to work all day and didn’t want to be disturbed. Then he had not been in the Great Hall for supper and he had never came to her during the night. Even though he had promised that he would. And he had not been in the Great Hall to break his fast. She just couldn’t find him. He was not in his chambers, not in his solar, not in the godswood, not in any courtyard, not in the Great Hall, not with any of their children. She just wanted a simple good morning-kiss, but Winterfell was too big for her to search all of it, it would take her a week. She would have to go back to her duties and wait until he appeared again.

Robb was to marry in a little more than two weeks and Margaery Tyrell was to be his bride. She was a lovely girl and Catelyn had no doubts about that they could have a good marriage, even if it was arranged. But before the marriage could begin, there had to be a wedding. And a wedding required so so so much preparations. Catelyn had, along with many other things, been tasked with making a veil to match the dress Margaery was to wear and she was not quite finished yet. Catelyn didn’t understand why Sansa, who was better than her at embroidery, had not got that task placed in her lap. Not that Catelyn was bad, she was better than most, Sansa just had an incredible talent and Catelyn had so many other things to do. But Margaery had wanted her to do it and who was she to deny the bride of her son? She knew fully well about the hell with summer snows and horrible cold that Margaery was experiencing, she would do whatever she could to make her time in the North a little better. It was also and incredible honor to be chosen to make a veil for a bride, and it was rude to deny that honor.

She had almost arrived back at her own chambers when she rounded a corner and walked straight into Margaery. Since her future daughter-in-law leaned more towards the petite side, the collision almost sent the poor girl flying. What a good start.

”Oh” she gasped. ”I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”

But Margaery only laughed. She was very pretty with her brown doe eyes, sweet features and long chestnut hair.

”No need to apologize, Lady Catelyn” she said. ”No harm was done, now was it?”

”I suppose not” Catelyn said relieved, it would not have been good if she had injured Margaery so close to the wedding.

She expected the smile on the girl’s face to falter, but she remained smiling.

”Have you finished my veil?” she asked.

Damn it, of all tasks she could have asked about, it was the veil. Catelyn had finished so much, just not the veil. She was sure of that it would be finished in time, but it still bothered her that it had taken her so long to make it.

”Uhm, no” she admitted. ”But I was just about to continue with it. And I assure you of that it’s almost done, just give me another day.”

Margaery shook her head slightly and laid a hand on Catelyn’s arm. She looked very assuring in a motherly way for being so young. She was half Catelyn’s age and still Catelyn felt like it was the other way around.

”No, no, no. I didn’t mean to stress you, take the time you need. I know how much you have to do” she said.

She had a lot to do. And still she had just spent more than an hour running around the castle in order to find her husband so that she could get a kiss. Reasonable way to spend time when you were buried in duties.

”You said you were going to work on the veil now, would you mind if I sat with you?” Margaery asked.

”It means bad luck if you if you see the veil before your wedding day” Catelyn immediately said.

That was common knowledge, the bride was not supposed to see the veil before she put it on on her wedding day. If she did see the veil, it meant an unhappy and childless marriage. Highborn girls were taught that early, surely Margaery knew about it.

”I know, but I can sit with my back to you” she insisted.

Catelyn was still unsure. She didn’t want an unsuccessful marriage for her son and his sweet bride. They were so young, they had everything in front of them. Ruining it now would be incredibly foolish.

Margaery leaned closer to her so that the people passing them wouldn’t hear what she said.

”I’m very nervous, and I have a lot of questions” she whispered.

“I’m sure your lady mother would answer your questions“ Catelyn said.

“But she hasn’t done this whole northern thing. You have. I just want to speak to someone who knows what it’s like to do all of this.”

For a second Catelyn saw herself standing there. Nervous and scared about marrying a northern man she barely knew. Walking around with the knowledge of that she would have to live in his frozen castle until the end of her days. The North was not a welcoming place, she really understood why Margaery was nervous about marrying into it all. And she would answer her every question to the best of her ability.

”Of course” Catelyn said compassionately. ”Just make sure you never turn your head.”

”Thank you so much” Margaery said and smiled again.

