#Great white throne judgment

[thinkingonscripture]

Two Judgments in Eternity

Every human being—believer and unbeliever alike—will stand before God to be judged, but the nature of that judgment differs based on one’s relationship with Jesus Christ. The Bible presents two distinct judgments: the Judgment Seat of Christ (Bema Seat) for believers and the Great White Throne Judgment for unbelievers. Judgment for Believers For those who have placed their faith in Christ alone,…

[graceandpeacejoanne]

The End of the World

John now enters a strange, liminal space where death has coughed up its captives who now stand before an immense and gleaning white throne, while numerous volumes are opened... #Revelation20 #BookfoLife #GreatWhiteThrone #LastJudgment #FinalJudgment

Then I saw a throne, immense, white, and the one sitting upon it, from before the face of him flew the earth and the sky, and a place not discovered for them. Then I saw the dead, the great and the small, standing in the presence of the throne, and books were opened—then another book was opened, that is the life: and so the dead were judged, out of the things that had been written in the books…

[superbdonutpoetry]

Deceived

Galatians 6:3For if a man think himself to be something, when he is nothing, he deceiveth himself. SEVENTH DAY ADVENTISM This belief is not only Calvinistic, but also begs the question: what nation (singular) do they think they are citizens of, since there are Seventh Adventists from almost every nation under the sun? Probably the “new Israel” I would imagine, as they are under the impression…

[thedalatribune]

© Paolo Dala

Before The Great White Throne

Morgan Wilson had his four-foot (4-ft) putt lined up perfectly. He was about to tap the ball in the hole when he suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed onto the green.

The panicked voices of his buddies faded away as he felt himself traveling through a dark tunnel and then all at once he was in a mode of existence unlike anything he'd experienced on Earth. Unknown to him, he was in Hades, the abode of the wicked, as they await the day of judgment.

There were many other souls around him. More continue to flock in. Their bodies were like his own, wispy and insubstantial, but with all sense intact. At one end of the room, guarding a massive door stood a man-like figure who was so bright that Morgan could hardly look at him.

One by one, waiting souls were called to the door. When Morgan's turn came, he passed through the door and what he saw took his breath away. His eyes strained to take in the other worldly beauty and majesty.

Directly before him towered a Great White Throne. He looked into the face of the one sitting on it and he was undone. The face radiated pure love and infinite sorrow. In that instant, Morgan realized that this face, this being had somehow always been the reality behind every longing that he had ever had. The Man's hands were scarred as if they had been impaled by some sharp instrument. With a stab of fear, Morgan realized that he was in the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Panic welled up in him as he reflected on his Earthly Life which had not always been what it ought to have been. In a rich, pure voice, Christ called Morgan by name. Morgan was drawn forward like a magnet. For the first he noticed, there were some books stacked on a table beside the throne.

Jesus Christ picked up the first one and Morgan got a glimpse of its title: 'The Book of the Law'. Christ opened the book and placed it on his lap.

"Morgan Wilson", he said, "what do you have to say regarding your life on Earth?"

In spite of his trembling, Morgan found his voice:

"Well, I tried my best to obey your laws and when I think of other people I know, I think I did better than most."

"Very well since you expect to be saved by your good works, let's consider what that requires."

Looking at the book, Christ reviewed aloud each point of the law and then looked at Morgan,

"Have you done all of these things?"

"Well, not perfectly, of course, but I think the good outweighs the bad."

"Well I'm afraid that's not good enough", Christ said. "If you base your salvation on the law, you must keep all the law, obeying every single point without fail."

"But if that's the case, who can be be saved", Morgan said. "The Bible says all have sinned and have fallen short."

"You were exactly right", said the Lord Jesus. "That's why I died for you. I never sinned. I took the penalty for your sin in order to free you from it."

He closed 'The Book of the Law' and picked up the next volume: 'Morgan Wilson's Book of Works'.

As he opened it, Morgan's fear began to ease. I mean, he had done many good works and he felt sure the Lord would really be impressed!

"[It] says here that you gave $1,000.00 to your church's New Building Fund."

"That's right", Morgan said, "and I set an example by being the first one to do it."

[Morgan continued:]

"I also do many other good things! I was a deacon in my church. I occasionally taught Sunday School. I never missed a church service, even on on Wednesday and I seldom fell asleep during the sermons."

[Jesus replied:]

"Yes, all these things are recorded here, but it is also recorded that you made sure all of these things were visible to other people. You did it for them."

Suddenly, Morgan felt exposed. He could muster no response. Christ closed the book and reached for the next one, 'Morgan Wilson's Book of Secrets'.

"You got a lot of entries in this book, Morgan", Christ said. "Let's look at some of the things you did in secret."

[Christ continued:]

"It says here that many of your customers paid you in cash and you reported none of those payments to the IRS. You also reported business losses you did not incur and inflated the amount of your charitable gifts. You cheated on your income tax and according to this records, you did it every single year... Says here you visited the internet porn sites late at night. And to top it off, these records indicate that you had a long, running affair with a woman in your church. None of these deeds were ever found out and since they never damaged your reputation, you never repented of them. The bottomline is that you did your good works in public and your evil ones in secret. You should have done the opposite. You should have done your good works in secret so that your reward would have been my riches instead of the praise of people and you should have aired your evil deeds in confession and repentance."

Morgan looked down in shame as Christ closed 'Morgan Wilson's Book of Secrets' and reached for the next one, 'Morgan Wilson's Book of Words'.

"I see two categories of words in this book", He said, "those reflected the attitude of your heart and those that hid the attitude of your heart..."

You hardly ever read your 'Bible'. Yet, you quoted from a list of Scriptures you memorized to impress other church members. You spoke to your church's youth group about keeping their speech clean, while you knew in your heart that your own jokes with your golfing buddies were not even fit for the gutter."

Christ shook his head and He closed the book.

"I see that you have one more book to open", Morgan said, "is there any chance it might somehow override all that's been written in the other books?"

Jesus picked up the heavy volume..."This is 'The Book of Life'. The name of every person ever born has been entered into this book. Tragically, however, many of the names no longer appear. They have been blotted out."

"Please", Morgan said, "please open that book and see if by some chance my name is still there!"

Jesus turned slowly through the pages, scanning each one, and finally, He closed the volume and looked at Morgan... "I'm sorry to say you that your name is not here. You do not belong to me and I must banish you forever from my presence."

[Morgan replied:]

"But what about grace?! Can't you give me grace?!"

[Jesus:]

"Morgan, my grace was always available to you. All you ever had to do was place your trust in me and make me the Lord of your life. Had you done that, my grace would freely cover all of your sins and all of your failures, but you never did that. You never surrendered to me and allowed your heart. Therefore, you never knew me and now, I do not know you."

The angel led Morgan to another door, this one dark and ominous. On the far side of the great hall, there he was thrust into darkness. The door slammed behind him echoing in the empty blackness. Morgan couldn't see anything, no sun, no moon, no stars. Not a single ray of light. He groped about with his and tried to find footing for his feet, but there was nothing. Though he had now weight, he had the sensation of falling through the darkness... He heard nothing but the own sound of his weeping. He was isolated from all humanity and he would be so for all eternity.

Eons passed and the forgotten soul of Morgan Wilson still plunged downward into the vast black void. He had decayed into something less than human, becoming nothing than a perpetual hunger... For all of eternity he would writhe in despair. His torment never-ceasing. He would never be reclaimed. He would never again have hope.

NO ONE WHO STANDS BEFORE THE WHITE THRONE JUDGEMENT WILL COME OUT INNOCENT. ALL WILL BE JUDGED GUILTY BECAUSE THEY REFUSED TO RECEIVE THE OPPORTUNITY OF SALVATION THROUGH JESUS CHRIST.

The account of The Great White Throne Judgment in 'Revelation 20' in my estimation is the most sobering passage in all of the Bible. It tells of The Final Judgment of the inhabitants of planet Earth, the last sentence of the passage is chilling, 'Revelation 20:15'...

"ANYONE NOT FOUND WRITTEN IN 'THE BOOK OF LIFE' IS CAST INTO THE LAKE OF FIRE."

David Jeremiah The Judge

[oncedelivered]

Everyone's Day of Reckoning

This is the 22nd in a series of excerpts from What Every Christian Should Know About the Return of Jesus, released by High Street Press and available at Amazon.com.  One day, every person is resurrected and summoned before Christ in final judgment. While salvation is a gift of God, received by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone, our lifestyles reflect our beliefs. That is, our…

[joshmcgary]

ISAIAH‬ ‭24‬:‭1‬-‭23‬ ‭‬‬

“Look! The Lord is about to destroy the earth and make it a vast wasteland. He devastates the surface of the earth and scatters the people. Priests and laypeople, servants and masters, maids and mistresses, buyers and sellers, lenders and borrowers, bankers and debtors—none will be spared. The earth will be completely emptied and looted. The Lord has spoken! The earth mourns and dries up, and the…

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I’d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[bibleteacher-org]

We All Shall Give An Account

Preached Sunday Morning at Riverview

Photo by Nico Siegl: https://www.pexels.com/photo/wiener-justizpalast-15686925/ 1 Peter 4:5-7 Who shall give account to him that is ready to judge the quick and the dead. 6 For for this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit. 7 But the end of all things is at hand: be ye therefore…

[afaithfulsower]

The Great and the Small

Apostle Paul wrote that it is appointed unto man once to die, and then comes judgment. What is this judgment, and who is judging? (Click/Tap below to read more)

“And I saw the dead, the great and the small, standing before the throne, and books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life; and the dead were judged from the things which were written in the books, according to their deeds.”  ~ Revelation 20:12 We live in a fallen world that ranks and divides people in many ways, such as status, power, wealth, achievement, or the…

[jasonpjimenez]

Will you face the Great White Throne?

[lianadelune]

pairing: emperor caracalla x fem!reader

author's notes: i'm in love with him, your honor

part 1

the throne room of the twin emperors was a place where decisions of life and death were made with a flick of a wrist, its magnificence designed to intimidate and impress. massive marble columns stretched to a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations, while golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over the cold, intricate mosaics covering the floor. at the center of the room stood two identical thrones, one for each emperor, their backs adorned with gilded eagles clutching laurel wreaths.

it was here that you were brought, flanked by soldiers who led you through the imposing bronze doors. you entered with your head held high, your foreign features and proud demeanor immediately drawing attention from everyone. courtiers whispered among themselves, the rumors of your curse swirling in the air like smoke.

caracalla sat on the left throne, his body slouched lazily but his sharp eyes gleaming with intrigue. his tunic was dark red, a bold contrast to the opulence around him, and his fingers drummed idly on the armrest. he looked every bit like the predator you had heard about, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he watched you approach.

geta, seated to his brother’s right, was more composed. his posture was rigid, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was no less intense. dressed in white and gold, he exuded authority and calculation, his mind clearly assessing you like a piece on a chessboard.

the guard captain bowed deeply before addressing the emperors. “great caesars, this is the captive of whom the rumors speak—the woman said to be cursed by venus herself.”

caracalla leaned forward, his interest piqued. “the infamous venus’ wraith. i was expecting... more chains,” he quipped, his voice laced with amusement.

you met his gaze without flinching, your defiance palpable. “perhaps you should have brought more, if you think I need them.”

the room fell silent. gasps rippled through the courtiers, and even the guards stiffened at her insolence.

geta raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “bold words for a captive,” he said, his tone icy. “do you not understand where you stand, foreigner?”

