#I HAVE TO DRAW THE HIGH LORDS STILL (judges of the court)

[vampthropologist]

court will be in session momentarily.

[speaknow-sw]

THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : light description of injury, stitching. Plot with plot.

A/N ; Sooo here I am with chapter 2 and I’ve decided to say : FUCK THE HATERS !!! Here’s a 4.1k word king chapter WITHOUT smut for the real people pleasure. Anyway guys I swear I’m getting better with English poetry but this chapter really shows that English is not my first language. 😭 (just let you know that I’ll still cross post this story on ao3)

꧁ Chapter 2 : Bound in Silence ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"Two hearts bound by duty’s chain,

Silent as the falling rain.

Walls we’ve built, cold and high,

Guard the truths we both deny.”

As the days turned to weeks, the initial passion and tenderness shared between you and Anakin faded like a distant memory, replaced by an unsettling void. He was consumed by his duties as General, often riding out at dawn to attend to the needs of his men and the villages under British protection. You were left to navigate the labyrinthine castle and the complexities of the British court alone.

The castle was a sprawling, ancient edifice filled with echoing corridors and shadowy alcoves. The air was always thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint, lingering aroma of history. The servants regarded you with a mix of curiosity and wariness, unsure of how to address the French princess who had become their lady.

At court, the British nobles eyed you with a combination of disdain and fascination. Whispers followed you through the grand halls, and you could feel their judging stares boring into your back. Not a single soul approached you, and you were left to wander the lavish rooms alone, a solitary figure amidst the glittering tapestries and ornate furniture.

Anakin's absence left you with an aching emptiness in your chest. You found yourself longing for his presence, for the warmth of his touch and the depth of his gaze. But as the days stretched on without a word from him, you began to wonder if you had imagined the connection between you.

Late one evening, as you sat alone in the grand library, poring over a dusty tome, you heard a soft knock at the door. Startled, you looked up to see a young page standing nervously in the doorway.

"Your Highness," he stammered, his eyes downcast. "Lord Skywalker left you a letter."

Anakin's name sent a jolt of anticipation and trepidation through you. You set down the book and rose to your feet, taking the letter with trembling hands.

My wife,

I have news from the front. The Scottish have launched a surprise attack on a village near the border. I need to lead my men and repel the invasion. But I cannot leave without ensuring your safety.

I have arranged for a contingent of my most trusted men to remain here and protect you in my absence. They will be stationed around the castle and will escort you wherever you need to go within the palace walls. Additionally, I have instructed the head of the household staff, Lady Fawcett, to assist you with any needs or concerns you may have during my time away.

I regret that I cannot be here to attend to you personally, but I assure you, your safety and well-being are of the utmost importance to me. I expect to return within a fortnight, barring any unforeseen delays or complications on the battlefield.

In my absence, I would ask that you remain within the castle walls and avoid drawing undue attention to yourself. The British court can be a treacherous place, and as my wife, you may face opposition and resentment from those who oppose our union.

I have also left instructions with the royal treasurer to ensure you have access to any funds you may require during my time away. If there is anything else you need, please do not hesitate to send a message to me through one of the soldiers I have assigned to your protection.

I know this is not the honeymoon either of us envisioned, but I assure you, my thoughts will be with you always. I will return to you in approximately three nights.  

Yours,

Anakin Skywalker

General of the British Army.

The days dragged on, each one blurring into the next as you wandered the castle's endless corridors, your footsteps echoing in the cavernous halls. Anakin's letter, once read, now felt cold and impersonal, a mere formality to satisfy some sense of duty rather than a heartfelt expression of devotion.

As the week mark approached, you found yourself retreating to the castle's art studio, a room filled with dusty canvases and faded paints. Here, amidst the splattered palettes and rough sketches, you discovered a solace you hadn't known before.

You threw yourself into your work with a fervor bordering on mania, the frustration and loneliness that had been building inside you pouring out onto the canvas. Vibrant strokes of blue and gold swirled together, each brushstroke a testament to the tempest raging within your heart.

Days turned to weeks, and the paintings began to pile up around you - landscapes of the French countryside, portraits of imaginary figures, and abstract interpretations of the emotions you couldn't voice. The servants whispered amongst themselves, marveling at the princess's talent and the raw, almost desperate passion in each piece.

Yet even as you lost yourself in the throes of creation, a part of you remained acutely aware of the emptiness that had taken up residence in your chest. The ache of Anakin's absence was a constant companion, a dull throb that refused to dissipate.

You longed for his touch, for the warmth of his hand in yours or the strength of his arms around you. But as the days stretched on without a word from him, you began to wonder if you had imagined the connection between you. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a fleeting moment of passion, a dream that had slipped away like mist in the morning light.

The frustration grew with each passing day, a bitter taste on your tongue that no amount of paint could sweeten. You had married a stranger, a man who seemed more at home on the battlefield than in the castle with his new bride. The realization stung, a painful reminder of the gulf that yawned between you.

Late one evening, as you stood back to admire your latest work - a swirling tempest of emotion rendered in shades of black and crimson - you heard a soft knock at the door. Startled, you turned to see one of Anakin's soldiers standing nervously in the doorway.

The soldier stood at attention, his eyes downcast as he delivered his message. "Your Highness, I am to escort you to the small gathering of ladies in the rose garden."

With a sigh, you set down your palette and followed the soldier through the winding corridors of the castle. As you approached the rose garden, the tinkling laughter of the ladies reached your ears, a discordant sound that set your teeth on edge.

You entered the garden, the heady scent of roses thick in the air. The ladies, a gaggle of British nobles, fell silent as you approached. They regarded you with a mix of disdain and curiosity, their eyes raking over your paint-stained dress with disapproval.

You took a seat on a wrought-iron bench, feeling the weight of their stares and the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. The conversation continued in hushed tones, but you caught snippets of rumblings about French unrest and discontent with the treaty.

"...heard whispers of rebellion in the countryside..."

"...the common folk grow weary of British rule..."

"...perhaps it is time we remind the French of their place..."

The words sent a chill down your spine, and you hugged your arms around yourself, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable.

As the gathering drew to a close, you excused yourself, eager to retreat to the solitude of your chambers. You bid the ladies goodnight, but your words fell on deaf ears as they continued their hushed conversations, oblivious to your presence.

The castle halls were quiet that evening, the distant sounds of servants preparing for supper muffled by the thick stone walls. You had wandered further than usual in search of solace, your thoughts preoccupied with Anakin's sudden departure and the icy distance that lingered between you. It was this distraction that led you down an unfamiliar corridor near the great library—one you rarely visited.

As you turned the corner, the low murmur of voices caught your attention. Instinctively, you pressed yourself against the cool stone wall, heart quickening. Voices carried easily through the narrow passageway, and you strained to make out the conversation.

"You can't keep delaying," came a sharp, familiar tone. It was your father’s emissary, Gaius. His voice carried the edge of urgency, as though chastising his companion. "The treaty is nothing more than a formality. It served its purpose—peace to distract the British, but the real work must begin."

"I understand, but you underestimate the General," a second voice replied, smooth and measured. You recognized Count Aulbry's distinctive cadence— the French nobles who had attended your wedding. "Skywalker is no fool. He’ll sense something is amiss before long. And the princess..." Aulbry let the word linger, almost derisively.

"The princess is irrelevant," Gaius interrupted impatiently. "She was always a pawn in the larger game, and she’s played her part. Her marriage softened the General enough to open the gates. We’ve bought time, and that’s all we needed."

A cold chill ran down your spine. They were speaking of you—of your marriage. A pawn? Softened the General? You pressed your hand against the wall to steady yourself, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

"But what of the King ? The Scottish ?" Aulbry asked, his voice low now, almost conspiratorial. "He’ll have to act soon, or it will be too late to reclaim what is ours."

Your father's name was not spoken aloud, but it didn’t need to be. You knew in that moment that the treaty—your marriage—was not the olive branch you had believed. It was a strategy, a ruse.

"He’ll act," Gaius said, his voice cold with certainty. "And when he does, Skywalker won’t see it coming. The King and his allies knows where their loyalties lie, as do we."

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sound of retreating footsteps. You remained pressed against the wall, your breath shallow, every word reverberating in your mind. The betrayal was clear, but the full scope of their plan was not. Your father’s emissary and Count Aulbry were working together, and worse, it seemed your father himself might be complicit.

The castle gates creaked open as the thunder of hooves filled the courtyard. You stood atop the stone steps, clutching the edges of your shawl against the biting wind, your heart racing with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Anakin had returned. The news had come just moments ago—a British victory against the Scots. Yet whispers of injuries had reached the castle before him, carried by grim-faced soldiers.

When he rode through the gates, you felt your breath catch. Anakin sat slouched in the saddle, his usually rigid posture softened by pain. His tunic was darkened with blood near his shoulder, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. Dirt and sweat streaked his face, but his piercing blue eyes were sharp as ever, scanning the courtyard with the wariness of a man who never let his guard down.

"Bring a medic," you called to the nearest servant, your voice firm despite the growing knot in your chest. Without waiting for a reply, you descended the steps quickly, your skirts swishing against the cold stone.

Anakin dismounted slowly, his movements deliberate but betraying the agony he must have been feeling. His jaw clenched tightly, and he ignored the outstretched hands of the knights who came to steady him. His gaze flicked to you briefly as you approached, and though his expression remained stoic, you could see the faintest flicker of something softer in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or simply acknowledgment.

"You should be resting," you said softly, stepping closer.

"I'm fine," he replied, his voice rough. He moved past you toward the castle, but his steps faltered. Instinctively, you reached out to steady him, your hand brushing his arm.

"You're not fine," you insisted, your voice firmer now. "Let me help."

He stopped, his back to you, tension radiating from his frame. For a moment, you thought he might refuse outright. But then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and allowed you to guide him inside.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

“Pools of depth where truths reside,

The storm within I cannot hide.

No blade, no shield could pierce me through,

But her gaze undoes what war can’t do."

In the warmth of his chambers, you worked quickly, dismissing the servants to care for him yourself. He sat on the edge of the bed, his armor discarded in a heap on the floor. The sight of his injury was worse than you’d expected—the arrowhead was embedded deeply, the skin around it swollen and angry.

"You shouldn’t have ridden all this way with this still in you," you murmured, gathering the supplies from the table.

"I’ve had worse," he replied tersely, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. He avoided your gaze, his focus fixed on the floor.

You said nothing, dipping a cloth into a basin of warm water and beginning to clean the blood around the wound. He flinched slightly at the touch but didn’t pull away.

"Hold still," you said gently.

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his breathing shallow as you worked. You couldn’t help but notice how tightly wound he was, his body tense even in his exhaustion. Yet beneath that cold exterior, you felt a strange tenderness—a sense of trust he didn’t know how to express.

When you began cutting away the remnants of his tunic to access the wound better, he finally broke the silence. "You shouldn’t be doing this."

"I’m your wife," you said simply, glancing up at him. "Who else should care for you?"

He didn’t respond, his jaw tightening again. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he seemed to battle his own instincts—to push you away, to protect himself.

"You don’t have to bear everything alone, you know," you added softly, focusing on the arrow. "Even generals need someone to lean on."

The words hung in the air, met with silence. But when you looked up again, you found his gaze on you, and for the briefest moment, the walls he kept so carefully constructed seemed to crack. There was something unspoken in his eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or respect.

"It’ll hurt," you warned, gripping the shaft of the arrow carefully.

"It already does," he muttered.

You worked quickly, pulling the arrow free in one swift motion. He hissed sharply, his fingers digging into the bedsheets, but he didn’t cry out. Blood welled up immediately, and you pressed a clean cloth to the wound, holding it firmly to staunch the bleeding.

"Almost done," you murmured.

He didn’t reply, his eyes closing briefly as you worked. When you finished cleaning and stitching the wound, you sat back with a sigh, your hands trembling slightly from the effort.