They walked together the last few steps to Catelyn’s chambers. Catelyn called for a servant to get a fire burning in the hearth, it was so ungodly cold in the castle and she didn’t want to sit with her cloak on. Then she placed Margaery in a chair with her back towards her and took the veil out from the drawer in her desk where she kept it when she was not working on it. It was definitely one of her finer works. Fine white transparent fabric, and she was working on embroidering a golden rose with grey wolves circling around it. It looked quite good, she hoped that Margaery would like it.

”Ask whatever you want, I will answer your every question” she said as she started with her needlework.

She had to distance herself from the fact that it was her son that would be Margaery’s husband and just think of it as if she was to marry a person Catelyn did not know.

”How long have you been married to your lord?” Margaery asked.

Catelyn had to think a bit to answer that question. She had been married for a long time, and it didn’t immediately come to her exactly how long it had been since her wedding. But she managed to remember.

”I think it should be about twenty years now” she finally said. ”And I have been up here for almost nineteen.”

She had spent a year away from her husband just after they married and remained down in the south while he was off at war. She had birthed twins that year. Robb had came first, and Jon second. They were the same age, but Robb had been first and would therefore inherit Ned’s titles as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. At times she felt bad for Jon, he had been so close but still he wouldn’t get more than Hoster, who was her last born son.

”Then I know I can survive at least nineteen to twenty years” Margaery joked.

Catelyn chuckled and could imagine that Margaery smiled even though she couldn’t see her face. She was confident in that both of them would survive a good bunch of more years, even though she at times believed that the cold would be the end of her.

”With a bit of luck it will be even more” she said. “Though it will sometimes feel impossible.”

Margaery was quiet for a while. Catelyn guessed that she was thinking of her next question and waited. She focused on her embroidery, didn’t want to push Margaery.

”I have thought a lot of children” Margaery said after a while. ”I want to give my husband many little ones, is it difficult getting with child? Does the cold climate change anything?”

Personally, Catelyn didn’t have much trouble with getting pregnant. She had been with child pretty regularly since she married. In twenty years she had got Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Lyanna and Hoster. The last two were also twins and had been born two years after Rickon. But she also knew it was hard for some women, her sister for example. In regards to the horrible cold, she didn’t think it make it harder. If anything it had made it easier because it was even more pleasant to have a warm body close when it was very cold outside.

”I haven’t had any trouble with it at all, but I know women that it is hard for. I think it’s different for everyone, some easily gets pregnant, some has to try many times and for longer periods of time in order to get pregnant” she said. “But of course willingness from both parts doesn’t hurt. And the cold doesn’t change anything from what I know. Except for that it’s nice to have someone close.”

”How long did it take for you the first time?”

”I conceived Robb and Jon on my wedding night.”

Margaery mumbled something under her breath that Catelyn couldn’t quite hear, but it sounded like it was something along the lines of ”hard to do it faster”. Catelyn had to bite her lip in order to not laugh.

”What is the bedding ceremony like?” was Margaery’s next question.

Bedding ceremonies was something made up by men. No woman enjoyed it, but they had to endure. Hers had included torn clothing, hands in places where she wanted no one to touch her and comments that she could have lived without. And the actual bedding had not been very good either. Nothing against Ned, but she had not felt much at all.

”I can say that being carried off is the worst part. When it’s time for the bedding most men will be quite deep in their cups, so they won’t be very... careful with you. And they will say bawdy things. At my bedding a man told my husband that my breasts were so good that he wished he had never been weaned. That is the kind of stuff you will hear. You can return it if that makes you feel any better. The bedding itself isn’t bad, but also probably not the best thing you’ve felt that first time. But don’t worry, it gets better.”

Catelyn and Ned had absolutely not done it perfectly that first time. It had been a little clumsy and not very pleasurable. It had taken time to learn each other, but all that time was entirely worth it. She knew every little part of Ned and exactly how to make him feel pleasure. And Ned knew precisely what to do in order for her to come undone in his arms.

”Does it?”

”Practice makes perfect, my lady” was all Catelyn could reply to that.

Margaery giggled.

”Do I have to share a bed with my husband?”

”Not if you don’t want to” Catelyn assured her. ”There are no laws that say that a lord and lady must share a bed. You don’t even have to share chambers if you don’t want to.”