“i understand perfectly,” you replied evenly, your voice carrying through the vast room. “i stand before men who believe themselves gods but bleed like mortals.”

caracalla laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber. “i like her,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. “she speaks with the confidence of someone who doesn’t fear death.”

your jaw tightened, but you said nothing.

caracalla rose from his throne, descending the steps with a languid grace. he stopped just a few feet from you, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity and amusement. “they say any man who dares to love you meets a tragic end,” he said, circling you, reminding you a lion sizing up its prey. “tell me, venus’ wraith, do you believe this curse is real?”

your voice was steady, though a flicker of pain crossed your features. “what i believe is irrelevant. the gods enjoy their games, whether we believe in them or not.”

caracalla’s smirk widened. “i don’t fear curses. or gods.”

“that makes one of us,” you replied with a sharp tone.

geta rose from his throne, his movements deliberate and commanding. “brother, don’t let your amusement cloud your judgment. if the stories are true, keeping her here could be dangerous—not just for us, but for rome.”

“and if the stories are false?” caracalla countered, turning to face him. “what better way to disprove them than to bring her into our court?”

the two brothers locked eyes, their rivalry simmering beneath the surface. you could practically see gears turning in emperor geta's head, after a couple second with the twins staring at each other geta sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “it... would be good for rome's fame when the word spreads and the other lands find out we have the infamous venus' wraith here... do as you will. but if this said ‘curse’ brings trouble, it will be your burden to bear since you so adamantly want to keep her."

but that wasn’t all, was it? you saw the shine on geta's eyes while thinking about his brother’s proposition, he came to a conclusion… but you were sure emperor geta would keep that to himself until time’s right, he’s that kind of ruler, no one ever knew what geta was planning to do until he already did it and by the rumors you heard before being held captive it almost always envolved someone with a knife on their backs… literally and figuratively.

caracalla turned back to you, a wolfish grin on his face. “you’ll serve me,” he declared. “you’ll dine with the court and entertain us with your wit. let’s see if this curse of yours has any bite.”

your gaze hardened, but you did not resist as the guards escorted you out of the throne room.

you whispered eerily while being taken away.

"good luck then"

caracalla watched your retreating figure, a flicker of fascination sparking in his chest, ignoring your words.

geta returned to his throne, his expression dark. “you’re playing with fire, brother,” he warned.

caracalla only chuckled, his eyes still fixed on the doors through which you had disappeared. “perhaps. but, as you are very aware brother, i’ve always liked the burn.”

you expected to be brought to a regular cell, a place fitting for a prisoner such as yourself, a dirty prison made for those who the emperors deemed less than nothing, undeserving to have at least the minimum a human should have to survive unscarred, both mentally and physically, a place with little to no sunlight, no bed, only the hard cold floor as a place to rest, and food not nearly enough for a small person to survive making them start to think that the rats running around looked appetizing.

you had accepted this was your fate when the emperors decided to keep you in the palace.

after all the deaths you caused, maybe you even deserve it.

but to your surprise you were brought to the top floor of the castle, a place truly fit for royalty and royalty alone.

the marble halls shimmer in the golden glow of torchlight, with intricate mosaics depicting the victories of rome lining the floors and walls. massive columns of polished ivory and black stone support the vaulted ceilings, painted with celestial imagery to reflect the gods’ favor. every corner of this level exudes grandeur, a constant reminder of the emperors' divine authority.

‘a bit egotistical in my opinion’ you thought ‘but beautiful nonetheless’

while being escorted to one of the three rooms on that floor you tried to think of an actual reason for them to keep there. did emperor caracalla really mean it when he alluded to wanting an opportunity to test their powers against the will of the gods? what about emperor geta with the odd glint in his eyes the more he thought about his brother’s idea to make you live in the palace, you wish you knew what both of them are thinking. were you a spectacle for the court? a new deadly weapon in their arsenal? political strategy? just plain and simple curiosity? all the above?

too many variables for you to get even close to a conclusion.

but one thing you knew for sure, they’ll regret it… just like everybody else.

when the guards opened the double doors of your newest room you were left in awe, staring at the large room with your mouth wide open and eyes shining brightly as if you were a kid looking at their newest gift at saturnalia, it was something you expected in a palace but still, you never thought that one day you would be able to see it let alone live in it.

the centerpiece of the room is a grand canopy bed, draped in layers of silken fabric dyed deep purple and gold, your hands delicately touch the frame, intricately carved with motifs of laurel wreaths and mythical creatures, you recognized the two sirens in the middle of the bed and a phoenix in between them, you turned around seeing tall, arched windows, framed by heavy velvet curtains, opening them left you with a breathtaking view of the city below and the distant hills.

it was perfect.

now that you were finally left alone your stoic facade got replaced by a huge smile, you jumped on the bed, happy to finally be able to sleep on an actual soft bed instead of the hard ones you were used to in hotels you stayed, having to change every other week when people find out you were venus’ wraith.

you didn’t want to think about your past or variables and possibilities like you always had since you discovered your curse, you also didn’t want to try and guess what the emperors were thinking, get inside their heads, you had a feeling you weren’t gonna like there.

you let yourself enjoy, at least for a little bit, the comfort of this tiny piece of your new life, after a long time just feeling ashamed for something that was out of your control, feeling those awful thoughts leave your mind you fell asleep.

after the heavy doors of the throne room groaned shut behind you, the space was left eerily silent in your absence. caracalla leaned back in his gilded throne, the lion motifs carved into the armrests glinting faintly in the dim light of the torches. his fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the polished wood as a crooked smile played on his lips.

“she is… unlike anyone we’ve met before,” he mused, his voice low and carrying a trace of amusement. “bold enough to speak plainly, yet clever enough to know her place.”

geta, seated in the larger throne beside him, steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. the cold silver embroidery of his tunic seemed to match the detached tone of his voice. “boldness can be dangerous. it breeds unpredictability.”

caracalla turned his head slightly, his piercing gaze narrowing on his brother. “and yet, unpredictability is what makes her intriguing, isn’t it? someone who defies tradition, dares to enter our halls, and yet does not cower. i see why the city speaks of her in hushed tones. do you think she feels the thrill of having someone’s life in her hands for something as simple as falling in love?”

geta’s lips tightened into a thin line, his dark eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the brazier. “intriguing or not, thrilling or not, she is still an outsider. a foreigner. her presence here invites gossip, and gossip can lead to dissent. we already walk a thin line with the senate.”

caracalla could be many things, bloodthirsty, a monster, impulsive, the list goes on… but on the contrary of many think, he wasn’t stupid, of course because of his disease his mind gets cloudy every once in a while, but right now his mind was as clear as crystal, he knew his brother wasn’t telling the whole truth, maybe he wasn’t even telling the truth in the first place.

but it wasn’t worth it to confront him, geta would only antagonize him, making him believe it was all in his head, his mind would be foggy and confused, making him act and feel insane like everyone believes him to be.

perhaps they were right.

but right now caracalla wanted nothing fogging his mind, especially when it was full of you.

caracalla waved a dismissive hand, the ruby on his ring catching the firelight as he smirked. “let them talk. let them wonder. she is no threat to us here.” his voice dropped, taking on a darker edge. “unless, of course, you plan to fall in love with her.”

geta’s gaze snapped to his brother, his composure unwavering but his tone sharp. “i am not the reckless one here. whatever amusement you find in her will not distract me from what’s supposed to be our duty to rome.”

caracalla laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber like a predator’s growl. “oh, come now, brother. you see the potential as clearly as i do. imagine her in the court, an exotic symbol of rome’s dominion over even the most defiant.”

maybe if he pushed a little geta would open up about his plans, once in his life he would trust caracalla with something, anything, but of course that didn’t happen.

geta remained silent, keeping his thoughts behind the usual cold and calculating facade.

caracalla’s smirk faded, and for a fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. then he leaned back again facing away from his brother.

well, it isn’t like he’s telling the whole truth as well.

the tension between them lingered like smoke in the air, unspoken truths and unacknowledged fears weaving an invisible web.

[novaursa]

Maybe a story with reader being the bastard son of the mad king aerys? Idk what fem characters you write for got, any of them would work :)) (maybe lyanna or elia) like aerys betroths them out of spite or as punishment(?)

Love ur work btw <3

The Bastard Prince

- Summary: Your father bethrodes you to Lyanna Stark out of spite, and sends you North.

- Pairing: male!reader/Lyanna Stark

- Rating: Mild 13+

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

The towering doors of the throne room loom before you, their weighty presence nearly suffocating under the shadow of the Iron Throne. Two kingsguard flank you, their white cloaks brushing against the stone floor as they lead you forward. It’s rare for the king to summon you so formally, and your gut churns with unease as you step inside.

The hall is filled with lords and courtiers, their eyes turning to you with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. They know who you are—Aerys’s bastard son, Y/N Waters, a living reminder of the king’s indiscretions. You can feel the judgment in their stares, each gaze piercing through the thin armor of indifference you wear.

King Aerys sits high on the Iron Throne, his fingers drumming against the jagged steel as you approach. His eyes, sharp and blazing with a manic energy, settle on you. There’s a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you sense something dreadful lurking behind it.

“Ah, here he is,” Aerys declares, his voice booming through the chamber. “My own flesh and blood, though born on the wrong side of the sheets.” Laughter echoes from the gathered lords and ladies, a sycophantic chorus that grates against your ears.

You bow stiffly, keeping your expression as neutral as possible. “Your Grace.”

The king rises, a rustle of fabric and metal, his gaze now shifting toward the northern delegation standing at the base of the throne. Lord Rickard Stark stands at the forefront, his face a stoic mask, but his eyes watchful. Beside him, his son Brandon, tall and proud, and then there’s her.

Lyanna Stark.

The girl is a storm wrapped in furs, her eyes dark and defiant as they meet yours. Her hair, a wild cascade of brown, frames a face flushed with either anger or unease—you can’t tell. She’s beautiful, even more so than the songs suggest, but there’s a fire in her that promises no easy submission.

Aerys gestures toward you with a grand sweep of his hand, his grin widening as he looks back at the Starks. “Lord Rickard, it is with great pleasure that I present to you my son. A gift, you might say, to seal our new alliance.”

You glance at Lord Stark, his jaw tight but giving nothing away. He inclines his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment or resignation—you’re not sure which. Brandon’s fists are clenched at his sides, his face thunderous, but he remains silent.

“And as promised,” Aerys continues, his voice dripping with mock benevolence, “your daughter, the lovely Lyanna, will be wed to Y/N. A union that will bind the North and the Crown in unbreakable bonds.”

The words crash over you like a wave, leaving you momentarily stunned. He’s promised her to you? An alliance, yes, but you can see it in the king’s eyes—this is a convenient way to rid himself of you, to send you far from King’s Landing. The North is the furthest he can exile you while still keeping you under his thumb.

Lyanna’s face is a mask of outrage, her lips parting as if to speak, but her father’s hand on her arm stops her. There’s a beat of silence, heavy and tense, and then Lord Stark nods once more, his voice steady but strained. “The honor is ours, Your Grace.”

You force yourself to breathe, your heart hammering in your chest. This is what you are to him, a piece to be moved, a pawn in his dangerous games. And now, it seems, Lyanna Stark is caught in that same trap.

“Of course, I couldn’t deprive the North of such a strong, loyal companion,” Aerys says, his gaze flicking back to you. “I’ve heard tales of your valor, Y/N. You’ll do well up there, won’t you?”

There’s a twisted delight in his words, a promise of torment to come. You know better than to challenge him here, in front of all these eyes, so you simply bow your head. “I will serve as best I can, Your Grace.”

Aerys laughs, a high, grating sound that echoes through the hall. “See that you do. Now, join your new family. You’ll have plenty of time to become acquainted before you depart.”

He waves his hand dismissively, and you’re left standing there, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. With measured steps, you move toward the Starks. Brandon’s eyes blaze with fury, and Lord Rickard’s face is as impenetrable as ever. But it’s Lyanna who holds your attention, her stare unwavering, challenging.

“Lady Lyanna,” you murmur, bowing slightly. It’s all you can manage, unsure of what else to say in the face of such hostility.