"There," you said, your voice softening. "It’s done."

He opened his eyes and looked at you, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low and gruff.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your heart ache. You knew he wasn’t used to this—to someone caring for him, to someone seeing the man beneath the armor. And though he didn’t say it, you could feel his respect for you growing, like a quiet ember in the cold.

"Rest," you told him, rising to your feet. "You’ll heal faster if you let yourself."

He didn’t argue, his gaze following you as you gathered the bloodied cloths and stepped toward the door. Just as you reached it, his voice stopped you.

"Stay."

It was a single word, spoken softly but with weight. You turned back to see him watching you, his defenses lowered just enough for you to see the man behind them.

You nodded and returned to his side, sitting quietly as he drifted into a fitful sleep. And though he didn’t reach for your hand, you stayed close, your presence a silent promise that he didn’t have to face his burdens alone.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Her touch is the breeze, her voice the stream,

A melody woven through my dream.

Yet when I reach, she fades from sight,

A phantom born of longing’s light.

The morning was heavy with fog, the sky a dull, oppressive gray. The castle bustled with preparations for Anakin’s departure, servants hurrying to pack his provisions and polish his armor. You stood near the hearth in the solar, wringing your hands as you listened to the muffled clamor from the courtyard below.

He would leave again, summoned back to the battlefield, back to the unending war that seemed to consume every fragment of his life. And once again, you would remain behind, alone in the echoing halls of this castle.

You turned toward the desk near the window, where a stack of parchment and a few books sat in neat disarray. Among them lay a small leather notebook, its cover smooth and worn from use. You had left it there days ago, a forgotten remnant of your attempts to sketch or write, your restless mind unable to find focus.

The door opened, and you turned to see Anakin stepping inside. He wore his traveling cloak, his broad shoulders stiff with the weight of command. His gaze swept over the room, landing briefly on you before shifting away.

“I leave within the hour,” he said, his voice flat, as if delivering a report rather than a goodbye.

You nodded, your chest tightening. “I see.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. He moved to the window, staring out at the courtyard below where his men were assembling. His presence filled the room, a storm contained within the man. You wanted to say something—to ask him to stay, to tell him to be careful—but the words lodged in your throat.

Instead, you stepped forward. “I’ll have the servants bring your things.”

“I’ve already seen to it,” he replied, his tone distant.

Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You turned back toward the desk, unsure of what else to say, and ran your fingers over the leather notebook.

“Is that yours?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.

You glanced over your shoulder, surprised. He was watching you now, his blue eyes sharp and curious.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I haven’t used it much. It’s… just for thoughts. Or sketches.”

He stepped closer, his gaze flicking to the notebook before returning to you. “You don’t mind if I take it?”

The question caught you off guard. “Of course not,” you said quickly, holding it out to him.

He took it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours briefly. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a ripple through the air between you. He studied the notebook for a moment, his expression unreadable, before tucking it into the satchel at his side.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly, his voice softer now.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Be safe, Anakin.”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more. But then he turned, the storm in him retreating behind the cold armor he always wore.

When he was gone, the solar felt emptier than ever.

The clatter of hooves and the creak of carriage wheels echoed through the courtyard as Anakin prepared to depart. You stood at the top of the stone steps, watching the controlled chaos below. Knights in polished armor mounted their horses, squires hurried to secure provisions, and the castle staff bustled with last-minute preparations.

Amidst the activity, something felt off—a subtle tension in the air that you couldn’t quite name. The nobles gathered near the gates, their expressions carefully composed, but their whispered exchanges carried an undercurrent of unease. You noticed Count Aulbry standing apart, his sharp eyes scanning the soldiers with a calculating gaze. Your father’s emissary, Gaius, was there as well, speaking in hushed tones to another courtier. Their conversation stopped abruptly when they caught you watching, their smiles too quick, too polished.

Your heart tightened. Something was amiss, though you couldn’t say what.

Anakin emerged from the castle, drawing your attention away from the murmurs. Clad in his black cloak and gleaming armor, he exuded an unshakable authority, even with the strain of war etched into his features. He strode to his horse with purpose, but there was no mistaking the stiffness in his shoulders, the weight he bore with every step.

He mounted his horse with practiced ease, turning briefly to glance at you. His expression was unreadable, the familiar walls firmly in place. You took a step forward, wanting to say something—anything—but the words caught in your throat.

“Take care of yourself,” you managed finally, your voice soft.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and though his face remained stoic, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something unspoken. He nodded once, then spurred his horse forward.

You stood frozen on the steps as the company filed out through the gates, the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance. The nobles watched the procession with guarded expressions, their whispers resuming the moment Anakin was out of sight. The unease in your chest grew, but you pushed it aside, unwilling to let it take root.

Later, the castle felt unbearably quiet, the emptiness pressing down on you. Restless, you retreated to your chambers and pulled out your paints, hoping to find solace in the familiar rhythm of brushstrokes. You set up your easel near the window, where the light spilled across the stone floor, and began to paint.

Anakin’s image filled the canvas—or it started to. You outlined the broad sweep of his shoulders clad in armor, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the faint glow of the morning sun. Your brush moved with care, attempting to capture the power in his posture, the way his cloak billowed in the wind as he rode away.

But as the hours passed, your strokes faltered. The lines blurred; details escaped you. How could you fully capture the depths of a man who revealed so little of himself? His eyes, always so distant, defied your efforts to bring them to life. Frustrated, you set the brush down and studied the incomplete image.

His figure was there, half-formed and waiting, as though suspended in time. The armor gleamed, but the face remained unfinished—a shadow of the man he was, elusive and untouchable.

You sighed, running your fingers lightly over the edge of the canvas. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t complete. And perhaps it wouldn’t be until he returned, until you could see him again and fill in the missing pieces.

For now, it would remain unfinished, just as so much between you did.

As the hours of his journey stretched into days, Anakin rode under the steel-gray skies, the leather notebook tucked securely in his pack. When the campfires burned low at night and the world grew quiet, he would open it, the blank pages staring back at him like a challenge.

His hands, so used to wielding a sword or penning commands, hesitated over the delicate task of crafting words not for strategy, but for her. Yet as the nights wore on, the words began to flow—hesitant at first, then with more certainty.

He wrote of her eyes, of the way they softened when she spoke. He wrote of the fleeting moments of her laughter, of the way her presence lingered like a melody long after she left a room.

The words he wrote were not for her to read, not yet. They were for himself, a small rebellion against the man the world demanded he be.

And as he closed the notebook each night, he wondered if she would ever truly know the depths of what he could not say.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"Amid the clash of steel and cries of war, I dream of hands that harm no more. The world is cruel, but she is kind, A gentle balm to a soldier’s mind."

[dfroza]

“He will draw our buried motives, thoughts, and deeds (even things we don’t know or admit to ourselves) out of the dark shadows of our hearts into His light.”

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 4th chapter of the letter of First Corinthians:

Rather than power brokers, think of us as servants of the Anointed One, the Liberating King, caretakers of the mysteries of God. Because we are in this particular role, it is especially important that we are people of fidelity and integrity. It makes little difference to me how you or any human court passes judgment on me. I even resist the temptation to compare myself to the ever-changing human standard. Although I am not aware of any flaw that might exclude me from this divine service, that’s not the reason I stand acquitted—the only supreme judge, our Lord, will examine me in the proper time. So resist the temptation to act as judges before all the evidence is in. When the Lord comes, He will draw our buried motives, thoughts, and deeds (even things we don’t know or admit to ourselves) out of the dark shadows of our hearts into His light. When this happens, the voice of God will speak to each of us the only praise that will ever matter.

Right now, brothers and sisters, the best thing I can do for you is to apply these principles to the situation with Apollos and me. Maybe we can show you the meaning of the saying, “not beyond the things written.” If you learn that, perhaps none of you will swell with pride because you fall into the seductive trap of pitting one against the other. Is there any reason to consider yourselves better than others? What do you have that you didn’t receive? If you received it as a gift, why do you boast like it is something you achieved on your own?

Now let’s see if I have it straight. You suppose that you already have all you need. You already are rich and prosperous. And without us you’ve already begun to reign like kings. To be honest, I wish you did reign so that we could reign with you because it seems to me that God has put His emissaries at the end of the line, like convicts in their final walk to certain death. We have become a spectacle to the rest of the world—to all people and heaven’s messengers. We are nothing but fools for the cause of the Anointed One while you are wise in Him. Am I right? We are feeble and tired while you are mighty and full of life. You are well respected by others while we’re treated as contemptuous creatures by pretty much everyone everywhere. Up to this very minute, we are famished, we are thirsty, and our clothes are shabby, practically rotted to pieces. We are homeless, hapless wanderers. But still we labor, working with our hands to meet our needs because, despite all of this, when a fist is raised against us, we respond with a blessing; when we face violence and persecution, we stay on mission; and when others choose taunts and slander against us, we speak words of encouragement and reconciliation. We’re treated as the scum of the earth—and I am not talking in the past tense; I mean today! We’re the scraps of society, nothing more than the foulest human rubbish.

I am not telling you all this so that you’ll feel guilty or be ashamed of how you have acted. I am only trying to warn you, just as a father would warn his children. You may have 10,000 instructors in the faith of the Anointed One, but you have only one father. In Jesus the Anointed I have become your father through my efforts in spreading the good news. So as your father in the faith, I want to encourage you to live as I have lived. Imitate my life. This is one of the reasons I sent Timothy to be with you. He is my dearly loved and faithful child in the Lord. His mission is to remind you of the way I experience life in the Anointed. In all the churches everywhere I go, I teach the same lessons the same way, and I live out those lessons. But the reality is, some of you have put yourselves on pedestals and live like you are high above the rest—it’s as if you assumed I would not return to confront your misguided pride. But I am coming. Lord willing, I will be with you soon. Then I will know what power is backing those arrogant folks and their words. The kingdom of God is not a realm of grandiose talk; it is a realm of power. So tell me what you want. Should I visit you, rod in hand ready to discipline a crew of self-important people; or should I embrace you, love you, and gently teach you as we celebrate the blessings of God together?

The Letter of First Corinthians, Chapter 4 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

Paul explains and exemplifies the goals of a mature believer in a way that may be easily contrasted with the desires of an immature believer. He is seeking love and truth more than popularity, embracing suffering rather than comfort. In fact, he disregards popularity and comfort completely so that he isn’t distracted from the love and truth of Jesus. This could be a powerful force in the world if believers embraced this kind of maturity.

Today’s paired reading from the First Testament is the 31st chapter of the book of Exodus:

The Eternal One instructed Moses.

Eternal One: Look, I have a special calling upon one of the sons of Judah. His name is Bezalel (the son of Uri, son of Hur). I have filled him with God’s Spirit, gifted him with wisdom, understanding, knowledge, and skills with a variety of crafts. He is an expert designer and works well with gold, silver, and bronze. He is able to cut and set gems, work with wood, and skillfully perform any craft needed to help construct the congregation tent and its furnishings. I have appointed Oholiab son of Ahisamach of the tribe of Dan to assist Bezalel. I have gifted all of Israel’s artisans with the skills needed to build everything I have instructed you: the congregation tent, the covenant chest, the seat of mercy that covers it, all the furnishings for the tent, the table and its accessories, the pure gold lampstand with all its tools, the altar of incense, the altar for burnt offering with all its utensils, the washing basin and its stand, the woven garments, Aaron’s sacred priestly garments, the clothes worn by Aaron’s sons when they serve as My priests, the anointing oil, and the fragrant incense to be used in the holy place. The craftsmen are to design and build all of these exactly as I have instructed you.

The Eternal One instructed Moses regarding the Sabbath.