”Do you share a bed?”

”We do.”

Catelyn was too cold to sleep alone. She didn’t understand how she had survived the first two years up in the North when Ned had only came to her occasionally. Or how she had not frozen to death during the night since he seemed to have abandoned her.

In the early years she had been bothered by her lust for Ned, had been ashamed of how wanton she was and had been afraid of that he would be disgusted by it. But he filled her every need each time she wanted him to, whispered about how beautiful she was, how much he enjoyed what they were doing. And with time the fear and shame faded. Though she was still sometimes embarrassed by herself.

”Is religion a problem?”

”Not if you respect each other. You may not believe in his gods, but as long as you respect that he does, and he does the same for you it’s alright. Faith won’t be a cause of conflict.”

Ned had built her a little sept that she could pray in, respected that she didn’t like the godswood and its heart tree. When Margaery married Robb the sept would be hers too. Their husbands could keep the godswood for themselves.

“That direwolf...” Margaery said. “Do I need to be careful? It’s so big. And it’s got big teeth.”

“The direwolves are kind, they won’t hurt you. At least not intentionally. Though they can be quite fearsome, I know. I would lie if I said I wasn’t afraid of them in the beginning.”

She missed the time when they had been pups. They had been easier to handle, easier to feed and not so scary. Now all of them were freakishly large. And though they were tame and loyal like common dogs, they were very different from dogs and a lot harder to take care of.

”Do you ever get used to the cold?”

Catelyn laughed. You didn’t. Never. You walked around wrapped in furs and you slept wrapped in furs and you ate wrapped in furs and you prayed wrapped in furs. You lived your life wrapped in furs. And you were still cold.

”No, you don’t. Not me, at least. I keep my husband in my bed for a reason.”

Margaery laughed a little.

”And here I thought it was love.”

She looked up and saw Ned standing in the doorway. That’s why Margaery had laughed. So he had finally decided to turn up. Where the hell had he been? It had been more than a day since she last saw him.

”It’s really cold up here” she said with a smile. “And you’re warm.”

”Starks were made for cold” he said.

”And I was not, good thing I have you. Now, I’d like it if you told me something. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since we broke our fast yesterday.”

”I can tell you many things, my lady, but not that” he said. ”Not right now, at least. You will get to know soon.”

What an annoying answer. Couldn’t he just tell her where he had been and why he had abandoned her the night before?

”So what are you doing here then, my lord?”

”Do you know what day it is?”

That was not an answer to her question. Not even a little.

”No, Eddard, I don’t know what day it is. The celebration of abandoning-your-wife-and-not-telling-her-where-you-have-been?” she asked.

”Lady Margaery, may I have a moment alone with my wife?”

”Of course, my lord” Margaery said and rose from her chair. ”Thank you so much, Lady Catelyn.”

”Come back if there’s anything more you want to know” Catelyn told her.

Margaery didn’t turn to look at her, but she curtsied anyway.

”Thank you.”

Then she left and Catelyn put the veil on her desk. She leaned back in her chair and looked up at Ned.

”Now tell me, what day is it?”

He closed the door, and walked over to Margaery’s chair. He turned it around so that it faced her and sat down.

”Do you really not remember?” he asked

Catelyn tried to remember. It was the middle of the summer, there were no celebrations. It had been an extremely long summer and a warm one, even up in the north, but there was nothing to celebrate, that wouldn’t come until the the big autumn harvests. And there were no namedays, and the wedding was to take place in two weeks.

”I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember. What day is it?”

”I’ll have to show you something to make you remember then. Come with me” he said and stood up again.

That made her curious. What could he show her that made her remember? Did it have something to do with where he had been?

Ned offered her an arm and she took it as she rose from her chair. He caught her lips in a kiss before she was standing straight. It took her by surprise, but she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. She had missed him during the night, the bed was so cold without him.

”I’m sorry for leaving you last night” he said when they broke the kiss. ”I’ll make it up tonight. I promise.”

Why couldn’t it just be tonight already?

”Sounds nice to me” she smiled and kissed him again.

”But before that” he mumbled. ”I will show you what I’ve been up to.”

~*~