She doesn’t lower her gaze, doesn’t flinch. “Ser,” she replies, her voice steady but cold. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

The bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, and it cuts deeper than you expect. “I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly, though the words feel inadequate, hollow.

Her eyes flash with something unreadable, and she lifts her chin. “Neither did I.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Lord Stark speaks, his voice low and firm. “We will discuss this in private. There’s no need to make a spectacle here.”

He guides Lyanna away, Brandon following with a dark look cast your way. You watch them go, feeling the weight of the king’s laughter still ringing in your ears.

As the doors close behind them, you’re left standing in the center of the hall, alone and exposed. Aerys’s gaze is still on you, his smile lingering like a poison in the air. He’s won today, sending you far from his court, from the city that’s never felt like home.

The cold wind bites at your skin as you ride north, the chill creeping through the thick layers of your cloak and settling deep in your bones. The southern sun seems like a distant memory now, replaced by the overcast skies and vast, snow-covered landscape of the North. The journey is a long one, and the company keeps mostly to themselves. The Starks are quiet, speaking in low voices among themselves, the anomasity between them and you palpable.

You steal a glance to your side where Lyanna rides, her expression as fierce and guarded as the first time you met her in the throne room. She’s wrapped in heavy furs, her hair whipping behind her in the icy breeze, and though she doesn’t look at you, you can feel her presence like a beacon in the cold, vast emptiness.

For days, your conversations are limited to polite greetings and the occasional exchange of necessities—a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie you’ve known among your companions in King’s Landing. But the North is not the South, and these people are not your friends.

One evening, camp is set near the banks of a frozen river. The northern men build fires and huddle close for warmth, the cold seeping in as night falls. You sit alone, apart from the Starks, staring into the flames, the crackling wood a welcome distraction from the silence that has settled over the camp.

A rustling sound draws your attention, and you look up to see Lyanna approaching. She hesitates for a moment, then lowers herself onto a log across from you, her eyes steady and searching. There’s something different about her tonight—less guarded, though still wary.

“You look like you could use something stronger than water,” she says, her voice soft but carrying the hint of an edge.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at the flask in her hand. “I’d welcome it, my lady.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips, and she tosses the flask to you. The burn of the Northern spirit as it goes down is harsh but welcome, and you hand it back with a nod of gratitude.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, watching you carefully. “One might think you’re not looking forward to your new home.”

“I’m not sure what to look forward to,” you admit, meeting her gaze. “Winterfell is a world away from everything I’ve known.”

She studies you for a moment, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “Why did you agree to this? The marriage, I mean.”

You look at her, surprised by the question. “Did I have a choice?”

She huffs, a sound halfway between amusement and frustration. “There’s always a choice. Even if it’s a poor one.”

You think about her words, the weight they carry. “And what choice did I have? Refuse and be cast aside by my father, or agree and be sent away to a place where I’ll never belong. Neither seems particularly appealing.”

Her eyes soften slightly, her gaze turning inward. “I know what it’s like, to feel like you don’t belong.” She pauses, her fingers tightening around the flask. “I’m not like my brothers. I don’t want to be just some man’s wife, to sit and sew and bear children while the world passes me by.”

The honesty in her voice surprises you, and you find yourself leaning forward, wanting to understand her better. “What do you want, then?”

“I want freedom,” she says fiercely, her eyes meeting yours with a burning intensity. “I want to ride and fight and live my life as I choose, not as some king or lord decides for me.”

You feel a pang of guilt then, knowing you’re a part of the cage she’s railing against. “I’m sorry, Lyanna,” you say quietly. “I never wanted to be the one to take that away from you.”

She’s silent for a long moment, then lets out a breath. “I know it’s not your fault, not entirely. You’re as much a tool in this as I am.” She takes a sip from the flask, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. Or that I’ll make this easy for you.”

You can’t help but smile at that, a genuine one that catches you by surprise. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

She studies you, and for the first time, you feel like she’s truly seeing you, not just the bastard son of a mad king forced into her life. “You’re different than I expected,” she says finally.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Maybe.” She tilts her head, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “You don’t seem as... desperate to prove yourself as the other knights and lords I’ve met.”

You shrug, the weight of her words settling over you. “What’s there to prove? I am who I am. No amount of posturing or pretending will change that.”

She nods, as if she understands that better than most. “It’s rare to find someone who thinks like that, especially in court.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence then, the fire crackling between you. The cold seems less biting now, the company warmer than you could have hoped. You talk late into the night, sharing stories—hers of the North, the wild, untamed lands and the fierce people who call it home, and yours of King’s Landing, the treacherous courts and the fleeting moments of beauty hidden within its walls.

You learn that she loves to ride, that she dreams of seeing the world beyond Winterfell’s walls. She tells you about her brothers—Brandon’s wild temper, Ned’s quiet strength, Benjen’s mischievous spirit. And you tell her about your life as a bastard in the Red Keep, the half-smiles and whispered slights, the shadow you’ve always lived under as the king’s unwanted son.

When the fire finally burns low, and the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, you feel something shift between you. An understanding, perhaps, or at least the beginning of one. You’re still strangers, bound together by forces beyond your control, but you’re no longer enemies. Not entirely.

As you rise to return to your tent, she stands too, holding your gaze for a long moment. “Goodnight, Y/N,” she says softly, her voice carrying the promise of something more.

“Goodnight, Lyanna.”

The next day, and the days that follow, she rides beside you more often. You talk, sometimes for hours, other times sharing only a few words. The others notice, Brandon especially, his eyes narrowing whenever he sees you together. But Lyanna seems unconcerned, her defiance burning as bright as ever.

You know you’re still an outsider, a southerner in a land that will never truly accept you. But for now, that doesn’t seem to matter as much. You have this, whatever it is, with her. And for the first time since the king’s decree, you feel a flicker of hope.

Maybe this marriage doesn’t have to be a cage for either of you. Maybe, just maybe, it can be something more.

[mira-s-bookclub]

Beneath a Veil of Shadows Part 2

Azriel x Reader

Note: I know one whole week is a lot of time to wait, but have in mind that I am exceptional at over working myself and getting the fattest writing block in history :(. So it is to regulate myself.

Warnings: Mature language, fighting, injury and blood, captivity, mention of torture?

Word Count: 1,9k

. . . . . ╰──╮ ╭──╯ . . . . .

I wake in a cell; seemingly underground should the smell give any indicator. My head is pulsating with hurt and when I try to stand up, my vision whites out. “I swear to the Mother...!” I breathe out.

A figure comes forth from the darkness across from me. Hoping he comes close enough for me to- I jump forwards. Yanked back by the chains biting into my wrists, I whimper. They had locked me up.

A dark voice chuckles from across me and I look up again. The male had wings and I could bet my soul it was the man I went up against. The man, who disappeared without anything else, would be marked for an earlier death than he thought, either by me or Azriel.

“They are soldiers.”

“What?” I jerk at the voice in the dark cell, my voice breathy. “Azriel did you know this would happen? Is this some means to get inside intel?” The last part came out harsher than I intended, at once regretting ever asking. I did not think he would set me up. Himself? Probably, if Rhysand did not interfere.

“Stop it.” He hisses at me. I cannot see him, but I feel his eyes on me, nonetheless. “I had heard talk of loyalties being changed in Hewn City, people getting ready for a new, great power rising to take the throne.” I hear Azriel at ground level, most likely sitting against the wall, a soft rattling in his chains. “I did not intent for us to approach either problem, but I should have informed you, however.” His voice sounds resigned, apologetic, even. Though he is faulty of nothing. “I would never have asked Rhysand to take you if I knew, know that.”

My heart misses a beat. “You were the reason I was sent here? You asked for me?”

“I missed you.” His voice was almost too soft to hear. “Even before,” he pauses, “our falling-out. I missed something I had not even experienced with you, a closeness that never would be enough. It did not help when I create space between us, but it was easier to pretend the further away from you I was.”

“Azriel- “

“I never would have taken you, Y/n. Never. Not if I had known.” His breathing is uneven, and I can hear him ruffling his wings.

“I do not blame you, Azriel. There was no way you could have known, even if you had informed me, I would not have done anything differently.”

He snorts. “You always stick to a plan, no matter the consequences.”

“I thought that was a desired skill?”

“Not for you.” My own breathing almost faltered. “Abort the mission, Y/n, if you see the result ending up captive or dead.”

I did not know what to say to that. I did not have it in me to leave others behind. If it were not the Inner Circle fighting, then it was someone who chose to fight with me, and I could not disappoint. But if it were the Inner Circle, if it were Azriel, there would be nothing on my mind except the knowing that they must, at all costs, come out of it alive.

I shift, my chains clinking at the movement. If I think of the chains for too long; I was sure panic would cloud my judgment, making me reckless and rash.

Leaning back against the wall, I contemplate our situation. A routine check, Azriel had said, turned traitors and wars. Stuck behind enemy lines, I did not know whether to cry or laugh. I chose the latter.

“I did not know captivity could spark such a light in you, Y/n.” Azriel’s dark voice sent a shiver down my back. Sliding down the wall to the ground, I sniff. Not noticing my tears until they had made their way down my cheeks.

“I have plans with Feyre tonight.”

Azriel was quiet for a time. “I think you might have to reschedule.”

Neither of us spoke for a while after that, the seriousness of the situation weighing down on us. Azriel had estimated for this mission to take a couple of days, and it was uncertain how much time Rhysand was willing to give before tapping into resources to find us. Azriel did not enlighten me to his thoughts, but I knew what clouded my own mind; it would take days before someone would come.

The last hours had been calm and quiet, safe for the irritating drops of water falling from the ceiling. The small space was humid and dark.

At times when panic seemed to seep through my bones, I closed my eyes and wished back to the past. I have memorized the way the sun used to hit my face, how the sand felt between my toes. I am smart enough to know that the brain remembers only the selected few, happy, memories. But Mother was it happy. Thinking back, I could remember snippets of a ship route where my sleeping quarters did not look too far from this.

Right after leaving Cretea, the emissary had told me the cost of taking care of two people would result in far treacherous travels, he had been right. I might have never stepped foot on a ship before, but I sure as hell would not have been ready for that travel, even if I had. We had spent days loading cargo, sleeping in small cots, I had never really dried up during those days. But as I think back to a different time, I wonder if I would have traded places with a younger me.

I look towards Azriel, who is standing again. From the sounds of it he had looked around the cell, probably for anything of use in this situation.

“Azriel?” My voice pierces the silence, and I internally wince.

“Mhm.”

I take a deep breath. “You are more strategically inclined than me, anything on the situation?”

“Do not talk your skills down.” His voice is near, and I hear him sit by me again. I wait for a genuine answer from him, not advice I surely will not take.

“Our last council, not with Prythian, but only The Night Court, was about the ongoing threat of war. Our world is on the verge of destruction, a problem bigger than Rhysand and Amren have thought, even bigger than Elain have foreseen from her position as The Day Courts Seer.” Azriel seems to take a breath, letting the thought sink that they must go to war again, so close to the last. Resources and relocation of people would bring a whole other crisis. “This... situation only confirms my speculations that they are rearming, and that fast.

My confusion swirls again. “Who?”

Heavy steps outside our cell silence us. I can feel my heart quicken and sweat begin to form on my forehead.

“Do not say a thing,” he whispers.

I nod but feel stupid when I remember Azriel cannot see me. My chains feel cold as I caress them, trying to find out if they will unclasp with force, I find nothing.

The door opens, revealing the same male I stood up against, his wings tight against his back. The shining light coming from his torch creates a stark difference between the darkness cloaking this cell. Blinking against the light, his eyes find mine, his lips pulling into a smirk.

“Shadow-singer,” The Illyrian turns to greet Azriel, who says nothing in return, making him focus his attention back to me. “And you, I do not know the name of. Enlighten me.”