Eternal One: Speak to the Israelites and tell them, “You must be careful to observe My Sabbaths. For the Sabbath Day serves as a sign between Me and you for all generations, so that you will know I am the Eternal One who has set you apart from all the other nations. Keep the Sabbath because it is a sacred day for you, different from all other days. Anyone who violates the Sabbath or defiles it must be executed; anyone who works on the Sabbath will be cut off from the community. You have six days out of every week to do whatever work is needed, but the seventh day is the Sabbath, a day set aside for rest and only rest. It is sacred to Me. Anyone who works on the Sabbath must be executed. Therefore, the Israelites are to keep the Sabbath and celebrate it throughout all their generations as an everlasting covenant. The Sabbath exists as a sign forever of the covenant between Me and the people of Israel for I made heaven and earth in six days, but then on the seventh day I stopped My work and was refreshed.”

When God had finished giving these instructions to Moses on Mount Sinai, He gave Moses the two stone tablets as a witness to their agreement inscribed by the very finger of God.

The Book of Exodus, Chapter 31 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Wednesday, may 22 of 2024 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New) of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about the affirmation of eternal life:

Right now, as you are seeing this, take a moment to reaffirm that the Lord Yeshua is your deliverer and that you trust in Him for eternal life. He promises the trusting heart: “I tell you the solemn truth, the one who hears my message and believes in the One who sent me has (i.e., present active indicative) eternal life and will not be condemned, but has passed over (literally, “crossed over”) from death to life” (John 5:24).

Note that the verb translated “has passed over” is “perfect active” that expresses completed action: “this one has already crossed over from death to life.” In other words, the gift of eternal life is an accomplished reality (though it is only experienced as we truly surrender to the love and grace of God from a heart of faith). The “basis” of life is now radically new and of a different order. As the apostle Paul later summarized: “For it is by grace you have been saved (i.e., a perfect passive participle that denotes completed action done on your behalf with effects that continue to the present) through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast” (Eph. 2:9-10). I’m so glad it’s not the strength of my grip that keeps me holding on to God, but the strength of His...

So “be strong and of good courage” – chazak ve’ematz! The Lord our God promises “never to leave you nor forsake you” and to be with you wherever you go (see Josh. 1:5,9; Heb. 13:5, Psalm 139; Matt. 28:20). In the Greek New Testament, the wording of Hebrews 13:5 is highly emphatic: Οὐ μή σε ἀνῶ, οὐδ᾽ οὐ μή σε ἐγκαταλείπω: “Not ever will I give up on you; no, not ever will I leave you behind.” Alevai! May you hear the voice of the Good Shepherd calling you, and may He forever keep you under His watchful care. Amen.

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

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Jeremiah 31:3b reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/jer31-3b-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/jer31-3b-lesson.pdf

5.21.24 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel365

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

[stxrfclls]

were  he  any  other  person,  in  any  lesser  position,  daxton  doubted  that  he  would  have  anyone  too  interested  in  him.  his  face  may  draw  plenty  in,  but  that  was  on  such  a  surface  level  that  while  he  enjoyed  it,  he  knew  there  was  not  much  to  think  on  it.  but  he  was  a  spymaster,  close  to  the  high  lady  of  summer.  those  two  things  alone  meant  daxton  had  to  be  on  his  guard,  careful  at  who  he  spoke  to  and  even  more  at  what  he  said.  flirting  with  lailah  was  fun,  but  not  once  did  he  think  this  was  some  easy  and  passing  flirtation  for  the  night.  he  just  wasn't  sure  how  long  this  would  go  on,  how  long  they  might  have  their  fun  while  picking  one  another  apart.  "  you  chose  to  seek  me  out  ?  were  i  a  foolish  lord,  i  would  be  flattered,  but  i  have  a  feeling  it  has  far  less  to  do  with  my  face  than  i  would  like.  "  he  couldn't  judge  her  for  it,  daxton  was  doing  the  very  same  thing.  while  the  winter  spymaster  came  in  a  beautiful  package,  she  was  still  a  spymaster  none  the  less.  enjoying  getting  to  know  her  was  only  a  byproduct  of  their  jobs.  "  growing  up  at  court  lessens  that  even  more.  "  he  mutters  before  offering  a  slight  chuckle.  "  people  who  wish  for  shallow  moments  will  have  plenty  to  say  of  me,  but  we  entered  into  it  knowing  well  what  it  was.  "  he  was  a  man  of  boundaries,  and  clear  communication  with  anyone  he  did  anything  with.  that  didn't  stop  others  for  hoping  for  more,  foolishly  thinking  they  would  bypass  his  rules.  it  never  ended  well  when  that  happened.  "  only  time  shall  tell.  "  his  heart  sang  that  he  needed  to  be  careful,  the  sweet  winter  spy  might  be  his  largest  test  yet.  "  i  would  never  step  on  a  lady's  feet.  that's  the  surest  way  to  ruin  their  night.  "  he  says  with  a  light  laugh.

"  and  they  never  go  away.  "  he  says  softly,  so  quiet  he's  not  even  sure  if  lailah  will  pick  up  on  it.  the  libraries,  his  books,  they  provided  a  permanence  in  the  young  boy's  life  that  none  other  had.  most  children  had  parents,  or  friends  and  siblings.  daxton  had  his  books.  "  i  have  plenty  of  time  to  spare,  as  i  am  certain  you  do.  unless  you've  found  secret  rocks  to  turn  up  that  i  have  not.  "  it  seemed  the  more  they  looked,  the  less  they  found,  and  daxton  was  interested  to  see  how  lailah  rescinded  to  that.  would  she  agree  honestly  ?  he  had  a  rather  strong  feeling  she  also  would  not  take  it  easy  on  him,  but  he  looked  forward  to  it.  daxton  was  hardly  afraid  of  getting  his  ass  handed  to  him,  and  a  more  carnal  part  of  him  also  wouldn't  mind  being  this  close  to  lailah  again.  in  truth,  he  also  felt  that  he  would  learn  more  of  her  in  her  natural  element,  and  daxton  felt  that  was  far  better  use  of  his  time  than  not.  he  chuckles  again,  and  twirls  their  bodies  along  with  the  music.  "  the  first  time  ?  then  i  do  not  think  you  are  in  the  right  company,  my  dear.  "  he  shares  easily,  both  a  flirtation  and  a  truth.  did  she  avoid  situations  where  she  could  be  flirted  with  ?  that  was  the  only  reason  he  could  tell.  her  agreeing  she  was  enjoying  their  dance  made  him  smile,  a  genuine  happiness  zipping  through  his  being.  he  hadn't  expected  her  to  take  him  up  on  his  offer,  but  he  smiles  at  her  response  even  more.  "  in  fact,  i  find  it  a  reason  to  continue  spending  time  with  you.  "  it  was  a  change  of  pace  from  his  otherwise  frequent  and  shallow  dalliances.  "  you  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  do  so.  "  a  bit  of  a  morbid  response,  they  didn't  know  how  long  they  would  be  trapped  but  he  imagined  for  some  time.  her  question  only  draws  a  slight  frown  to  his  lips.  "  not  a  short  enough  time.  "

there  was  only  a  certain  level  of  frankness  spymasters  were  allowed,  therefore  the  winter  fae  would  not  deny  she'd  used  the  very  tactic  before  to  obtain  what  she  wanted,  if  she  had  no  other  choice,  but  certainly  not  something  she  enjoyed.  she  was  curious  to  see  how  this  one  worked,  and  she  supposed  she  would  learn  in  due  time.  it  certainly  made  her  cautious,  that  she  would  have  to  thread  carefully,  he  might  have  been  a  former  scholar  but  those  piercing  hazel  hues  of  his  were  equally  deceptive.  for  all  the  flirting  lailah  had  done,  all  of  which  had  been  genuine  because  of  how  well  he  responded,  she  planned  to  behave,  as  did  she  didn't  want  to  give  anyone  a  show.  she  was  a  spymaster  after  all,  and  had  a  reputation  to  maintain.  she  suspected  daxton  would  agree.  "well,  since  my  ruse  has  been  discovered.  i  will  say,  i  had  that  very  intention."  while  she's  certain  he  did  find  her  appealing,  she  did  not  think  for  a  moment  he'd  let  his  guard  down  yet,  he  would  not  so  easily  be  given  his  current  role  if  he  was  not  careful.  she  could  not  remember  the  last  time  she  had  enjoyed  flirting  with  someone,  though  a  lot  of  the  appeal  was  because  this  summer  spy  had  a  sliver  tongue  and  a  sense  of  humor.  it  also  didn't  hurt  that  he  was  too  pretty  to  look  at,  and  dancing  with  him  was  equally  an  enjoyable  time.  "working  with  our  high  rulers  does  not  grant  us  the  ability  to  be  so  trusting  of  those  outside  of  our  inner  circle."  she  murmured,  "however,  i  also  find  it  hard  to  believe  most  are  not  interested  in  you  personally.  you've  made  a  reputation  for  yourself,  dear  summer  lord,  i  cannot  imagine  you've  left  broken  hearts  over  agendas  beyond  matters  of  the  heart."  did  she  know  for  certain?  not  entirely,  she  would  not  know  how  his  affairs  ended,  by  him  or  the  other  person.  still  her  latter  words  of  him  were  not  entirely  far  fetched,  but  she  did  understand  why  he  didn't  not  grow  close  to  anyone  seriously.  "i  will  let  you  decide  which  one  you  think  i  fall  into."  she  adds  with  a  tender  smile,  but  every  bit  as  sincere  as  she  appraised  him  with  a  pique  of  curiosity.  "well,  certainly,  do  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to  find  dance  partners  who  do  not  step  on  your  feet?  especially  when  you're  surrounded  by  tipsy  bodies.  a  lady  only  wishes  for  a  steadfast  partner  who  will  move  with  her  as  an  equal."  the  words  entirely  sincere,  then  there  was  the  fact  that  some  also  took  far  too  many  liberties  with  their  hands.

"not  entirely,  i  will  not  understand  the  joy  you  find  with  them.  peace?  certainly,  more  than  you  think.  though  i  can  understand  the  comfort  and  familiarity  you  find  with  your  books.  they  are  another  form  of  companions.  people,  family  or  not,  disappoint  us  far  more  than  anything  else."  what  her  own  discovery  had  found  about  his  home  life,  she  had  no  doubt  he  found  peace  in  the  corners  of  libraries  than  anywhere  else.  as  a  child  making  friends  was  already  daunting,  and  it  was  why  lailah  had  spent  hers  learning  the  art  of  combat.  her  mother  had  all  but  tarnished  her  confidence  as  a  little  girl,  so  speaking  to  the  other  children  was  never  something  she  dared  unless  they  approached  her.  "i've  had  extra  time  here,  so  certainly.  come  find  me  when  your  high  lady  can  spare  you,  i'm  curious  to  see  what  a  book  worm  has  learned  so  far."  sparring  with  him  was  certainly  something  she  was  looking  forward  to,  now  he  was  not  helpless,  he'd  have  to  have  skills  to  defend  himself  at  the  bare  minimum,  it  was  only  the  wise  thing  to  do.  the  training  room  had  always  been  lailah's  element,  the  one  place  that  she  had  no  doubts  of  on  anything,  once  aspect  she  could  control.  lailah  wasn't  certain  why  her  body  responded  this  way,  to  his  closeness,  or  why  she  noticed  how  pleasing  his  scent  was,  that  absolutely  resembled  the  sun  and  sea.  while  it  was  definitely  a  valid  response  to  a  beautiful  man  who  held  her  with  such  grace  and  confidence,  it  was  fascinating  how  his  each  action  to  bring  her  closer  had  her  move  towards  him  without  her  permission.  she  did  not  think,  she  simply  moved  towards  him  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  to  do.  her  hand  rising  to  brush  the  strand  of  his  hair  was  also  something  she'd  done  on  whim,  and  the  prickling  sensation  of  a  soft  current  when  their  skin  touched  certainly  left  her  surprised  and  curious.  "i  have  varying  definitions  based  on  the  individual  i  am  facing  and  you  are  both  one  and  not,  but  I  do  not  mind  the  latter.  I  will  be  honest,  this  is  the  first  time  a  man  has  propositioned  me."  her  dark  gaze  twinkled  in  amusement,  though  she  did  reveal  just  enough  interest  for  him.  she  was  sure  the  way  she  pressed  against  him  said  enough,  "as  i  am."  it  is  why  she  had  not  taken  him  on  his  offer,  and  while  lailah  wasn't  certain  if  he  was  waiting  for  an  invitation  to  her  bedchambers,  it  was  not  one  she  handed  out  so  easily.  "i  am  eager  enough,  but  i  hardly  know  you,  so  we  might  be  wise  exercising  patience  for  a  time.  i  hope  you  do  not  take  that  as  a  doubt  on  my  interestof  you."  idly,  she  did  wish  to  see  just  how  patient  he  could  or  the  extent  of  his  interest,  "until  then,  I  will  be  enjoying  getting  to  you  know."  that  wasn't  a  lie,  he  did  pique  her  curiosity.  she  could  do  her  duty  towards  her  court  and  spend  time  with  him.  "too  well."  she  tosses,  chuckling  along  with  him.  "and  I,  you."  a  pause,  "how  long  do  you  think  this  thing  intends  to  hold  us?"