I stare at him, knowing Azriel wants me to stay quiet, though everything in me wants to question him. His motifs, his goals, who he works for, though I have my speculations.

He looks gruesome in the flickering light, and as his face consorts in anger at my silence, I know deep down we are fucked.

“Do you not know who I am, Little Raven?” His voice soft, so different from his exterior.

The only sound I hear is my heartbeat, pounding in my ears, and I think it might drown out the next thing he says, I think I might hope it does.

“I am Commander Denholm, of High King Koschei the Deathless’ armies.”

And I think I might die a little bit.

“Get your hands off her!” Azriel’s chains rattle and screech. My own chains pulled by the Gods forsaken male in front of me, hard enough to send me to my knees a second time. I seethe up at him, my anger unmatched. Separating us would mean interrogation, and I reckon this man does not do that civilized. I will not let this man get his hands on Azriel.

I balk as his hands come down to grip my chin and Azriel growls.

“Resist and your friend here die; it is not ideal, but one source of information is all I need.”

That shuts me up pretty quick. I look back at Azriel, who, based on my expression, tugs harder at his chains, knowing I’m yielding. I memorize his face, his expression desperate and full of despair. “Please.” He pleads with Denholm.

I stand on shaking legs, my mind catching up to what this means, playing every scenario to what an interrogation entail. Looking back to Denholm I raise my head a fraction. I will not go lightly, nor will I yield the information he wants, needs.

Tugging on my chains he walks me out of the damp cell; the hallway is made of dark stone, where no light would have made its way down here would it not be for the torches littering the walls. We turn a corner, and doors line every side of us. I try to picture what type of person, or creature, must be behind some of them. Were they innocent, sent here only by mistake? Or were they mad, locked in a battle of the mind, bloodthirsty and cruel?

We continue around another corner and up a set of stairs, at the end of the hallway lay another set of stairs, but he took a right corner, and I followed.

I knew we were close by the expression on his face; cold satisfaction reeked from him. At the end lay a big iron door, heavy enough that even the Commander had to push it open, I am sure it is thick enough to be soundproof.

A small sound escapes my lips, not going unnoticed by Denholm. He threads my chains through a hook in the ceiling and pulls me up just so that my toes reach the cold ground.

He has turned his back to me, ravaging through a table holding different objects I am sure Azriel could name. Reminded of the fact that Azriel does this for a living, I wonder if this is how his victims must feel. If he thinks what is happening right now is right, considering he does this too.

 My breath comes quicker, and quicker, until I’m sure I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. The walls are moving, and they are moving inwards, closing in on me. My heart is like a finch’s. I cannot breathe, and tears roll down my face as the Commander turns around to meet my gaze. His wings ruffling and rearranging, as I have seen Azriel’s and Cassian’s do when excited.

And in his hand, appearing from his side to give me a good view, is a whip.

And a sob escapes me.

. . . . . ╰──╮ ╭──╯ . . . . .

To be added to the Taglists, comment:

All ACOTAR - 🌹

All Azriel - 🥀

All TOG - 🌼

Tag List: @tele86 @lilah-asteria @mariahoedt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @tenshis-cake @mybestfriendmademe

[hailturinturambar]

Edge of the Spectrums.

Pairing: Melkor/Morgoth x Nienna

Word count: 9.181

Author's Notes: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes or confusion. Hm, it's funny, pregnancy scares the shit out of me, but it's interesting to write about Nienna and Melkor going through it. It's even cute at times, I'd say. But I won't deny that I'm dying to introduce the baby to you, damn it. And hold on to your seatbelts, because Sauron really has issues here.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Unprotected sex, p in v. Masturbation. Toxic relationship. Always blood, because you know, it's their trademark. Violence. Manipulation. Harassment. Voyeurism. Sauron being a complete weirdo.

Summary: In Angband, something strange seems to taint the air, and Nienna can feel her thoughts being increasingly influenced by a nameless darkness. Rumors of an Elven revolt have grown stronger, and all Nienna can do is hope that Melkor will remain by her side.

PART XII -> SERIES MASTERLIST

In the Elder Days, in the Undying Lands, the Valar forged together, outside the golden gates of Valimar, sacred thrones for each of them. Máhanaxar, it was called, Ring of Doom, too. The councils of the Valar were held only there, and the judgments of the Ainur were always just.

When Melkor, in his malice and cruelty, invaded Valinor accompanied by the monstrous spider, and the Two Trees of Valinor were destroyed by Ungoliant, the Valar stood in the Ring of Doom, watching as Yavanna sang a melody of lamentation to rebirth the trees, and Nienna accompanied her with tears.

Yet, those thrones were no longer sacred. For Melkor could not depart from Valinor without desecrating all the creations of the Valar. To the Ring of Doom he went, cursing the Valar, cursing their false goodness and wisdom.

If Melkor was not an outcast, where was his throne? Manwë, Melkor thought, would never grant him a throne, a seat among all the Valar. Melkor could never belong, not truly. He would never be one of them. As he had not been in the Great Song. What, then, did he have to lose by pretending to care for the Valar?

Such was Melkor's fury and malice that the seats were desecrated forever. And for Manwë, for his brother's judgment seat, Melkor spared no effort in destroying the white throne with eagle's wings. Nothing was left in the end. Melkor's fury knew no bounds, since the Beginning of Time.

But in the Ring of Doom the Valar gathered once more, a new sentence they must pass. Furious was the look of the Vala of the Dead, who glared at the King of Arda with the strongest of wrath. Indeed, Mandos blamed Manwë for many things.

How could he not? When it had been Manwë, with his eternal kindness and endless pity for Melkor, who had begged Nienna to come to Middle-earth, to beg Melkor to abandon his insatiable lust for power. To Mandos, Manwë was responsible for all of Nienna's misfortunes.

For ever since the Great Song, her melody had been so intertwined with Melkor's that Mandos and Irmo feared for their sister's well-being. They worried that Melkor, with his cruel and cunning words, might drag Nienna into his Shadow. So that she would stand by him when none of the other Valar had.

And despite Mandos's misgivings, Nienna had indeed remained in Valinor with the Ainur, far from Melkor. But Irmo knew the deepest desires of the hearts of the Children of Ilúvatar, even as he knew the heart of Nienna.

For Irmo, and he alone, saw Manwë's loneliness, his longing to win his brother back, to save his brother from the endless darkness. And he saw that same longing, that same desire, in Nienna's breast. For ages, Irmo kept that knowledge to himself, never telling Mandos of his fears.

Mandos, Irmo thought, would be furious, uncontrollable, if he knew that Melkor was trying to reach Nienna with his Shadow again. Mandos knew of Melkor’s Shadow, of how he called to Nienna, but she had never come to him. At least, she had not come before Manwë had begged for Nienna’s mercy. And with her heart heavy for Melkor’s Shadow, she had not been able to deny the King of Arda.

Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar, knew it was only a matter of time, a few more ages, before Nienna would finally yield to Melkor. However, it had all been worse than he could have imagined. Far more intense and twisted than anyone would have suspected.

Manwë only wished that Melkor would find forgiveness, that he would find his way back to Valinor. He had not expected Nienna to become his wife, so in love, so fascinated, that she was bound to him in Angband and did not seem to care.

For it was far more painful for Nienna to be apart from Melkor. The sacrifice, Manwë suspected, of suffering with Melkor, with his cruel heart, with his malice, was worth more than spending ages alone, without Melkor's company and dark love.

In the end, not even Manwë, the King of Arda, the one who knew intimately the heart of Eru, could have imagined that Melkor would be so dominant, so cunning, that he would be able to keep Nienna trapped in his deception. For the Fëanturi were united and Nienna's mind was open to them.

Horror, rage, panic, took hold of Mandos the moment he heard the news. Irmo, noticing his brother's terror, did not need to look into Nienna's mind to know what had happened. It was expected, was not it? It was almost obvious that Mandos hated Melkor even more for having deceived them all.

Gathered in the Ring of Doom, Mandos' gaze did not leave Manwë, not even for a second, as the Valar discussed their new discovery. For a secret as great as that could not remain secret for long.

Tulkas, ever the opponent of Melkor, declared that Nienna should be taken by force to Valinor, and that this madness should be stopped. Nessa patiently denied her husband's requests, begging him to think about what he was suggesting, how much they could harm Nienna by even suggesting something so cruel.

But Tulkas was not alone, for Ulmo, who had always kept his distance from Valinor, was present and cursed the name of Melkor, who had infested his seas with evil and cruel creatures. All as a punishment, for he wished Nienna to receive more.

Manwë was divided. The Valar were divided. For children were a blessing, the true creation bestowed by Eru, and they loved all life. But they were haunted by the thought of what this child might become. What an evil as great as Melkor might bring forth.

“How could you?” Mandos said in complete fury. The Death Vala, with the face covered by his black hood, glared at Manwë with as much fury as he had glared at the Noldor when he had uttered his prophecy.

“Námo.” Irmo whispered, trying to contain his brother’s fury.

“Are you satisfied with all the cruelty you are putting my sister through?” Mandos snapped, pushing Irmo’s hand away, preventing his younger brother from stopping him from getting up.

“We did not know any of this would happen. Not even you, with all your wisdom.” Varda said in Manwë’s defense, outraged by Mandos’ words. “How could you not have foreseen what your sister was doing?”

“My sister was doing?” Mandos said sarcastically. Anger filled the Vala’s voice as he glared at Varda. “Your husband, the King of Arda, begged my sister to save his brother.”

“Mandos, enough,” Vairë whispered. “Nienna knows what she is doing. I do not think kindly of Melkor any more than you do. But you know I am right.”

“What are you insinuating?” Offended, Mandos looked at his wife.

“Melkor did not force Nienna, you know that. He could not have.”

Uncomfortably, Manwë surveyed the shattered seats of the Valar. Seats shattered by his brother. He stared at one throne in particular. The throne that had suffered the least damage, when Melkor, consumed by rage, had walked in Valinor.

The signs had always been there, Manwë knew that now. Because in some twisted way, some dark way, Melkor had never tried to hurt Nienna, not as he tried to hurt others, not as he tried to hurt his own brother.

“Nienna consented to this, even if you do not like it, Námo,” Manwë said unhappily. “She wants this child, with him. What do you expect to be done? Your sister loves Melkor.”

The depths of Valinor rumbled, and the screams of the dead were deafening throughout Arda. Slowly, Mandos looked up at the King of All, and what little of his face showed beneath his hood showed nothing but fury. Hatred and unhappiness.

Mandos sighed, nodding to Manwë, walking towards the King. To Mandos, it seemed foolish to be here, in this place of ruins, while Melkor was walking freely through Middle-earth, confident and powerful as ever.

“Ilmarë, your beloved daughter, nearly destroyed the Fana of Varda forever. She was in Valinor, by your side, protected by us all.”

The King of Arda looked at Mandos with sorrow, for he was a brother too, and he understood what Mandos was feeling. And he knew that Mandos was suffering because of his brother, and this grieved Manwë deeply.

“What will become of my sister, alone in Angband, surrounded by Orcs and beasts?” Mandos said, and he had never looked so desolate.

Irmo was on his feet now, quickly reaching Mandos, touching his brother lightly on the shoulder. It was a gesture of support, of comfort, of love. Manwë felt it, even if he had never felt it with Melkor.

“How can Nienna recover from giving birth to a monster’s child?” Mandos shook his head, preventing the younger man from replying. “Ilúvatar may forgive you, but not will I.”

Mandos did not wait for the King's sentence, walking away, without caring about the desperate, confused voices, who did not know what to decide. Because the Valar did not wish to hurt Nienna, much less provoke Melkor's wrath. But, they could not trust the Dark Lord's son.

Nothing Manwë could say to comfort the hearts of the Valar. It was too late, and they knew it. Nothing could be done. They would have to trust in Eru, trust in the decisions of the All-Father, and hope that better days would shine upon Arda.

But such days did not exist, not in Middle-earth. Yet, the horror that gripped the Valar was nothing like that felt in Angband. For Manwë was right. Nienna was happy, she was content.

Deep down, she had never given up hope of saving Melkor from his Shadow, from his ever-growing lust for power. If she could stop him from walking ever closer to the Void, she would do whatever it took.

And above all, even if this would be her undoing, Nienna was completely in love with Melkor. After so many ages apart, she wanted to be there, by his side, in his company. But that did not make things any easier.

Because different they were, and some differences were hard to overcome. Nienna knew about the Elves in Beleriand, plotting against her husband, against Melkor’s malice. All she could hope for was that the war would be brief, that the losses would be light. But that was too much to hope for, was not it?

The Elves were fed up with Melkor's sovereignty, and the Dark Lord would spare no effort to destroy each of his enemies. He had much to lose, did not he? Now, more than ever. Melkor would not be stopped from achieving what he deserved, it was his right. He was the most powerful of the Ainur. He deserved more, at least, he thought so.

Some loves, so intense, so devoted, were the ruin of lovers. Because a love so strong knows no limits to sacrifices, to the desperation to protect the one you love. It is a love that tears, that bleeds, that devours, but that protects until the end. This was Nienna's love for Melkor, and she was drowning with it.

And as Nienna stood in Melkor's chambers, which were more her chambers than his own now, she heard a gentle knock at the door. The Orcs, Nienna thought, had always shown her great respect, out of fear, she suspected. The Orcs did not like the Valar. Wife of the Dark Lord or not, she was still one of them.

“My Queen.” Said the Uruk.

Nienna knew that they spoke only Black Speech in Angband. Melkor required it, so that the tongues of the Valar and Elves would not defile his fortress. But since Nienna's arrival, he had allowed them to communicate with her in other languages.

“Glûg.” Nienna said, smiling.

One of the Children of Adar, Nienna thought as she watched the Uruk smile back at her. It was an interesting contrast, surprising even. Orcs and Uruks hated all of the Valar’s creations, just as Melkor did. But whether out of fear or trust, they did not trouble Nienna.

“Where is Adar?” Nienna murmured, waiting for the Uruk to arrive.

Glûg remained silent, uncomfortable. He had received orders, orders from the Dark Lord himself. Nienna was not to be bothered by Adar's condition, she was not even to be told about it. And all the Orcs followed Melkor's orders. But not Glûg.

For he knew she was worried, and he knew Adar was worried about her. But he feared the Dark Lord deeply, and he feared Sauron no less. Nevertheless, Glûg marched to Melkor's chambers, where he observed that Melkor and Sauron were plotting new battle strategies together in the throne room.

“The Master cannot know,” He said fearfully.

“It is okay. I would not tell.” Nienna said, calming the Uruk.

Glûg hoped he was doing the right thing. The tension in Angband was palpable, Nienna's vulnerable state was increasingly troubling Melkor, and everyone was suffering because of it. Because Melkor, the most powerful of all the Valar, would never admit that he was worried, but he was.

And it became increasingly difficult to hide what worried him. Just as it worried everyone else, who feared suffering the consequences at the hands of Melkor. So Glûg reached out his hand to Nienna, helping her up.

She was well, he knew, as well as a goddess could be in that state. But Glûg could not help Nienna, not enough, without incurring Melkor's wrath. So he let her walk, leading her out of the chambers.

Because Melkor, Glûg thought, could not know what he was doing. Much less that he was making the wife Valië and pregnant with the Dark Lord, to look for Adar in Angband. But, he knew that Adar would be worried too, of course he would be.

Nienna looked so delicate, so vulnerable, that it was disconcerting to see it happen to such a powerful being. Melkor, he knew because he had overheard the Dark Lord's conversations with Sauron, had hoped that everything would be all right. A phase, he had said, as had happened with his brother's wife.

But Nienna seemed worse. Perhaps it was Angband, perhaps it was Melkor's malice. But even the Uruk suspected that she would need the Valar, if not them then her brothers, to endure what awaited her. Alone, he doubted she would be all right. Even if he did not know the harm she might suffer.

Silently, the Uruk led Nienna to the Uruks' shared quarters. The fortress might be almost infinite, so large and spacious that all the Valar could live there together and yet remain distant from one another. But such comforts were not worthy of the Uruks, Glûg knew.

“Where are we?” Nienna said confused, needing to hold Glûg’s arm.

“It is okay.” He grunted in confusion. “Adar is waiting for us, here.”

The rooms was so cold. Cold as if death itself, as if malice itself, reigned there. Many Uruks were crammed into the corners, with no room to be comfortable. Nienna felt so sorry for them, knowing that this was not the worst that Melkor had put them through.

No matter how hard she tried, Melkor was resolute, firm, he would not allow the prisoners to suffer less, much less the Orcs to be treated well. The room was also very dark, making it almost difficult not to bump into a clumsy Orc, even though Nienna did not need clarity to see.

In the most secluded corner of the chambers, Nienna could glimpse Adar's back as he slowly turned toward her. Nienna's horror was so great that tears streamed down her face, for she understood now.

Yes, indeed, she knew that the countless deep scars that covered Adar's face were the work of Melkor, her husband. Nienna should have suspected, when he had looked so jealous, so possessive, so devouring at her in Angnaire. How he had crushed the rose, as if he intended to do the same to Adar.

Guilt and grief filled Nienna's chest. She wanted, above all, for things to be different for Melkor's servants, she had never wanted to harm any of them. So she walked towards Adar, who stood to greet her.

But Adar’s gaze, Nienna thought, held much more concern, even though he was the one who was completely hurt. Because Adar noticed how tired Nienna looked, how even her tears seemed more delicate, more graceful.

And most of all, he noticed her belly. Larger now, more noticeable. Adar did not know how long it had been since he had last glimpsed Nienna. But if he remembered the ancient myths and legends, Adar knew that Nienna would, unfortunately, spend a long time carrying Melkor’s child.

Adar was surprised, how the Orcs had kept it a secret from him, how not even his Uruks had mentioned that Nienna would have a child with Melkor. The Dark Lord was plotting, Adar thought, looking at Nienna's belly.

“It is my fault, is not it?” Nienna asked, not caring that the Uruks saw her tears.

“My Queen,” Adar said, shaking his head. “Melkor, the Dark Lord, has always been brutal. To all of us.”

But Nienna knew he was lying. Of course he was. Because Melkor could be cruel, but she knew that feeling. The one that was clouding Melkor's mind, making him suspicious of his own servants.

How could Melkor not notice? Nienna thought, stroking her belly. He was all she wanted, always had been. Even in the Great Song, she had longed to be his, as much as she longed now that she was his wife.

Nienna had no thoughts of another, her heart belonged to Melkor, and was closed to all others. But the jealous fool, Nienna thought, was hard to convince, to make him believe her words.

“I am sorry, Adar,” Nienna said regretfully.

When her hand reached out to Adar, he reluctantly pulled away. Adar knew better than anyone that Melkor had ways of finding out whether his servants were following his orders. Adar did not wish to feel Melkor's wrath again.

Nienna, despite all her sadness, was furious with Melkor. Because she was supposed to cry for everyone, to be the conduit of forgiveness, of mercy. All who were suffering were supposed to find comfort in her, but Melkor was preventing that. Because he did not trust Adar.

And so he prevented Nienna from following her purpose, to ease the suffering hearts. She closed her eyes, feeling tears stain her face, but the veil hid most of her sadness. The problem was, she felt so tired.

Adar, she thought, must have noticed. Because he quickly reached Nienna, patting her arm. How could Melkor let her go on like this? Adar was furious. Completely furious with Melkor for preferring Nienna to suffer rather than let her be cared for in Valinor.

“Do not worry about me, My Queen,” Adar said gently. “It is not good for you to remain here.”

No, it was not, but Adar could not imagine the true reason. Angband had been forged with cruelty, malice, and perversion. It was colder inside the fortress than outside, and Adar could only endure that climate because he had been corrupted by Melkor. Still, Angband's evil was immense.

And immense it was in Nienna, for Melkor's evil grew within her, consuming her, devouring her light, as much as Melkor longed to devour her. It was too much for her to bear alone, deep down he knew it, but he would never admit it.

Nienna took Adar's hand, letting him lead her out of the Uruks' chambers. They might be loyal to Adar, but they were still Melkor's servants, and Nienna was wary of their eyes on her. Spies, many of them were, but Adar did not know it. Melkor had countless spies, some of whom would never be discovered, not even by the Valar.

Walking beside Adar, Nienna could hear footsteps walking towards her. And, her heart hoped it was Melkor, but she knew she was wrong, as soon as she felt a hand lightly touch her back, pushing Adar away from her.

Perhaps Melkor had ordered Sauron to keep Adar away from Nienna, even if she did not believe Melkor's paranoia. Adar was nothing if not kind, even if Melkor was suspicious of everyone who came near Nienna. Pure thoughts had never existed in Melkor's mind, unable to comprehend them, he had become.

“I can accompany her, Adar,” Sauron said venomously.

Nienna did not want Sauron's company, not at all. There was something wrong with Sauron, something Nienna could not understand, but something she could simply feel. Something she could feel every time Sauron insisted on touching her, even if it was just a brief touch on her hand.

She did not, however, like being touched by Sauron. Much less did she like the predatory smile he directed at her whenever Melkor was occupied with something else, when he was not observing Sauron's features.

And this, Nienna suspected, Sauron did on purpose, as if he knew something that no one else did. As if he were amusing himself alone, while the others were merely pawns in Sauron's designs.

“Where is my husband?” Nienna said, watching worriedly as Adar walked away from them with a small bow.

“Busy, important matters, I would say.” Sauron smiled, extending his arm to Nienna.

Such a common gesture, so simple. So innocent, she would say. But nothing about Sauron seemed good or innocent, and she tried to pull his arm away. But it was as if a huge shadow loomed over her mind, and she could not bear to stand.

Sauron smiled condescendingly at her, not that he truly was worried about her. He held her arm, keeping her leaning on him, helping her walk once more. This time, Nienna did not have the strength to pull away.

But that was Sauron's intention, was not it? Because the moment he realized that she was vulnerable, in need of Melkor's protection, of his care, was when Sauron knew that she could be influenced.

No, that she might be hurt, without Melkor knowing it. For Sauron was a great Maia and a great servant, a great lieutenant. And even though he still felt the spark drawing him to Melkor, he deeply feared Melkor's wrath.

He could not, cunning or not, physically harm Nienna, her Fana, without Melkor noticing the trace of Sauron's powers in her. Melkor was more skilled and he would know if his wife was being harmed by Sauron.

However, Nienna's mind was different. For gestation took a lot out of the Valar, even though they were very powerful. Their children, Sauron thought, were as strong as they. Much power was demanded in return.

But if Melkor had expected Nienna's mind to be fragile, vulnerable without his protection, why would he suspect Sauron? Yet, that was what Sauron was doing. For weeks, for months, he had no idea.

The Elves had been planning to attack Angband for a year now, a whole year that Sauron had been playing with Nienna's mind, without her knowing, without her suspecting that it was he, and not the baby, that was making her body increasingly exhausted.

Honestly, the pregnancy was partly to blame, of course. Away from Valinor, Nienna was in countless dangers, yet Sauron was making things much more difficult for Nienna. For simple fun, for simple pleasure. Or, who knows, revenge.

For all she had taken from him, for all she had taken from him so brutally. Because it had been Nienna, and no one else, who had turned Melkor away from Sauron. Who had dominated Adar's mind with all those tears and kindness.