[separatist-apologist]

Could you do one where Lucien finds out about what happened on solstice but he and Elian isn’t speaking to him yet? I’m curious to see your take!

Look. I absolutely CANNOT help myself. If I had written that scene (and I am free, SJM), it would have gone down a little like this.

--

--

She doesn’t want him.

Azriel’s words rang through Lucien’s head, over and over on a constant loop, one he didn’t think he’d ever get out. He hadn’t wantedto overhear that whole conversation and, in doing so, was reminded why he never came to this fucking city to start with. He scrubbed a hand down his face, slung his bag over his shoulder, and slipped from his room. Feyre would be disappointed he left without saying goodbye but no one else would miss him. He could always make his excuses in a letter when he was far from Velaris.

I’d defeat him easily.

Lucien flinched beneath the weight of such casual violence. Azriel would love Autumn Court, if that was his first thought when it came to a blood duel. Lucien had no intention of calling one, not for Elain. He barely knew her and yet Lucien didn’t think she’d find the whole, bloody mess endearing.

He certainly had no intention of dying over a female that seemed to loathe his existence. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing Azriel’s voice to remove itself.

He doesn’t deserve her.

What would Lucien know about that, he thought miserably, his feet touching the first-floor landing. It wasn’t like he’d asked for her. If he’d it his way, the cauldron would given Elain to Azriel and the spymaster could spend eternity bound to a female that wanted nothing to do with their kind. He might have found it funny, the notion that Azriel thought she’d fall into his arms when Elain had made it abundantly clear she hated the mating bond.

Maybe he’d have a shot, then. Lucien stepped past the drawing room they’d exchanged gifts in when he caught a flash of that honey-colored hair all the Archeron’s shared. Feyre was up. Well fuck. He’d never be forgiven if he snuck right past her. He sighed and turned.

“Knock, knock,” he said before looking in. “Feyre, I thought I’d…” His words died in his throat when Elain looked back, her hands wrapped around her throat. “Never mind.” He wasn’t touching the red eyes and blotchy skin of the softly crying Elain with a ten-foot pole. He turned on his heel when something physically stopped him.

The fucking mating bond snarled in his chest, a physical beast that demanded he care for his mate. Fuck me, he thought furiously, keeping himself exactly where he was. He turned again, wary of the female that had caused so much drama. He wondered if she knew. Elain’s hands were still wrapped around her neck as a set of fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” He asked, every inch of him rebelling at the thought of comforting her through the rejection of another male.

Elain’s whole body seemed to tremble while Lucien warred with the bond, demanding it let him leave.

She doesn’t want him.

Lucien sighed and offered her a mocking bow while even the mating bond conceded. He turned for the third time, reshouldering his bag, and stepped out of the drawing room. Ten steps and he’d be at the door.

“Wait!” She called. Lucien’s whole body went taut as he closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the sky.

Have I displeased you? He silently asked the mother, walking back to the drawing room. He knew she could tell he did not want to be there, that he’d been trying to make his escape judging by the expression on her face. Was she planning to torture him a little, on her way out?

“Can you help me?” She asked, removing her hands from her throat. A red rosebud hung from her pale throat on a silver chain, and it was clear she’d been trying to remove it when he walked in on her.

Lucien dropped his bag to the floor and walked to her, her scent a punch to the gut. Honey and jasmine and something warm, like a breeze over a sunlit sky. All of that was mingled with fear and the better part of him wanted to tell her no and demand she tell him why she was so scared. He didn’t. What good was upsetting an already crying female?

She swept thick, honey-colored curls over one shoulder and it was Lucien’s turn to tremble, his stomach bottoming out. Had he ever touched her? He couldn’t remember a time. He reached for the tiny clasp, his fingers brushing over the nape of her neck. He swallowed hard as the chain was freed, sliding away into her waiting hands.

“Thank you,” she murmured as Lucien immediately put distance between them. His entire body was too aware of her and though he was angry, he didn’t know that he could stop himself from touching her again if he remained close. He wanted to guard her, to put his body in front of hers and snap and snarl until every male in Prythian was aware that she was his mate.

He reached for his bag. “Are you leaving?” She asked again and it occurred to Lucien she had asked him two questions and he had said nothing in response. He flexed his jaw, his back turned to her, and slid the strap of the bag back over his shoulder.

“I am,” he replied carefully. Elain wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand and Lucien thought she was still so heartbreakingly beautiful, despite her hurt. Elain nodded, looking down at her feet and he wondered if he ought to just say goodbye.

“Will you be back?” She asked, her words nearly a whisper.

“Would you like me to return?” He asked, emphasizing her part heavily. Their eyes met again and Elain hesitated.

No.

He turned then, his anger cascading over him, intending to leave her in the drawing room. She didn’t owe him anything but neither did he. At least he was trying. If she didn’t want him around, he didn’t need to come any more than was necessary and he certainly didn’t need to see her.

“Lucien!” Elain breathed from behind him. He stopped again, cursing himself and the tether that bound them. “Lucien I didn’t…I uh…”

“I get it,” he said, his words clipped, turning to face her again. He shoved down his instincts demanding he treat her with care. Maybe someone should tell her to get fucked, even once instead of the constant handholding she was subjected to. “I’m the wrong male. That’s fine, Elain. I don’t want to be in your way.”

His hand reached for the doorknob when she surged forward, her brown eyes still sparkling with tears. “What does that mean?” She demanded.

He laughed dryly. “I guess you didn’t hear the little reprimand the High Lord gave Azriel regarding you?”

Her face paled.

“Don’t let me get in the way of true love,” he commented sarcastically. “I wish you and the bat nothing but the best.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not in love with him,” she half-whispers.

“You understand that’s worse, right?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She looked him up and down.

“I don’t belong to you,” she began but Lucien rolled his eyes.

“When did I ever say you did?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve made a lot of assumptions about someone you don’t even know.”

“Would you even be here if it weren’t for this?” Elain asked in return, one finger gesturing between their bodies.

“Would Feyre?” He snapped back. Elain hesitated and Lucien could see she hadn’t considered that. Something sparked in her gaze and Lucien waited to see if she was going to soften.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Great,” Lucien replied, yanking on the door handle. “I don’t owe you shit, either.”

He stepped into the cold, strangely pleased when she followed him out.

“What does that mean?” She asked, the door snapping behind her. She immediately wrapped her arms around her body and, cursing himself, Lucien began unbuttoning his jacket.

“Why do you think I ought to stand here trying when you don’t believe you owe me anything?” He demanded even as he handed her the emerald-colored jacket. She snatched it out of his hands and threw it to the ground like a petulant child.

“You wanted this—”

“The hell I did!” He interrupted. “Do you imagine I am having a good time, watching you desperately try to avoid me? Because let me assure you, this is not my idea of fun.”

“Then why do you keep coming around?!”

“Because you haven’t rejected the bond!” He replied, letting some of his desperation leech into his words. “And until you do, I’ll keep coming to Solstice and waiting, my entire life hinging on a choice you seem duty bound to ignore. Have you ever considered, for even a moment of your now immortal life, that you do owe me something?”

“I don’t owe you shit,” she whispered in response, all rebellion. Lucien couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat, causing her to jump. Of all the things he might have imagined, her repeating his own words back to him was not one of them. He shook his head, meaning to turn and winnow away but Elain was watching him and he thought her lips curved upwards just enough to seem as though she were suppressing a smile.

Lucien offered her the same mocking bow he’d once given her sister, bending deeply at the waist, arms thrown out, so she knew it was not courtly in the slightest.

“Enjoy your night, Elain.”

“Lucien!” She snapped, very clearly exasperated. He shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold, which he barely felt. He took a step between them, hooking the lip of his jacket on his boot and tossing it into the air where he caught it and draped it over his arm.

“What?”

Her eyes glanced back at his jacket, arms tightening around her body and for the second time that night, Lucien handed her the jacket. She didn’t budge and he sighed.

“Take the damn jacket, Elain.” “You’re rude,” she accused, snatching it out of his grip. And though Lucien was irritated with her, some of his anger washed away at the sight of her buttoning herself into his jacket.

“Yeah? Well you’re spoiled.”

Real mature.

She paused and then she smiled, as if he’d told her she was beautiful. “No one has ever said that to me before.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m all out of sonnets.”

She laughed that time. “You’re so mean.”

Lucien hesitated. Did she like it? He took a step towards her and Elain, to her credit, held her ground. All traces of tears were gone, replaced by the open rebellion staring him in the face.

“You like it,” he accused. Elain didn’t deny it. Instead she took the tiniest step towards him, so close Lucien could touch her face. He reached between them, taking a fat curl between his fingers, knuckles brushing over her cheek.

“I’m not a doll,” she murmured, eyes wide as she held her ground. “I can handle it.”

Of that, Lucien didn’t doubt. He knew she felt his agreement, shimmering down their shared connection.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me to stick around.” “Good thing you know better,” she shot back, all teasing. Lucien, unable to resist testing his luck, dropped his hand and made to turn.

She grabbed his hand and his blood sang at the contact, the instinct to grab her and take her away from this place nearly overwhelming.

“Stay,” she breathed. “Get some sleep…you look terrible.”

He smiled, looking down at her hand clasping his own. “At least we share that commonality.”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes sparkling. “How very cruel of you. Will I see you in the morning?”

“If you’re lucky,” he replied, smirking. All his confidence died the moment she brought his hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“If you’re lucky, you mean,” she replied, letting go. Elain turned, flouncing back into the house without so much as a glance backwards while Lucien stood beneath the fae lights flickering on Feyre’s porch, hand burning. He tried to figure out what had happened and how they’d gone from crying and yelling to…insults and a kiss.

Still, he did as she asked and came back into the house and walked back to his room…where Feyre waited, a smile playing on her lips.

“Good night?” She asked him, making it plain she’d heard at least part of what went down between him and Elain.

“Shut up,” he replied.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Monstrous Secrets Chapter 6

Eris Vanserra x reader

Word Count: 1970

Summary: The High Lord’s meeting.

It was by sheer bad luck that you were sitting next to your cousin when Beron and family strode into the gathering of High Lords. It was by even worse luck that Eris had his sleeves rolled up, inadvertently revealing the bargain marks that so perfectly matched yours. You could see realization dawn on each of your friends’ faces even as his family remained perfectly oblivious. You hoped with every fiber of your being that they didn’t think you’d struck a deal with him willy-nilly, even more so that you didn’t make a deal about Mor.

Rhys, if you can hear me, let me explain before you jump to conclusions.

Judging from the almost simultaneous crinkle of their noses, Rhysand and Feyre seemed to notice the scent of your bond with Eris. 

Well, at least they won’t think something worse I guess.

Nesta just raised an eyebrow.

Doesn’t matter. We don’t get along anyway.

Mor’s eyes just flitted between you and your mate, growing wider and wider in horror.

Please don’t hate me.

Cassian and Azriel, though, were the worst with their twin expressions of disgust that they didn’t even attempt to hide. 

And there goes life as I knew it . . .

Then your eyes strayed to Eris himself. The first time seeing your mate in over fifty years, and it’s like this, under these circumstances. You would not cry in front of these people, you swore to yourself. You wouldn’t. Though Cassian’s accusing scoff of, “Just tattoos, huh?” What’d you sell to him, your soul?” damn near made the tears fall despite yourself.

You studied Eris instead of acknowledging your (former?) friend, noticing the struggle etched into his face that made it look as if he wanted nothing more than to hold you.

Rhysand’s voice flitted through your mind, “So that explains why I thought I smelled you in that meeting with Keir . . .” Nothing more. Such a neutral statement that gave you no hints as to what he was thinking.

It was Feyre that reached over, across Rhys, to touch the hand you had clenching the arm of your chair. Her eyes spoke of someone who knew what it was like to have a mate that was hated and to be forced away from them. If anyone in the world would understand what you were currently suffering through, it was her. “Go to him,” she ordered softly. “We’ll sort out the rest later.”

As soon as you were on your feet, Eris was moving--family be damned, apparently--towards you. You met in that undefined no man’s land between the people of the Autumn Court and the rest of the High Lords. In an instant, you were hauled up into a desperate kiss--audience be damned this time. His hair was cut short, you noticed when you went to grab a fistful. You wondered when, exactly, he’d done it and why.

“What is the meaning of this?” Beron demanded.

When Eris pulled away slightly, you opened your eyes to see that his were still squeezed closed and his jaw was clenched.

“Well?”

Eris’s jaw twitched again, to the point you were worried about his teeth cracking under the strain. You leaned up on your toes, cupping his face in your hands, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips while sending soothing feelings across your bond.

“They seem to be mate,” Rhys announced as your returned your weight to your heels, and you could just hear the cocky smirk on his face like he’d known the entire time.

“Be that as it may,” Helion spoke up, reminding the group that there were, in fact, others present beyond the Night and Autumn Courts, “we have more important matters to discuss today.”

Eris reached up to grasp one of your hands so he could kiss your knuckles before parting.

The meeting continued relatively smoothly after that, despite how tense the situation with Tamlin was or the curious/awkward/angry glances people were shooting at you and Eris. It wasn’t until you were in the suite provided for the Night Court that anyone even brought up the topic that left such a stain on the atmosphere. When they did, you couldn’t help but think about how Eris was probably going through the same and worse at the hands of his father wherever he and his family had disappeared to. The sharp pings of anxiety and pain that were slipping through the bond only made you worry more, fingers tracing over the black bands instinctively.

“How long?” Cassian demanded as Azriel vanished with Mor, neither sparing you so much as a parting glance.

You shifted your wings nervously, and your hand fell away from the tattoo, not wanting to draw even more attention to them. “Remember that first ball I went to in Spring when you all wanted me to play spy?”

He snarled as he turned and punched a nearby column, thankfully not doing much damage to the thing.

“Now, now, don’t destroy this place,” Rhys teased though you could still hear the strain in his voice and see it in the way his mouth was pinched at the corners. To you, he asked, “Why did you never tell anyone?” Tell me? he added in your head, clearly hurt.

You scoffed, arms moving to curl around your middle. Your wings were starting to cramp with how hard you had them squeezed against your back. “Can you imagine how his father would have taken that?”

“Doesn’t explain why you never told us!” Cassian shouted.

Wow, having your closest friend turn on you hurt more than you could have imagined. Still, you snapped at him, not wanting to back down. You’d earned your place, Cauldron damn it, and it wasn’t by being cowed every time a male raised his voice. “Don’t you think I wanted to?!” Now, you were toe-to-toe with the feared general. “At first I kept quiet because I was a fucking slave and an Illyrian and he was a fucking heir to one of the courts! And he was betrothed to my friend and I didn’t even know if it would go anywhere! And then--”

“And then Mor happened,” Feyre realized, “and you couldn’t because how could you tell your family that you loved a monster?”

On some level, you knew that she could relate because Rhys had a similar reputation; she had to, in order to put it into words that succinctly. Against your better judgment, you argued, “He’s not a monster.”

Cassian scoffed.

“He’s not!” Your head whirled back to his, hand whipping out to shove him back even just a step. “So only Rhys is allowed to have that sort of façade?! Eris was trying!” You knew you were broadcasting your anger in a way that was likely overwhelming to Feyre and Rhysand, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. “You heard it from his own lips; breaking off that engagement was all he could do for her. There wasn’t time for a better plan. Not when the one he’d been working on before got blown to smithereens!”

“So you’re going to blame her?!” Cassian’s fist clenched in a way that made your stomach do the same. 

“No!” you shrieked. “Cauldron, no.” The mere thought of it brought tears to your eyes yet again. “Do I wish we’d both been more open and talked about this shit before that happened? Yes. Do I wish Eris and I had come up with a plan sooner? Absolutely. Would I ever blame her for the shit she went through? Never.” You looked at the ceiling in an attempt to blink back your tears. “She was my best friend, and I have barely been able to look her in the eye for five hundred years because of something that could have been solved easily if not for the backwards beliefs of others. You cannot imagine what it’s been like all this time. You just can’t.”

Fere seemed to notice something based on the gasp that slipped past her lips and the worried look she leveled you with. “When was the last time you saw him before today?”

Your wings shifted nervously, a tell you’d been trying to rid yourself of ever since Rhysand pointed out in your youth. Again, your hand moved to touch one of the black bands; however, that was a consions, self-calming action. “We said our vows while Amarantha was stealing the High Lords’ powers,” you admitted aloud for the first time. It felt even more horrible than any time you’d thought those words to yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rhysand’s fists clench. Even Cassian seemed taken aback by the admission. “It was too dangerous to meet after that.”

“So tonight . . .” Cassian’s voice was much calmer now, as if he was starting to understand your side. He was, after all, your closest friend even if he was pissed at you.

“Was the first time I’ve spoken to or even laid eyes on my husband in over fifty years.”

Feyre and Rhysand exchanged a look that told you everything you needed to know about whatever mental conversation they were having. No doubt, they were discussing how horrible that sort of separation from a mate would be, especially after the taste they’d gotten when she was recently undercover in Spring.

“Don’t mistake what I say next for forgiveness or finality,” Rhys said after they looked away from each other once more, “because there’s clearly a lot we need to discuss as a group and as a family.” The spark of anger in his eye, something so rarely directed towards you, made you shrink in on yourself a little. His voice slithered into your mind through the little passageway in the mental wall you kept open just for him, Especially the fact that you think of yourself as less than him because of what you are. “But he will be allowed here tonight without any harm coming to him. Just stay in your room to spare Mor and Az.”

“His father won’t let him out of his sight, Rhys. Not after this.” He’ll be lucky to make it out without blood being spilled.

He lifted a brow as if to say, “Oh, really?” as he strode over to open the door to dramatically reveal Eris Vanserra posed on the other side as if to knock. His violet eyes turned icy as he gave your mate a once-over. “From the sound of it, I’m about five hundred years to late, but if you ever hurt her--”

“You’ll let your dog finish what he started,” Eris interrupted. “I’m aware.” His gaze was locked onto yours as he spoke, and you could feel the shared urge to have your arms wrapped around the other. You could read the tension in his stance, the way he was holding himself revealing that he was in pain as well as worried about you. He was wearing a different shirt, this one with the sleeves fully covering his tattoos. None of this boded well for what he’d been enduring while you were fighting with your friends and family.

Rhys made a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff, oblivious to the observations you’d been making. “Traded one of my cousins for the other. Just destined to be part of the family aren’t you, Vanserra?” He waved off whatever Eris was about to argue, ignored the golden flames that shone in his eyes. “Just go. Enjoy the time you have together before the world goes to shit. Again.”

Immediately, you stepped away from Cassian, who you were still close enough to feel the heat off his body because of the arguing mere minutes (had it been only minutes?) before, so you could grasp Eris’s hand and lead him to your room.

[theodora3022]

Too Trusting (Yandere Ciel Phantomhive X F!reader)

Summary: You picked up a half-dead young man from a dark alley, tended to his wounds  with your nurse skills. However, you did not expect his way of paying his debts.

Notes: So this is a Ciel counterpart of this by @animeyanderelover First time writing for Black butler so hopefully this do not turn out to be too OOC.

Ciel is aged up in this, so no pedophilia haha.

Word count:3.1k(I went overboard oops, a sequal is already taking space up in my mind but whatever), long read with caution

Trigger Warning(s): Gore, drugging, implied dub-con, stalking

Stars glistening behind thin clouds, while the silver moon watches over midnight London carefully. 

You yawn and stretch your stiff limbs as you walk out the hospital hall. It has been a long night, though not many patients, the slow hours from afternoon to midnight is nothing less then torture. 

You know what you were getting into when you took up studying nursing, but you still cannot chase away this sensation of annoyance. The walk back to your family’s manor is usually peaceful, as it is through a well-to-do neighbourhood of the city. But you still stay on your guard as you lower your hood cape and hurried along. Under ideal circumstances, you would have a carriage for commute, but your noble yet impoverished family could only live a modest life even though your father holds the title of Count. As a result you grown to be independent, cleaned your own room, dressed yourself,  enough to become a hard-working nurse instead of a proper noble maiden.

You were unsure of your eyes when you noticed a trail of blood prints leading towards a dark alleyway. Judging by the traces, it means the person, or the thing is still nearby as they are fresh. Should you follow this? What if it is a criminal? But your care for this person’s health got the best of you. With this amount of blood loss, the wounds can be fatal if not given proper medical care. Whoever they are, you cannot just walk away and forget all about them, as it is against your conscience.

A young man dressed in fine suits is not what you expected, although you imagined that suit would look better if not soaked crimson, it seems that he has been shot by guns, the bullet wholes are the proofs. This is no good, you thought as you observe the pool of blood forming underneath him. He needs treatment right away. Although the gunshots are not on his vital parts, such as heart or brain, the blood loss from arteries would drain his life quickly.

“Sir? Can you hear me?” Crouching down, you made a close-up examination of his condition. Unconscious and pale, it seems he had dragged his way into his dark back alley with all those bullet shots. Putting some simple bandages over his wounds, you scoop his slim form up and hurried out of that place.

It feels like a long, feverish dream for Ciel, being carried as he senses the bullets still present in his flesh.

He woke up staring towards your bedroom ceiling. It is morning already, where is Sebastian? Noticing the unfamiliar scenery, Ciel quickly reaches for his right eye, relieved to feel that his eyepatch is still intact.

With a crack of the door, you walked in with a teacup in hand. “I see that you’re awake, I was expecting you to be in coma a bit longer.” Although you are a bit offended by the young man’s cold and evaluating gaze, you still put the cup of warm water on the nightstand.

Instead of taking a sip at the liquid, he asked questions. So demanding, fitting for a young noble.

“Where am I?” “The (family name) manor, do not worry, my parents would not be home until later this week.” Brining a man home while your parents are away, how scandalous, yet you know the laundry maid and the cleaning maid knows to keep their mouths shut. “I advise you to not trying to move too intensively at present, your wounds are still healing.” Pouring yourself a cup, you took a seat on the long sofa next to him. That is where you doze off last night, where the wounded man took your bed. Today is supposed to be your day off, you planned to use it to catch up on sleep, but now it is all ruined thanks to mister mystery on your bed here.