Thuringwethil, Sauron thought uneasily, was the last ally he had left, and in the end, she too was gone. Except Nienna. Not her, never her. Nienna remained in Angband, and Sauron was sick of her presence. He would hand her over to the Valar willingly, if they asked, if they appeared at the gates of Angband.

But Sauron could lie to himself all he wanted. Deep down, he knew that this anger was much more, a much deeper feeling. Because it was distressing to be near Nienna, near her sweet, irresistible essence. Sauron felt as if he were going mad, in fact.

And unfortunately for Sauron, he knew that this attraction, this longing for Nienna's touch, was a private suffering. Because her fëa was practically singing, and Sauron was addicted to that melody. Something that Men, Dwarves, even Elves, were not capable of feeling.

The Orcs felt nothing for Nienna, no small thread drawing them to her, but Sauron did. And not understanding what was causing it infuriated him, made him feel so desperate for her touch that he gripped her arm tighter and tighter.

If he would just close his eyes, let her scent, her essence, her touch overwhelm him, Sauron doubted that Melkor would be pleased with his servant's presence at his wife's side. But Sauron was a great liar and a great deceiver.

Nienna, Sauron thought, did not even know what she was doing, or rather, what the child within her was emanating. Sauron, deep down, suspected that there was something about the baby, a kind of energy, of power, so different from the other Valar, so unique, that they did not even yet understand what was happening around them all in Angband.

Because Sauron knew he was affecting Melkor deeply as well. Behind every frown, every lie, every detachment, Sauron could see Melkor's true face and how much he gravitated toward Nienna. Like him, like all of them.

With a false smile, Sauron led Nienna back to Melkor's chambers. Indeed, it was sickening, how she seemed to dominate everything in Angband, as if her presence contaminated everything, as if they were all hostage to Nienna's presence.

“Nienna.” Sauron whispered, stopping before the doors to the chambers.

“What is it?” Confused, Nienna stopped walking, staring at Sauron. When she tried to pull her hand away from his arm, Sauron held her tightly.

“You trust me, do not you?” Said Sauron.

And the tone of his voice was so sweet, so innocent, that it almost seemed genuine. Though of course Sauron was flooding Nienna’s mind with worries, with fears, reinforcing her fear that the baby was as lost as Melkor. Stimulating her haunted fantasies that Melkor would be taken from her, that the child would be taken from them, and she would be left alone.

But how could Nienna know that it was Sauron who was making the images so vivid in her mind? It seemed very difficult to accuse him, even though Nienna felt uncomfortable in his presence, noticing how he would not let go of her arm.

“You have never given me reason to trust,” Nienna said. “You know that.”

“But I am being good, are not I?” Sauron said, gently releasing Nienna’s arm.

Then his hand reached her face, caressing it. Nienna looked at Sauron in confusion, trying to pull her face away from him, but he would not let her. He seemed completely lost in thought, debating something that was unknown to her, and that she feared knowing.

“I want to be good.” Sauron whispered, stepping closer to Nienna. “For you.”

Honestly, Nienna did not ike the way Sauron sounded when he said those words, smiling at her. She liked it even less when he moved closer, without taking his hand away from her face, inhaling deeply, as if trying to keep her scent in his mind, forever.

It did not feel right, and she was uncomfortable. Nienna pushed at Sauron's chest, forcing him to keep his distance, while she did not look at him, unable to accept the strange feeling she saw on his face. Worried, she was, and she wanted nothing more than to be away from Sauron.

“Is it my friendship you desire?” Nienna said accusingly.

“What more could I want, My Queen?”

But Nienna could see the lies woven into Sauron's words. For she knew the whispers. For in Valinor, when he was still Mairon, Nienna had known that he had become very close to the Maia of Manwë, Eönwë. Great friends, they were, but it seemed so much more. Nienna knew it was something more.

At least, before Mairon became Sauron at Melkor's side, and Eönwë found pure and generous love at the side of Ilmarë, daughter of the King of Arda. Because whatever Sauron felt in those Golden Days, it would never have worked. He was too corrupt to be content with the love of Valinor.

But Sauron, being a cunning deceiver, merely kept his gentle gaze on Nienna, gently testing the barriers of her mind. He did not need to be caught, not yet, of course, not when he was having so much fun. So enjoying the deep distrust on Nienna’s face.

“We do not need to be friends,” Nienna said, turning her back on Sauron.

He made no attempt to stop her, said not a word. And when Nienna turned her back on him, slamming the doors to her chambers, Sauron knew he did not need to be beside her to be in her mind. He wondered, though, how weak she must be, how vulnerable she must feel, to not even realize he was in her mind.

Because when Sauron closed his eyes, standing in front of the chamber doors, he could clearly see Nienna's mind, no, he could see Nienna. So clearly, as if he were beside her, as if he were before her.

And he could see how tired she looked, how exhausted she looked from trying to pretend she was fine, that she was enduring all this away from Valinor, when it was obvious that it was harder than she let on. Only he could see it all, because only alone did she not hide what she was feeling, thinking.

Sauron could see her sigh, pulling the veil away, letting it fall to the ground, her eyes still closed. It was irritating, Sauron thought, how even he could feel how much her mind was calling out to Melkor, how she felt she needed him more and more, as if it was never enough to be away from him.

She was not alone, however, not that she knew of Sauron's presence, as if he were a watching eye, seeing all that should have been a secret. Even as Nienna slowly removed the dress she wore, it seemed to hide more of her body than he would have guessed before.

For even though Sauron hated her, he understood Melkor. In fact, he even envied him, and thought how his master had risked spending so many ages pushing Nienna away, never thinking that she might choose another in his place.

And in the silence of the dark corridor, Sauron kept his eyes closed, watching as Nienna's long, dark hair fell against her bare shoulders, and how she looked like a true goddess. Her Fana should not be so graceful, Sauron thought uneasily.

He wondered if Melkor really deserved her, after all, she was alone, vulnerable, needing him more than ever, and he was not there, just her addictive, cloying essence.

Most of all, Sauron wondered, peering more closely into Nienna's mind, how Melkor could trust him so much, of all his servants. It was ironic, indeed, that he distrusted Adar so much that he even believed that Sauron's hatred for Nienna was better than Adar's friendship.

Sauron ended up smiling, alone in the darkness. Unpunished for all the cruelties and malice he was spreading in Angband. With so many cruel thoughts and desires in the fortress, Sauron almost went unnoticed.

The Orcs walked ever closer, and inside the chambers he could see as Nienna put on a grey dress, the kind of dress so delicate and intimate that she would never wear outside of the chambers, away from Melkor. And yet Sauron could see her clearly, as she gently stroked her belly, and he could see that her thoughts were of nothing but love for her and Melkor's son.

That simple thought revolted Sauron enough that he opened his eyes and abandoned Nienna's mind, repelled by the happiness and love she still seemed to feel, despite all Sauron's attempts to torture her mind. But Sauron was not known to give up easily.

Yet, he would keep distance, for now, because he could hear the Orcs growing closer, and he knew what that meant. Because from the moment Melkor had noticed that Nienna was unwell, he had kept a watchful eye on her, staying as close as possible.

Melkor's footsteps reverberated throughout Angband, like the signal of a storm coming when least expect it. And one of the Uruks of Adar was walking beside him. A spy, he was, and Melkor had many of them.

Rage and nothing else consumed Melkor's chest when he learned that Nienna had chosen to seek Adar, that she had cared enough about him to go to him when she should have least tried, especially for Adar. He was furious, utterly furious, with the Uruk who insisted on testing his limits.

Even before Melkor slammed the doors to his chambers shut, Nienna knew it was him. Melkor’s raging Shadow consumed the air, as if his fury were so thick it could be touched. Nienna did not need him to speak for her to understand his fury.

The moment Melkor was inside the chambers, Nienna just closed her eyes, breathing deeply, as if she were mortal and needed it. Because she felt like she needed it, because Melkor chose to be particularly difficult at the worst times, though she must be used to it. After all, he was her husband, and she knew what he was like.

“Why?” Melkor asked, walking towards Nienna.

So vulnerable, yet so divine, she seemed to him as she opened her eyes and looked up at him with tears. Why did he insist on making what they had difficult? Why could not their love be easy, when she had already sacrificed so much for him?

“Did you have to be cruel to him?” Nienna snapped, glaring at Melkor. “Because I can only belong to you, does that make me unworthy of good relations and friendship?”

“You belong to me, Nienna.” Melkor practically bellowed, stopping before Nienna. “And you, my dear wife, are either terribly innocent or cunningly fickle.”

“So what am I doing here?” Nienna said, not taking her eyes off him. “Isolated in your fortress, married to you, carrying your child, when I cannot even speak to my Maia or my brothers. What does all this mean to you?”

“You chose me.”

And that seemed enough to Melkor, as if nothing else should exist beyond that. As if by choosing to join Melkor for all eternity, Nienna was condemned to be by his side every moment of the day, as if a life without his presence was not fair, or worth living.

“And you chose me, and I am the only one who seems to make sacrifices.”

“You begged me to stay by your side, and I am.” Melkor said furiously, not understanding why Nienna did not see his point of view.

“How can you not see how scared I am?” Nienna whispered, feeling the tears stream down her face. “How I feel nothing but fear, every moment. Because I am afraid for you, for us.” She let her hand lightly touch her belly, seeking comfort. “How afraid I am for him.”

How could she explain all the thoughts and horrors her mind was witnessing? He would not understand her distress, perhaps he would not even believe her. Or worse, he would suspect that she was trying to leave Angband for the safety of Mandos's protective embrace.

She felt herself slipping further and further over the edge, feeling as if lonely, invisible specters were dominating her mind, and no one else noticed what she was going through.

“What do you expect from me, Nienna?” Melkor asked angrily, but looked at Nienna in bewilderment.

Because he did not understand what it was to feel true concern, it was something new, strange, and horrible to feel. And the Valar did not understand children as the Elves did. For Eru was the All-Father, but the Valar had never been small. They had no fathers or mothers like the Firstborn.

“I love you, Melkor. I love you more than my spirit can bear.” Nienna whispered. “And this love is cruel and cursed. What a wretched soul I am, to have to stay by your side.”

“You wanted my love.” He practically spat in anger.

Nienna was not alarmed when Melkor knelt before her, holding her thighs as she looked up at him in defeat. She had always felt vulnerable in Melkor's presence, but now it was different. It was stronger, because she felt that she could not be complete without him. Perhaps, she would never be complete without him again.

“All I ask, all I want, is your love.” Nienna’s tears seemed so beautiful, so delicate to Melkor, that he felt himself drawn to her more and more. “Protect me.”

Slowly, Melkor approached Nienna. He was so tall, he did not have to struggle to get close to her face, even though he was on his knees before his beloved, suffering wife. Only his, for all eternity.

Melkor kissed Nienna's face, always fascinated by how quickly she gave up fighting him when she felt his simple touch. Always so passionate, always so devoted, all her love, all her affection, all her pleasure belonged to him.

Melkor's wicked tongue slid through Nienna's tears, and all she did was sigh against his touch, feeling as his hands descended to her breasts, squeezing so tightly, as if he wanted to show his dominance over her, as if he needed her to remember that she was his until the end of Arda.

“Be angry with me all you must, but I will not lose you.” Melkor whispered in her mind, and she gasped. “My Nienna.”

She could try to be angry with him, to reject his love, his fascination with her. But she simply could not, because just as Melkor was completely addicted to her, as if he needed her touch as much as he needed to rule Arda, she needed him more than she needed her tears.

But she did not look at him, did not give him what he wanted, because she wanted him to suffer as much as he was making her suffer. At least, she was trying. Because the warm hands, marked forever by the Silmarils, dragged Nienna’s dress slowly and carefully down, away from her.

Not that it was a real barrier, since the dress was almost translucent that the moon's glow on the ocean. But that vision belonged to him, and no one else. Because she might be his other half, even though she was so different from him, but she was still his beloved wife.

And Melkor would accept no opponents, no adversaries, not when it came to Nienna's love. Not when he felt he needed her more than ever. It was a curious effect, the kind of emotion the Valar did not speak of, because it was too intimate.

But that union, the choice to have a child together, changed the relationship between the married Valar forever. Because the need grew a little more with each moment, the need, the passion, the desire, were almost as strong as the power of each of them. It was maddening to be apart, not to be able to touch the one they loved.

Melkor did not believe that he was like the other Valar, or that he could be weak like them. He, the most powerful of all the Valar. But he was so wrong, completely wrong, because when the dress was slowly removed from Nienna, all he could do was admire her.

And Nienna could only accept what he was giving her so passionately, as his lips reached for her breasts, as if he was ready to devour her, to consume all of her essence. Nienna's hands reached for Melkor's dark, silky hair, caressing, pulling hard on his hair every time he bit down.

“My Melkor.” Nienna moaned, still stroking his hair.

Because she was completely caught up in everything about him, everything he made her feel. She could not even care about the Iron Crown pricking her hand, when his tongue felt so warm and delicate on her.

“Is this our punishment?” Nienna whispered, looking at Melkor.

When Melkor's lips parted from Nienna, he glimpsed the sadness on her face, as if her mind was filled with thoughts, with fears that she did not tell him, that she could not tell him. And she was closing herself off, alone, in her own grief.

“This is not a punishment,” Melkor said, and with a strangely unusual affection, he kissed Nienna’s belly.

Maybe that was why Nienna's tears became more intense, because she believed that he truly loved her, that he truly loved the idea of having a child with her. Or, it was nothing more than the fear of loss. Of the uncertain future they would have.

“I know we both know it is, Melkor.” She murmured.

How could it be a punishment, Melkor thought, when Nienna was more his than ever. When she seemed utterly divine before him, bearing their child, uniting them more than any other creation could ever hope to achieve.

No, it was not a punishment, he was sure of it, as he reached up to cup Nienna's face, trapping her lips against his kiss, as if he would not let her ever pull away from him again. Maybe he would. Time passed differently for the Valar.

And it was almost painful to be away from Nienna, when her essence seemed to dominate him so much, to envelop her fëa with his so much, that she only seemed more irresistible to his eyes. Not even devouring her would be enough, not for Melkor, not anymore. Not when she returned his kiss with such passion, with such devotion, with such love. Love that she had for him, and only him.

Melkor's hand gripped Nienna's neck, deepening the kiss, while her arms wrapped around him, letting him lie her down. Never, Nienna thought, in Valinor had anything felt so right as feeling Melkor's love, as being his. He was utterly consumed by her love, while she was consumed by his hunger.

Because it was more than hunger, more than desire, he simply could not stay away from her, live without her. Be it love, be it lust, he needed her as much as he needed to be the King of All. And Nienna was so willing to be his, to give him everything.

Kissing him lovingly, caressing his face, while his hands were all over her body, touching her as if she would escape from him, as if she could escape the second he opened his eyes. But she could never stay away from him, she knew it, feeling his bites during the kiss, mixing their blood, mixing their essence, keeping her connected to him.

All her thoughts, all her desires, already belonged to him. Because with Melkor, she could see beyond, even if it was not always good, even if it was not always pure. Because there was death beyond, pain and suffering. But there was also life, and happiness, and their child. Everything could change so quickly, and all she had was now.

“My Melkor, my love.” She moaned against his kiss, drowning in his wicked laughter.

It was amazing, it really was, how one of the Aratar felt so fragile in his hands, even though she was as powerful as he was. Because Nienna did not care about feeling fragile, not with Melkor. Never with him.

Melkor's kisses trailed down Nienna's neck, and she wrapped her arms around him, hugging his body. That weight never left her chest, that fear never stopped growing. She just wanted to be with him, forever, but that did not seem possible.

Even as she moaned, as his kisses grew stronger, as his tongue slid down her neck, with the same delicacy as his hand went down her leg, without the other letting go of her neck. And Nienna just sighed with tears spilling every moment.

Because his touch was good, because his touch felt right, and Nienna never tired of him, because he played her as if she were his own melody. And she was, she always had been. Nienna's melancholy melody could not exist without Melkor's wicked melody.

She whispered how much she loved him, how much she wanted to be his, forever, trying to keep Melkor closer to her, as if he was not close enough yet. It was never enough, she did not even believe she would ever have enough of him, feeling how he touched her with so much passion, with so much desire.

This was how it should be, and she knew it. Nienna could not deny that she loved Melkor, or try to stay away from him, because it would never be like this with anyone else but him. She wanted to be with him, and no one else, even if he was unable to believe her, even if he was unable to trust her.

Nienna pulled hard on Melkor's hair, cumming against his fingers, while the arrogant asshole had the audacity to smile at her, kissing her face, taking her tears for himself, but Nienna was too enchanted to even feel angry at him. She did not even have time to think.

Melkor rarely let her do anything, always more desperate to be the one touching her, the one devouring her, the one consuming her. He had waited for her for countless ages, he needed to make up for all the years he had spent thinking about her, yearning for her.

Nienna smiled at Melkor, even though she was furious with him, pulling away from his kiss. But he did not care, because he knew her well enough. Because he could only desire her even more when he felt her delicate, caring lips on his neck, marking him, as he had marked her.

“My eternal melancholy.” Nienna whispered in Melkor’s mind, pleased by his groan.

“My sweet ruin.” He whispered to her, with such passion, with such love, that Nienna could almost believe this was not the Dark Lord.

When Nienna's kisses moved from Melkor's neck, and he moved to her, his dark blood stained her lips, as her pure, divine blood stained his, and she seemed unique. Made by the Creator for him alone. She looked wanton, Melkor thought, but she looked utterly holly at the same time.

And she was completely his. She was his, and he knew it, body and soul. Nienna’s delicate fingers touched Melkor’s arms as she pulled his robes away, needing to feel his touch. It was unnerving, how she always seemed to be naked before him.

Melkor let her delicate fingers remove the dark robes he wore, always as dark as the night itself. Her touch against his skin, whenever she left a little more exposed, was hot, irresistible, needy. Her fingers traced his skin, memorizing his Fana in her heart.

But she seemed frustrated, because she could not do it alone, not like before, and she was not willing to admit it. Melkor did not need her to say it, to admit it, when he knew how hard she was trying to give him a son, to build a family with him.

All he did was kiss her passionately, helping her remove his robes without her having to ask. Nienna loved that he knew her so well, that he always seemed to understand what she needed from him, how she needed him.

Nienna gasped in satisfaction when he was finally free of his robes and she could feel his body, his warm, cruel skin. She wanted all of him, she wanted to feel all of him. It was comforting to be in the arms of the most dangerous being in Arda, and to know that she need not fear him.

Nienna's mind was open to him, so that he could feel how much she loved him, how happy she was with him, even though he was the greatest of her sorrows. It was better, Nienna thought, to cry all her tears than to not have Melkor's love.

Melkor's hand reached for Nienna's, lacing his fingers with hers, and the warmth of his skin was enough to cloud her mind. And when she felt his body against hers, it was like being joined together until the end of time. As they always would be. Because she would never go back, she would never regret choosing him as her husband, as the father of her child.

And it was divine to feel his body against hers, to feel the way he completed her, as she kissed him, lost in passion, lost in his cruel, possessive and limitless love, accepting everything he had to offer, even if it was rotten and twisted.

Nienna wrapped her legs around Melkor's waist, arching her back whenever he moaned her name, whenever he still seemed to not have enough of her, as if he were drowning in her, in her body, in his desire for her.

Indeed, that was the feeling. Because attachment, even if encouraged among all beings in Arda, was strong and knew no bounds. And each time a Valar gave in to affection, to carnal desire, the harder it became to break away from it.

Not that they wanted to, of course, nor that they needed to. Eru's rules did not seem to matter in Angband, and Nienna was too lost in her passion for Melkor to think about how careless they were being.

How would she think of that? As he moaned against her, as in love with her as she was with him, so caught up in his desire for her that not even as the King of Arda could he be strong enough to stay away from her.

But he did not want to be away from her, away from the feel of her delicate body against his, away from the feel of her against him that felt so right, so divine, because she was crying against his lips, while she did not even try to pull away from his touch.

Yes, Melkor thought, loved her Fana, he always had. It was impossible not love, when her legs slid around his body, while she whispered his name in his mind, never letting go of his hand. Because she wanted him, but she also loved him, and her love was so strong that he could feel it in every touch.

As Nienna's lips parted from Melkor's, she gazed at him in wonder, admiring his scars, his Iron Crown, while the gleam of the Silmarils reflected on her face. The most precious jewel in Arda, Melkor thought arrogantly, belonged to him alone.

Oh, and no one, not even Eru could change that, not when Nienna would have a child with Melkor. She was his, she was bound to him, no one could take her away from him, and that was exciting enough that he was lost in her touch.

“My Queen.” Melkor whispered in Black Speech against Nienna’s ear, before biting down hard.

He knew, proud and arrogant as he was, all the effects he had on her. And she knew perfectly well how to make her his, after all, how could she resist his hungry love? Nienna moaned, closing her eyes, as she cumming against him, too overcome by the sensation, by the way he kissed her face, as he cumming with her.

She was happy in his arms, even if she still felt a nagging feeling, as if a presence, as if something or someone kept playing with her thoughts, focusing on her emotions and reactions. But, Nienna thought, she would not try to find out what it was, or think about it. Not now, when she was safe in Melkor's arms.

“My Melkor.” Nienna murmured.

He would not admit it, she knew it, but she could feel how Melkor was growing more and more attached to her, more intimate with her. It was not just desire, momentary passion, because he did not pull away from her, he allowed her to continue holding his hand, as if he was all the protection she needed.

How ironic, Melkor thought, as Nienna began to kiss his face, stroking his hair with her free hand. It was a loving gesture, protective, comforting. But it should not be, not for someone like him. Not for someone as powerful as him.

Yet, in the darkness of Angband, Melkor let Nienna love him as she wished, let her be as tender as she needed, when no one else could see how he accepted her affections.

It was all very strange, still for Melkor. Maybe, it always would be. Because Nienna moved away from him, but she did not seem upset. She just whispered in his mind for him to lie down, and even though he was confused, he did as she asked. Her smile was worth it, but he would keep that thought to himself.

Nienna approached Melkor, laying her head against his chest, feeling his warmth as her arms wrapped around him. Melkor's look of confusion was curious, as if intimacy was something new to him.

Physically, it was not. Emotionally, of course, it was still a strange experience. Because Melkor hated feeling vulnerable, or even weak. And Nienna always made Melkor feel that way, as if he should be crueler to her, just to prove that he was still the Dark Lord.

But he only watched her, as her fingers caressed his chest, as she rubbed her face lightly against him, needing his comfort, his affection. Melkor, Nienna thought, did not know the troubles she had to endure, the horrors her mind projected.

Or perhaps he suspected, because Nienna was terribly silent, isolated in her own mind. He would regret it later, of course, he always regretted giving in to that most vulnerable part of him that he had tried to keep at bay. That he refused to accept he had. He was supposed to be invulnerable.

However, when Melkor felt Nienna's tears against his chest, he wrapped his arms around her protectively. If Melkor loved Nienna a little less, perhaps it would be easier to bear the weight on his chest.

Not even he could remove that feeling, that emotion, all he could do was keep Nienna by his side, ensure that she was his, and his alone, even if he had to burn all of Arda for her. For them. He would do it.

In the earliest versions, Ilmarë and Eönwë are the children of Varda and Manwë. But for my storyline only Ilmarë is their daughter, and Eönwë remains Maia of the King of Arda.