The (family name) family? Ciel vaguely recalls reading about this name before. This house of Counts used to be quite influential in the days of the Queen’s grandfather, George III, and the regency era, but now they are nothing more then minor nobles. Still, he cannot fandom how a lady like you had saved him from that bloody mess. 

Looking down to his abdomen, Ciel can see he had received medical attention from you. Now that he has been saved from the reaper’s collection, Ciel knows the best thing to do is calling for his loyal butler. However, he must find a way to repay his debts you. You did save his life, after all.

“How long was I unconscious?” “Only for a couple of hours. May I have your name, Sir?”

He knew he should hide his identity, even from you. The less people knowing that the Queen’s guard dog was almost successfully assassinated last night, the better. But as if his lips have a mind of its own, Ciel let it slip out. “Ciel.” Good thing he managed to hold the word after.

Ciel, the French word for sky. Suitable for his eye color. “Well, pleasure to meet you Sir Ciel, I am (y/n). You might have guessed I am a noble but spare me the court protocols. Right now I am nothing but a humble nurse.” Now you have a chance to look at Ciel properly, he is actually quite handsome with those delicate features. Silky blue-black hair paired with peacock blue eyes, although one of them is covered by an eyepatch. You were tempted to pry when he was still out but choose not to as it could bring horrific consequences. Noblity can be so cruel, you do not want to get dragged into their mess further.

“I thank you, for coming to my aid.” Ciel lowering his upper body forward, attempt to bow as best as he could in his current state.

“It was nothing, really. Please be careful, Sir Ciel. Your wounds are sealed, but vigorous movement can still open them up.” Your knotted brow amuses him, how can you act so nonchalantly when receiving gratitude form Lord Phantomhive himself? You are a peculiar one indeed. Brining a stranger home and patching him up, while you know nothing of his identity or intentions. How very naïve of you. Guess there no harm in trusting you for a bit. If you want him dead you could have just left him in that damp alleyway.

Taking a sip of the teacup you prepared for him, the Earl frowned at the plain taste. But he drank all of it, nonetheless. Being subjected to tea for so long, he finds water dull and it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. It would have to suffice for now. “My butler would be here soon; would you mind opening the windows?”

Baffled by this odd request, you still drew away the curtains and let the morning sunshine in the room. Seeing you bathed in sunlight had made Ciel feel a certain something. He is startled by this strange sensation, how it made him blush and lose composure. The Earl had never been very sociable person since childhood, so the only female he frequently spend time with is his fiancée Elizabeth. One could say the fairer sex is foreign territory to this man. Ciel is used to being around Elizabeth, out of duty as she is his future bride. But he never felt this warm feeling when he is with her. You might not be a beauty by popular standards, but there is just something about you that made him want to... maybe it is your caring gaze, or your easygoing attitude, Ciel is not sure which one to pick.

“Excuse me, young lady, do you mind telling me how serious my lord’s injuries are?” You jumped back, frightened by the sudden appearance of the tall man on your window ledge. This is two stories high; how did he get up here? No wonder why Ciel wants you to open the windows.

“Sebastian, you frightened her.” The young man scolded the butler, who merely bowed and apologized for the intrusion. You begin describing his bullet wounds in great detail, even showing him the aftermaths: the bullets you took out before on a plate. But you soon found yourself staring up into the butler’s gorgeous eyes, and you started stuttering. Those eyes are like swirling tornadoes, drawing you close every minute. Although Sir Ciel is already an attractive lad, his butler seems to be on whole new level.

Usually when women were swooning over Sabastian, Ciel would find it irritating but simply ignore the interaction, as it could be used to their advantage. But seeing your starring eyes fixated on the tall man in black, a bunch of...jealousy hit in in the head. You saved him; he is supposed to be the one you are looking after! Why are you so focused on that demon? Taking notes of his young master’s angry signs: how Ciel bit his underlip, Sabastian knows he had gone too far with you.

“Sabastian, carry me back home, that is an order.” He spitted out the sentance rather harshly.

You snapped out of your funny state, approving his actions: “If you must move, it is the best if someone carry you. Sir Sabastian, do you need me to call you a carriage?”

“No need, Miss. My lord and I would be on our way now, thank you for your assistance.” Within two seconds, they both disappeared from the room, as if they were never there. You shook your head, cleaning up the teacup and the messy quilts, wondering how you are supposed to return that blood-stained suit jacket that still lies in the laundry bin downstairs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Earl Phantomhive is now back to his study, reading a report about you.

“May I ask you why this young lady had peaked your interests?” That smirk on Sabastian’s lips successfully irritated Ciel’s short temper. Scowling at him, he tried to explain how he only wants to properly thank you on saving his life. “I never like owning debts, but I do repay them. What is that smirk for, Sabastian? Are you teasing me?”

“Why, how could I milord. I do not have the courage to mock my master.” After giving him a warning look, Ciel returns to his paperwork, setting your files aside. But unfortunately his mind starts to wonder.

 What would it be like, to have your hands messaging his shoulder when they are sore from work? Those hands that pulled him from death not so long ago. No, no. He has to stop. Ciel Phantomhive already has a fiancée, and even though he had no romantic feelings for Elizabeth, it is not proper to just daydream about another lady in such salacious manners.

Even so, Ciel needs to make you do not face any dreadful consequences because of him. Many people want him dead; he simply cannot allow you to be affected by his foolishness. A precious person like deserves to be protected and cherished. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Labelling your strange encounter with Sir Ciel as a notable but past event, you carried on your daily duties per usual. Your parents did not suspect a thing as you took care of all traces of Ciel, you still work those awful full night shifts. That suit jacket is cleansed, folded neatly in your bottom drawer, as a reminder of Ciel and his handsome butler is not a fever dream.

While browsing the London news during afternoon tea, you glance at the gossip column and find how Lord Phantomhive had broke off his engagement with little lady Midford. You pay it no particular mind, as you were barely involved in high society due to your family’s declining status. Gossips such as these does not bother you a bit. You placed the newspaper back to its proper shelve, finishing the biscuits as you thought about how you should get out of this state of unease.

Maybe you are just losing your sanity from night shifts, but ever since that day Ciel appear in your life, you have this constant feel of being watched everywhere. In your bedroom, in the hospital halls or in the streets, no matter where. No matter how hard you searched, there is nobody. Even though you sense no malicious intent, it still worries you and kept you up at nights. Your parents are worried about your ever-growing dark circles, but you just brush it off as side effects of your job.

“Really, dear, you shouldn’t overwork yourself.” The Countess, also your mother said at the dinner table one night. “The household can still run without your overtime pay; you know.”

You nod silently, pretending to be having trouble dissecting the salmon filet. Working is a way to help your parents pay for the ever-expensive bills of this manor, as well as your insurance of not being sold on the marriage market by your devious uncle, who brought suitors to every family party. How he said: “Your family might not be what it used to be, but a son of a wealthy merchant can change that!” disgusts you so. Those men disgust you also. All they want is that Count title, as you are the only child, your family title would go to you.      

“You got mail, milady.” Your washer maid presents the latest postage to you. Ah, is it the pay checks?

When you held the white envelope in your hands, you could not believe your eyes; The scarlet wax seal is engraved with the crest of a dog, representing the Phantomhive family. What could the Earl possibly want with you? Although you are a nobleman’s daughter, you never acted like one and you lived a middle-class life. The only distinction being the family tree and your blood. Knowing your worth, you did not assume naively how the earl must have want your hand in marriage, even if he recently broke off his engagement. Your status of a backwater noble is too insignificant for him to notice, so why did you receive this letter?

It indicates the Lord wants you to join him for dinner tomorrow night, which made your stomach churns. Your table manners are not the best, as your parents do not care for such things. Along with the letter there is a package containing a fine black dress, its velvet material surely feels expensive. What did you do to attract such attention from the Queen’s guard dog? You simply cannot fathom why, never at once Ciel came to your mind. You initially wanted to turn down the invitation, but your father said it would reflect poorly on the family. You accepted it, not wanting to put your parents in trouble. This must be a mistake, you thought. I am not qualified to be some lady, all I wanted is to help people in the infirmary.

The dress fits you perfectly, as if it is tailored by the finest in London. A shiver climbs down your spine as you thought about how he obtained your measurements. All you have to do is smile, eat whatever, and he will get bored of you in no time, right?

No.

When you were greeted by that devilishly handsome butler again, you were so relieved. This is just Ciel inviting you to dinner, to show his gratitude! There is nothing to be concerned about.

Ciel not like himself from few weeks ago at all. You can tell that he is trying whatever strategy to make you feel comfortable, even telling you to forget about stiffy table manners if you like. Hm, how unusual, as you heard before the Earl is found of strict etiquette and protocols. But having seen him in a fragile state before, you never once suspected his true intention.

Ciel is mad. Not at just anyone, but at his loyal servant, Sebastian.

How dare he drawn your attention away, how dare he makes you giggle like a fool, how dare he make you smile like that. Doesn’t the demon know you will soon belong to his master from all those investigations? It is bad behaviour for a servant.

“Were you listening, (y/n)?” Ciel suddenly stops in the middle of a description on his company’s latest candies.

“I-I’m sorry Lord Phantomhive, it is just...” You lower your head to apologize, but he seems less then pleased.

“Sabastian, leave the room now.” “As you wish, young master.”

 After the butler backout of the dining room, leaving the two of you alone, Ciel’s expression completely changed. But you are a bit preoccupied by your dizziness. Why did your head feel so heavy all of a sudden? Have you caught a chill? Standing up from the chair, you courtesies to your host: “Thank you, Lord Phantomhive for this delicious dinner. I am feeling rather unwell, so I am afraid I must take my leave.” You almost lost your balance because of your vertigo, only caught the chair for support at the last moment.

Thin, but strong long fingers grabbed your wrist, forcing you to sit down beside him. “Oh no, my dear. I think you are exactly where you need to be.”

His...dear? What can he possibly mean by that? There are certainly many other suitable noble ladies available to him, why?

However, your mind starting to become cloudy, as you can no longer form coherent thoughts. Seeing you in such hazy state, a sinister smile forms on his lips, as he pulls your body into his embrace, slowly stroking your hair as you black out. Feeling you had been forced into a dreamless sleep, Ciel knows he had succeeded, as always. To be honest with himself, Ciel did abuse your trust, by seasoning your steak a little differently, but it is your fault for being so trusting of someone you only met once. Ciel had won this game, now he would gladly take the prize to the new bedroom he so thoughtfully prepared for you. You are going to love it, including his series of plans. The title of Lady Phantomhive suits a sweet person like you impeccably.

He had thought about this long and hard, and he came to a conclusion of the best way to repay you is to offer you a position you cannot possibly refuse.  The position of Lady Phantomhive. He even upsetted Elizabeth for this! It should qualify as a decent compensation. Should you ever think it is not suitable, your parents would be a good place to start negotiating. You wouldn’t want anythnig happening to them, don’t you?

Now that Ciel understand how it is like to “love” someone romantically, he swears he is going to try his best to make you comfortable with him in this new home. Your presence would lighten the grim mood of this manor greatly. Easily swooping your unconscious body up bridal style, Ciel begin to walk up the grand staircase, towards the bedrooms. Maybe the manor could return to its former glory in the near future, with a happily married couple and their adorable little brats. He could have a family again! Doesn’t that sound just lovely?

[youreacowgirllikeme]

Case Closed

note: Chris talked law on Prime Time again last night, so I felt inspired to write a second part of my Lawyer!Chris fic (you can read the first part HERE) sorry for eventual typos

enjoy :)

words: 2900

warnings: swearing, smut (dirty talk, oral, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it irl, please))

“Your honor, the jury finds the defendant guilty of all charges.”

Oh. OH.