In the earliest versions, Ilmarë and Eönwë are the children of Varda and Manwë. But for my storyline only Ilmarë is their daughter, and Eönwë remains Maia of the King of Arda.

tag: @valar-did-me-wrong

[hoboblaidd]

@extravagantliar

"Ten gold says he's sent to the Wardens."

Solas groaned. They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of the notorious Livius Erimond, who stood before her in chains. Nobles from Orlais and Ferelden crowded the great hall of Skyhold, hungry for a bloody spectacle. Solas passed their reserved bottle of brandy back to Varric.

"You don't think that's some kind of justice?"

"It does have the sort of poetic irony you would enjoy."

Varric chuckled. "You got me there. But let me guess," he said, taking a drink before passing it back to Solas. "You'd execute him."

"Of course," Solas shrugged. "Be done with it, instead of letting it linger for years while he succumbs to the blight."

"Sounds like pity, Chuckles."

"Hardly," Solas scoffed. "If one is to render justice, it ought to be swift and decisive, not middling."

"Thought you'd love sending a message," Varric insisted. "The Inquisition makes a decision but considers its allies. Isn't that the sort of practicality you enjoy?"

Solas gave a noncommittal hum around the lip of the bottle. Varric had a point, so Solas did not respond. His silence was acquiescence enough.

"Besides," Varric continued. "It's not like the Wardens are going to take it easy on him. Twenty gold says he's in the Deep Roads before the week ends. That's justice, Chuckles. It's not always the easy answer. It's got to be the right answer."

-

The brightly colored ornamentation of the Orlesians flickered into something grey. Solas ignored it.

-

They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of the deposed Gereon Alexius, who stood before her in chains.

"She'll keep him on," said Varric, a seamless shift in the conversation of a judgment that hadn't happened yet at this point in the Inquisition. Erimond was months away, but Varric passed the bottle back to Solas as if they hadn't been wrenched back in time.

"It would be an unfortunate waste of his knowledge if she did not," Solas allowed, taking a drink. The feeling did not reach his fingers, as it usually did. "But it will signal weakness. It is her first such act. She should be decisive."

"He invented time travel, Chuckles. You said it yourself - you can't waste that kind of knowledge just to send a message."

"You would advise mercy."

"I'd advise justice. Your definition of it's just too linear."

-

Grief set over Alexius in a black fog that stole the warmth from the fire.

-

They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of the Duchess Florianne, who stood before her in chains.

"Yeah this one?" said Varric, reaching for the bottle in Solas' hands. "Chopping block."

Solas barked a laugh, and passed him the bottle.

-

The chill mountain wind burst silently through the doors, dousing the warm light of the torches lining the hall.

-

They both sat in their usual place by Varric's fireplace as the Inquisitor sat in judgment of Thom Rainier, who stood before her in chains. There was no casual bickering, no snide comments as the proceedings unfolded, and no bottle passed between them. The nobles had been escorted from the hall and the great doors closed to the freezing winds and prying eyes.

"This one hit a little too close to home, didn't it, Chuckles?"

"Yes," Solas said softly.

Rainier's resignation and Sidri's inquiries were a muted, wordless echo.

"What would your judgment have been, Varric?" Solas dared to ask, his voice no more than a hushed breath.

"I think you know the answer to that." 

Varric looked at him, and Solas closed his eyes.

-

The Inquisitor sat in judgment of Fen'harel, the Great Betrayer, destroyer of the world twice over, who stood before her in chains. Sidri sat immovable on her throne, her left arm a blinding white light. She had no face, and the light streaming in through the stained glass windows of Skyhold had no color. 

"Everyone deserves the chance to atone," said Varric. His breath was ragged where the dagger had pierced his lungs. He stood beside Solas, the bottle of brandy in his bloody hands. He took a drink, and his lips were deathly pale. 

"I held the knife," said Solas, and it rang as a confession in the empty, silent halls of the Inquisition. "And your blood is only the most recent on my hands." The ghosts of those he sacrificed for his goal hovered around them in the shape of the Titans, Felassan, Mythal, Sidri. And Varric.

"Get over yourself," said Varric, dismissing it with a wave of a hand whose fingernails had already started to turn black. His eyes were bruised, and blood seeped from the gaping wound in his chest. "We both held the knife. My blood's on my hands, too, and I'm alright with it. Hurt like hell, but I made a choice. It turned out shitty, but it was mine."

"Justice should be rendered regardless," said Solas, the cold steel of the executioner's blade stinging the back of his neck. He would almost have welcomed it, were it not for his pride. He was not finished, and no matter how just it might be, he would not stop until he'd seen it through.

"'Justice' doesn't mean death, Chuckles. Sometimes that's the easy way out. But that's what you want, isn't it?"

-

They stand on the crumbling stone of his prison, Varric unreachable at the bottom of the stairs at the ritual site. 

"You want so badly to be the villain so you don't have to face the shit you've done."

"And you want so badly for this life to follow your fanciful tales," Solas snapped. It echoed in the vast, cavernous nothing of the prison. "Justice, atonement, the narrative cleaner than the world will allow."

"You've read my books," Varric chuckled. "All my stories end in tragedy. But tragedy is the fiction, Chuckles. Real life's more complicated than that, and for the better. Everyone gets more chances."

"Even when they do not deserve it."

"Oh come on," said Varric, sitting down on the stone effigy of his body. "You going all maudlin is more boring than my romance books."

A small, fond smile pulled at Solas' face. "They were not boring."

"I'll put that glowing endorsement on the front flap next time: the Dread Wolf, elven god of trickery, bullshitting, and terrible decisions says this is 'not boring.'"

Solas huffed a laugh, the Inquisition's chains evaporating from his hands. They were not needed here. This prison was chain enough. 

"Varric..." He stalled on the apology. Not because he didn't want to, but because...Solas had built this prison. He knew its mechanisms intimately. He knew what it would take to loosen its hold. Confronting it, confronting Varric, meant the resolution of at least one regret. To apologize might mean the end of his ghost in this prison. The end of their constant, echoing arguments. The end of their fragmented dreams together. The end of these stolen moments of companionship. Death was final. Regret, at least, let the dead linger.

And Solas could not let him go.

"You should wake up, Varric."

"Thought I wasn't dreaming."

"Perhaps we both are."

"You really going to stay in there and do this self-pity spiral forever?"

At last, Solas felt a spark of life in himself. "No," he said. He looked out over the gaping chasm of his prison, and saw the silhouette of Rook begin to take shape in the stone. "I have a plan."

"Don't you always," Varric shook his head, but the shape of him was already dissipating, and their argument at the ritual site began again like the tolling of a bell.

Hope I'm not interrupting.

Solas almost welcomed it.

[lady-arcane]

The Art of Losing. (to Persephone)

Hades does not lose.

Not in war, not in politics, not in the quiet negotiations of death. He is the keeper of order, the final voice in all things. He does not bend. He does not yield.

And yet.

And yet.

Persephone is sitting cross-legged on his throne, wearing his robe like a victory flag, and informing him, with great authority, that the entire room is a crime against aesthetics.

"It’s all very intimidating," she says, waving a hand at the great pillars of obsidian, the cold marble floors, the jagged iron fixtures that cast long, cruel shadows across the walls. "But it's also depressing. Have you ever considered rugs?"

Hades stares at her. "Rugs?"

"Yes, you know—woven fabric, pleasant texture, ties the room together?"

"I know what a rug is, Persephone."

"Then why don't you own one?"

"Because I am not a mortal man trying to make my sitting room more inviting."

She tilts her head at him, sunlight caught in her hair. "But I live here too."

And just like that, she has won.

-----

There is a lesson in marriage that Hades learns too late: it is not a matter of victories and defeats. Not truly. It is a slow, quiet surrender. A gradual rearranging of the self.

It starts with the throne room. A rug appears. Then a new chair. The walls are no longer bare, adorned instead with soft tapestries woven in the colors of spring. The candlelight flickers warmer. The skulls—his beloved, ancient skulls, collected over centuries—are quietly moved elsewhere.

Then it spreads.

His private study is overtaken by vases of wildflowers, tucked absentmindedly between the tomes and scrolls. The war table, once strewn with maps of mortal conquests, now hosts baskets of fresh fruit. There is a bowl of honey on the dining table, though Hades has never had a taste for sweets.

And the worst part—the strangest, most alarming part—is that he does not object.

He does not even notice until one evening, when he catches sight of his own reflection in the polished glass of a window and realizes that there is a small, white petal caught in his hair.

He plucks it free, turning it between his fingers, and exhales.

-----

Some changes are subtle. Others arrive all at once, like an earthquake splitting the ground beneath his feet.

One night, he finds Persephone sitting on the floor of their chambers, sorting through a stack of pillows and blankets she has dragged in from who-knows-where.

He watches her for a moment before speaking. "Am I to assume we are replacing all of our perfectly functional bedding?"

She looks up at him, smiling. "No, I just thought we could use more."

Hades raises an eyebrow. "How many does a person need?"

"As many as bring comfort," she replies easily, fluffing a pillow before tossing it onto the bed. "You sleep like a man waiting for disaster, Hades."

He blinks. "I am a man waiting for disaster."

"Exactly," she says, and pats the space beside her.

He hesitates. Then, against his better judgment, he sits.

She picks up a blanket, drapes it over both of their shoulders, and leans into him. "You're always bracing for something," she murmurs. "Even now, when there's nothing to brace against."

Hades is silent.

Because she is right.

He has spent eternity on guard. Watching. Waiting. Holding his kingdom steady beneath his hands, because he knows that all things—even gods—can break.

But Persephone is not afraid of breaking.

She arrives at the edges of his life like spring at the edges of winter, unafraid of melting the ice, unafraid of sinking her roots into the hardened ground. She does not fight him for space; she simply grows into the empty places he never knew were empty at all.

"You don’t have to hold everything so tightly," she whispers.

And Hades, the king of the dead, the god of shadow and silence, lets himself close his eyes.

-----

The throne room changes. The palace changes. The entire Underworld changes.

But the most terrifying change—the one he cannot stop, the one he does not want to stop—is the one happening within him.

One evening, as he sits at his desk, he reaches for a scroll and finds a small cup of tea waiting beside it. He lifts it, still warm, and frowns. "Did I ask for this?"

Persephone glances up from across the room. "No."

"Then why—"

"Because you always forget to have something warm before you start working," she says simply, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

He holds the cup in his hands for a long moment.

It is such a small thing.

And yet.

And yet.

He drinks the tea.

He does not ask why it makes his chest ache.

-----

One night, much later, Persephone rolls onto his side of the bed, buries her face against his shoulder, and murmurs sleepily, "Did you ever imagine it would be like this?"

Hades runs a hand absentmindedly through her hair. "Like what?"

"Like this," she sighs, pressing closer. "Not just the throne and the realm and the duty. But this. Us."

He considers it.

For a long time, he thought marriage would be a political act. A binding contract, a necessary tether. He thought love, if it came at all, would be something distant, something mild. A fondness, perhaps. A steady companionship.

But this—this ridiculous, irritating, impossible, wonderful thing—was never part of the plan.

And yet.

And yet.

Hades presses a kiss to the crown of her head and closes his eyes.

"I never imagined it," he admits. "But I would not have it any other way."

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

Yeah, yeah, I know mythology is full of complexities, and the actual Hades and Persephone myth has about ten different interpretations, depending on who you ask and probably more complicated than this

But listen—at the end of the day, if I want Persephone to be a cottagecore goddess turning the Underworld into an aesthetic paradise while Hades is her mildly depressed, utterly whipped husband who just lets it happen, then that’s exactly what I’m going to write.

Historical accuracy? Scholarly discourse? Sounds fake. Delulu is the solulu, and in this house, we fully embrace it.

anyways—✨hope you all have a good day, bye and take care ✨