This was absolutely glorious. You couldn’t dance in court, of course, but on the inside, you were definitely having a victory parade.

A triumphant grin split your face as your gaze wandered across the courtroom over to the defense desk.

Chris Cuomo, the defense lawyer, looked absolutely crestfallen. His mouth was hanging slightly open, and he couldn’t even utter a word. Serves him right, smug bastard, you thought.

You had made an excellent case, a new witness and some very compromising documents were able to convince the jury of the defendants guilt despite all of Cuomo’s efforts to keep his incredibly whealty client out of jail.

The judge announced the sentence, and now Chris just slammed his fist on the table. This was getting better and better, but you told yourself to keep your smugness at bay, no need to stoop as low as your opponent and gloat.But there was something else you definitely needed to do, something you couldn’t let Christopher Charles Cuomo get away with.

After the defendant was taken away and you had packed up all your papers, you slowly made your way over to his desk.

“So, I was wondering if you are going to keep that horrendous tie on for dinner tonight? Because I plan on wearing a dress and I would hate for us to clash color-wise, you know.” You said, barely able to remain serious.

The look he gave you was so murderous, it sent a shiver down your spine. You weren’t sure if it was out of fear or arousal. You were still a bit sore from your encounter in the parking lot yesterday, and you really hoped on repeating it. Riling him up was just foreplay to you.

“If you’re really suggesting that I will take you out for dinner after that dirty game you played today, you are even crazier than in originally thought.” he hissed. The vein on his temple was back, pulsating as if it was threatening you.

“Dirty game?” you almost shouted, then pulled yourself together so you wouldn’t draw the attention of the people still lingering in the courtroom.

“Your client was guilty as hell, even you with your twisted sense of morality should see that. And you lecturing me about playing games, pot calling the kettle black.” You whispered furiously, unable to keep your unfazed façade on any longer.

“About dinner, you invited me yesterday, so you’re either not a man of your word or a coward. Maybe even both.”

You hit home with that, you could see that on the way Cuomo’s fists clenched around the papers he was holding, scrunching them up. Men were so predictable, you thought, call them a coward and they will do every stupid thing in the book to prove you wrong.

But you wanted dinner and, most of all, dessert, so playing into his insecurities was fair game this once.

“There’s a new Italian place on 5th avenue, across from the Public Library. I know the owner, I’ll get us a table. Be there at eight.” He muttered and was gone in a hurry.

Of course he knew the owner.

“I look forward to it.” you called after him, fake cheeriness in your voice.

+++

As agreed, you stood in front of the restaurant at eight. You wore your favorite dress, it was bright red and showed just the right amount of both legs and cleavage. You thought that you looked stunning, and you knew Cuomo would appreciate the look as well.

The roar of an engine pulled you out of your thoughts, and you spun around to where a familiar black SUV was pulling up. You rolled your eyes, if you didn’t know it better you’d think Cuomo was compensating with that car.

It stopped and he emerged on the driver’s side. And Lord help you, he looked fantastic. He wore a tight-fitting black suit and a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, showing a peak of tanned skin beneath. You wanted to climb him like a tree in the middle of 5th avenue. The confident, almost arrogant way in which he carried himself was infuriating and incredibly hot at the same time. Why was he so attractive while being such an asshole?

Your thoughts about his appearance were clearly written all over your face, because when he addressed you, he sounded even more smug than usual.

“Hi, Y/L/N, enjoying the view? I have to admit, you really clean up nice, I’m impressed.”

“Shut it, Cuomo.” You said, unable to suppress a smile. “You don’t look too horrible yourself.”

“Come on, I look great and we both know it.” he chuckled. And of course, he was right, but his ego was already big enough, no need to feed it any more.

“You look alright, I guess, but don’t to get ahead of yourself.” You said, “And now you better take me inside so I can have the amount of wine I need to make your company tolerable.”

+++

The food was absolutely delicious, and the wine the waiter recommended was so good that the two of you drank a whole bottle. It was Friday anyway, so no need to hold back.

What was really shocking too you was how good the conversation was. After a bit of initial bickering and arguing about which country produced the best red wine, you slowly started getting more comfortable with each other. The atmosphere was eased by the wine and you discovered that Chris wasn’t a completely horrible person.

Yes, he was a smart arse and cocky, and so fucking full of himself, but he was also incredibly clever, had surprisingly progressive views and on top of all he loved dogs!

When he told you that his favorite food were his mother’s spaghetti marinara, you could not suppress a little “aaw”. He looked at you funnily, but you just gave him a smile.

Your were slightly confused. This evening was supposed to be about you eating some fancy food for free and getting on Cuomo’s nerves (and maybe getting laid later).

But now, you were actually enjoying his company, and he didn’t seem hostile towards you, either. He hadn’t even brought up the trial, or how you allegedly played him dirty. Instead, he was actually listening to what you had to say and engaged into meaningful conversation.

You really were surprised, and when he was signing the bill later, you took your time to appreciate his appearance again while taking your newfound knowledge about him into consideration. Maybe he wasn’t the devil in person. Maybe, there was an actual decent human being under that expensive suit.

The two of you decided to go for a little after-dinner walk in the nearby Bryant Park, your favorite in NYC, and, as is turned out, Chris’ as well. Conversation shifted to growing up in New York and how your experiences differed from each other. But, as you found out, Chris actually grew up in a Queens neighborhood not too far from your own home, a fact that surprised you immensely.

“I could’ve sworn you were born on the Upper East Side.” You admitted “You certainly look and act the part.”

“I’m not gonna lie, prep school and Ivy and Law school certainly played a role in this. And of course, the firm I’m working for is high end. You’re expected to conduct yourself in a certain way. It’s a shark tank, you eat, or you get eaten. But I don’t have to tell you that.” His voice was quiet, almost wistful. He sounded like a totally different person.

“If that’s Queens Chris I met tonight, then I like him a lot better than this Cuomo guy from court.” You said, stopping and looking up to meet his blue eyes.

“You’re not the only one, I like him better as well.” He replied, meeting your gaze and reaching out to take your hand. His fingers were warm and rough as they intertwined with yours, holding his hand felt shockingly natural.

There were definitely sparks flying now, you could not deny it. You were drawn to this guy, and not only because of his good looks, but really attracted to the person behind the persona, you desperately wanted to know more about him.

“Tell me.” You whispered. “How did this happen? We were about to kill each other this afternoon and now were standing here, holding hands?”

“You tell me.” He murmured, and then he leaned down to kiss you. It was nothing like you expected, he was tender, gently cupping your jaw with his large hand, his thumb stroking over your cheek. His lips were soft and pliant against yours, a contrast to how hard and broad his body felt when you leaned against him to deepen the kiss.

The hand that was previously holding yours slipped around your waist and pulled you closer. You fisted your hands into the lapel of his suit jacket and what began as an innocent kiss grew increasingly steamy.

You groaned as he nipped at your bottom lip and slid his tongue inside your mouth and reached up to grab the short hair at the nape of his neck. He hissed into your mouth, his grip on your hips tightening.

You felt heat starting to pool between your legs and telling from the bulge that was beginning to press against your abdomen, Chris was sharing your sentiments.

“How fast is that ridiculous car of yours?” you panted, a bit breathless from the kiss.

“Very fast.” He replied, a grin on his slightly flustered face.

“How about we take this to your place before we get in trouble for public indecency?”

“You weren’t that concerned about it yesterday.” He chuckled “But I don’t care for the headlines either, so let’s go.”

+++

The door to Chris penthouse (you were right, of course he had a penthouse) slammed shut, and a second later, you were pressed against it by two strong arms. Chris effortlessly pinned your body against the wood with one hand while the other one fumbled with the side zipper of your dress.

The garment dropped to the floor, leaving you with only a matching black set of underwear on. Chris eyes wandered over your body and he swore under his breath before attacking your bare neck with his mouth, kissing and sucking on the skin, probably leaving another bruise.

“You’re really marking me like a fucking caveman, Cuomo.” You gasped, the effect of his lips on your skin evident, you were already slick with need.

“Come on, Y/N, you know you enjoy it.” he whispered, and you only groaned as an answer as he softly bit the junction of your neck and shoulder. You could hear his dark chuckle before his hand started to unclasp your bra, exposing your tits to the cool air of the hallway.

He sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, and you couldn’t suppress a whimper at the feeling of his hot mouth against your sensitive skin. Slowly, his large hand wandered between your legs, rubbing your pussy through your panties before pulling this last item of clothing down as well, only your black high heels remaining.

Releasing your hands, Chris slowly dropped down to his knees and grabbed one of your ankles to prob your leg over his shoulder. You let out a sharp hiss as his mouth wandered to your inner tight, leaving a trail of soft kisses before he reached your center. His fingers slowly dipped into your wet folds, spreading your arousal before he started to lightly circle your clit with his tongue. You cried out and threw your head back against the door, one of your hands fisted into his curly hair, pushing him closer between your legs.

“So bossy.” He murmured. “And so fucking wet for me.” Suddenly, he pushed two of his thick fingers into you while harshly sucking on your bud. White, hot pleasure surged through your body as you came on the spot, your knees almost giving up as you bucked against Chris’ face, coating it with your arousal.

“Fuck.” You whispered, slowly coming down from your high. Chris got up, looking very pleased with himself. You grabbed him by his dress shirt, pulling him in for a deep kiss and grinding your naked core against his very prominent erection.

“Bedroom. Now.” He groaned against your lips and kissed you again. Your hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt, tearing it from his body. It joined the rest of the clothes on the floor. You took a moment to admire his now exposed, well-muscled torso. He looked like fucking Greek god, and you wanted to run your hands and tongue over every inch of his tanned, smooth skin. You needed him, now.

“Fuck me right here, I don’t care.” You whispered, palming his erection before starting to work on his zipper.

“Filthy girl. You want me to rail you against the door.” Chris murmured, before pulling his pants down along with his underwear. His cock sprung free, hard and heavy, making your mouth water. With a swift motion, he grabbed your tights, effortlessly lifting you up against the door. The blunt display of strength just made you even wetter, your hands were grabbing his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Stop talking and fuck me already, Cuomo.” You groaned, and a second later, he pushed his cock into you, the sudden stretch making you cry out in pleasure. He wasted no time, immediately starting a hard, fast pace.

“Fuck, Y/N.” Chris hissed through clenched teeth. “You are so fucking tight. Taking my cock so perfectly.”

“Shit, Chris, please keep moving, just like that.” You whimpered as he fucked you relentlessly, a stained expression on his face. He never slowed down his thrusts while he was holding you, it was like watching somebody run a marathon. Seeing him handle you like that was mesmerizing, bulging muscles glistening with sweat, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you. You were starting to feel slightly dizzy as your head hit the wooden door with each thrust, but you didn’t care.

Chris leaned forward to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, biting into your lower lip and pushing his tongue into your mouth. You let out a guttural cry as he eased his grip on your ass a bit, making you sink down onto his cock even more. The different angle created a totally new sensation, causing both of you to groan as Chris was thrusting into you even deeper now. A powerful, burning feeling was beginning to form in your lower stomach, quickly spreading through your whole body with every hard snap of his hips. Chris name was falling from your lips like a chant now, begging him to keep fucking you, to go harder, deeper.

“Who would’ve thought that you’d beg me to fuck you against my front door.” Chris said in a husky, breathless voice, never slowing down his thrusts. “Little Miss Perfect is not so perfect after all, huh?”

You couldn’t answer, your mind was fuzzy, and the only thing existing was the feeling of Chris, his large hands grabbing your ass, his hot breath on your skin, his cock filling you over and over again.

You were already hanging on the edge of your orgasm, but when he leaned down to sink his teeth into the tender flesh of your shoulder, the raw pain and the sheer possessiveness of the gesture were the push you needed to spiral down into your climax.

You came with a shout, your whole body convulsing, squirming against Chris. He moaned as he felt your pussy clenching around his cock, squeezing him until he came as well, calling out your name, his cock buried so deep inside you that you were sure you’d be limping tomorrow.

Neither of you moved for a minute, your sweaty foreheads pressed against each other as you tried to catch your breath. After a moment, Chris carefully pulled out and lowered you onto the floor before collapsing next to you with a huff. His hair was sticking to his forehead and his breath was tickling your face when he leaned in to kiss you. You were surprised by that motion, you had expected a cocky comment or a crude joke, but not this.

When he broke the kiss, you could see his trademark smirk spreading over his face as he inspected the hickey he left on your neck, tracing it with his fingers.

“I might really be into leaving marks on you.” He said, “A little reminder of the good time I gave you.”

“You really are just a caveman, aren’t you? Also, it seemed as if you enjoyed yourself as well.” you replied, your hand involuntarily reaching out to play with a lock of hair that clung to his face.

“I did, immensely so. In fact,” he said, voice going serious for a moment. “I’d like to repeat it, sometimes. Maybe even with another dinner, if you would like that.” His face was passive, but there was a softness in his eyes that you haven’t seen before.

“Are you really asking me on a date, Cuomo?” you exclaimed, the fake astonishment masking the giddy excitement you felt about the question. You wanted to go out with this idiot so bad, you could hardly believe it yourself.

“Looks like it, huh.” He murmured, and if you didn’t know it better you would’ve thought he was embarrassed.

“Hey, I’d love to go out with you, Chris.” Your voice was as sincere as you felt.

Chris gave you a brilliant smile, then winked at you.

“You know, I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer anyway.”

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 22/?)

In which Callum and Ezran confront some of the implications of Harrow’s death; in Katolis, a meeting of the High Council is called.

(Chapter length: 15.5k. Ao3 link)

---

Sarli and Cairon whiled away the hours with their work, waiting until such a time that a runner came from the castle. If there were any watchers in place observing them, they saw no sign of it, though that did little to ease their tension throughout the day. When finally they were called upon, they went, and did not make any particular fuss about it. It came later than anticipated; at a time ebbing closer to evening than afternoon. She wondered if there had been any difficulties that might have caused the delay.

They arrived at the castle and were taken to wait in a receiving room not far from where Sarli knew the Council hall to be. The thick stone of the castle walls blocked all trace of sound, and though she was sure the meet must already be underway, she could hear nothing. So she held silent and still, waiting in calm dignity for the inevitable summons. Cairon, for his part, held a silence and stillness that seemed very intent, as if he were trying to listen for voices through the stone. He would have had to have very good ears to manage it; the castle walls were thick indeed.

Finally, a guard came to lead them through, and the two that had been in the room stood up and followed. When they entered the Council’s grand hall, there had evidently been a great deal of talking already, and a great deal of resistance. Lord Viren was not in the monarch’s seat, but instead stood at the table’s end like a supplicant, cuffed, flanked on either side by well-armed Crownguard. She had a split second to guess that he would not take such debasement lightly, and then she saw his face.

The Lord Protector was tense with barely-leashed rage, his fists tight at his side and his frame set with a proud, furious rigidity that spoke well to his state of mind. He had encountered a challenge and a setback where he had anticipated none, and it had got the better of him.

His eyes moved and fell upon her, and tightened with obvious fury. Sarli stared back impassively.

“I call the Healer Sarli, and her apprentice, Cairon of the Acolytes of Mercy, to speak their testimony to the Council.” Opeli said, steely-eyed and intent. She did not betray any hint of satisfaction or victory, and Sarli respected that, too. One ought not celebrate a victory until it was in her hands. “By what would you be bound?” She asked of them, and Sarli answered without hesitation.

“By Mercy,” she said, and Cairon echoed ‘Mercy’ a bare second after her.

Opeli nodded, and then had them speak the vows in Mercy’s name that would bind them by honour to truth, and then without unnecessary preamble she had their testimony from them. Sarli described the circumstances under which she’d been summoned, what she’d seen of the Lord Protector’s secrecy and the conditions of his dungeon, what he’d said of his past treatment of his prisoner, and the evidence that Sarli had gleaned well from that prisoner’s health. She spoke of the amputation performed in the dark, hidden and faithless, and the insult she’d been dealt in having her patient taken from her. She spoke of the dark magic construct that had stolen into her House of Healing, and presented the ash of it that Cairon had saved in a tiny vial.

Cairon said his part, too, but by that point it was something of an afterthought. The Council adjourned briefly while a fresh party of guards, accompanied by a Councilman, ventured into the Lord Protector’s private dungeon and verified the presence of the prisoner, as well as the inhumane conditions of his keeping. They returned this confirmation to the Council-hall, and Lord Viren was asked to justify his actions.

He straightened, slowly, the rage in his eyes having banked in the interim to something colder and longer-burning. He had evidently been considering his words very carefully. “That elf is the assassin who murdered King Harrow.” He said, evenly, precisely. “And, to my belief, the leader of the party of assassins.” He was commanded to justify this claim, and elaborated at once on the differing position of the elf’s strange binding, the fact that he alone had borne the magical messenger-bird; the claim was accepted, and he went on. “This elf is the leader of a group of six – six – vile Moonshadow elves who somehow made it to the heart of the Kingdom without ever once being detected. A journey that surely must have taken them months – and they were not spotted. Does that not seem suspicious to you?”

The Council rustled. Opeli’s eyes tightened before she spoke. “Make your point, Lord Viren.”

“My point, as you put it, is that those elves constituted a security breach of the highest order,” said Lord Viren, voice coached in all the righteous, compelling concern that he could manage. “A Moonshadow assassin is unstoppable at full moon, but full moon does not account for how they travelled here undetected.”

“Moonshadow assassins are famously skilled.” Pointed out another of the Council, looking nearly interested now.

“Skilled, yes, but skilled enough to avoid all patrols and sentries along the way?” He shook his head. “The most efficient ways here from the border are heavily populated. No, Councillors; even if the assassins kept far from the road, they should have been spotted. Glimpsed, at least once. I’m sure they would have killed any scouts who did spot them, but we’ve had no missing scouts either, have we? They weren’t spotted.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if inviting the council-hall to follow him to his conclusion. “That implies knowledge of where to go to stay hidden – which routes are guarded and which are not – which paths an assassin might take to the heart of Katolis to slaughter its royal family.” The words were inflammatory, and deliberately so; many in the room stirred at the reminder. “That knowledge could only have been gained in one way.”

Sarli knew the word before it was spoken. So, judging by the sudden stillness of him, did Cairon. “Spies.” Concluded Opeli, flatly. “We know we have spies, Lord Viren. Every kingdom does. What does this have to do with your reprehensible conduct?”

The Lord Protector schooled his features into polite surprise. “You haven’t guessed, Lady Opeli?” He asked, falsely astonished. “Why, I have been trying to draw the information from the elf prisoner, of course.” He seemed satisfied as the Council erupted with mutters and rustling, eyes passing from one to the next with careful attention. “As the leader of his party, the prisoner will know how to contact the spies. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had made contact with a spy in the castle-city itself. Our king is dead!” he said, raising his voice, and casting his address around. Though shackled, he still had more than sufficient room to turn and enhance his oration. “Our heirs murdered! The Kingdom is in its hour of greatest vulnerability, and it is our duty to keep it safe. Security of information has never been more important.”

“…You claim your treatment of the prisoner was justified as means to draw information from him.” Opeli concluded, narrow-eyed, watching Lord Viren as though he were a particularly troublesome roach that had the temerity to refuse to die.

“Precisely so, Lady Opeli.” The Lord Protector agreed, voice lined with the artificial smoothness of someone who had lived too long at court.

Opeli did not appear impressed. Nor did her fellows, and Sarli could guess why. She waited for the obvious rejoinder.

It came, eventually, from the Councilman Saleer. “Lord Viren, I agree with your concerns of the security of the realm.” He said, turning a light frown to the man as he spoke. “The security of information must be one of our utmost priorities, and the potential for unearthing spies must be pursued. Your prisoner, doubtlessly, has very valuable information to give, and will likely only give it under duress. I agree that the duress is warranted.” He paused, looking almost disappointed. Sarli thought, by the look of him, that this Councilman might well have been Lord Viren’s partisan before this. Now, though? “What I question is why you did not apply to the proper channels to have it sanctioned.”

Sarli was nodding along as Lord Viren paused, his expression falling into a mask of polite indifference that seemed near-reflexive. “Pardon?” he inquired, mildly, with the look of a man who had been hoping very fervently that this topic would not arise.

Opeli took up the assault with an almost fierce cast to her eyes. “Under Law, Lord Viren, the use of exceptional measures in the questioning of prisoners of war may be granted by tribunal,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You cannot pretend you didn’t know that. There is no good reason, none, why you should have kept the prisoner in unlawful secrecy and unlawful conditions, when you could have simply requested a tribunal verdict. Do you think anyone would deny that this prisoner warrants it? It would be unanimous.” Her stare darkened to a glower. “But you didn’t even try. And I, for one, mistrust the intentions that this betrays.”

“I, as well.” Said one of the others. “It’s untrustworthy behaviour from the Lord Protector.”

“I support without reservation measures for the security of the realm,” said Saleer. “I dislike that I was not offered the opportunity to support this one. Matters of security should not be hidden from the Council. And, by reports, under your care the prisoner’s health has been declining rapidly. Such a valuable source of information should be kept more carefully.”

Opeli turned, abruptly, to Sarli. “Your verdict, Healer, on the prognosis of the prisoner.” She demanded, and Sarli blinked.

She took a moment to collect her impressions. “Under his current circumstances, without the care of a Healer…” She considered it. “If the records on his kind are correct, I would expect him to summarily expire beneath the new moon. In his current condition, and kept underground, I do not believe he would survive its privations.”

“And your recommendations for a course of treatment?” The question was quick.

“Access of a qualified Healer to his care and keeping.” She answered. “Moonlight; as much of it as possible, before the moon finishes waning. He must have a cell with an appropriately-placed window. And I strongly recommend against the use of any exceptional measures before the new moon has passed.”

“You consider it very likely that the prisoner would have died, left to Lord Viren’s care.” It wasn’t a question.

“I consider it a certainty, if he persisted in refusing access to a Healer.” Sarli said evenly. “If by some miracle the elf survived the new moon, he wouldn’t survive his infections without some moonlight to strengthen him. As it is, even should he receive a Healer’s attentions immediately, his survival is far from assured.”

Opeli nodded, sharply, and turned to Lord Viren. “Then we must charge you with endangerment of the security of the realm, Lord Protector, as well as breach of Law.” She said, and – that appeared to break through the man’s carefully-crafted exterior. He looked offended. “In risking the death of a potentially critical prisoner – a prisoner which you did not surrender to the official channels as you ought – you endanger the information security that you claim motivated you. I find your justifications poor and groundless, and call for the immediate confiscation of the prisoner, and sanctions upon your station.”

Oh, but that did not please Lord Viren. His eyes narrowed. His fists clenched, still cuffed, as though he were fighting to refrain from uttering something rash. She imagined she could almost hear the grind of his teeth.

Within minutes, Opeli’s call had the corroboration of the rest of the Council, and orders were dispersing for the appropriation and relocation of the prisoner. The soldiers who had aided the Lord Protector and not spoken up were due for trials of their own, and the Council was in agreement that Lord Viren should receive further sanction, to be determined at a later date.

“Healer, given your prior attendance to the case, I would ask that you take up the duty of the prisoner’s care.” Opeli said, which Sarli had been expecting.

“Of course.” She said, inclining her head, and did not mention that she would have been more than mildly irate to have had her patient given to the care of any other, and certainly would have made her ire the Council’s problem. “I will have the aid of my apprentice, I assume.” This was accepted without pause. Here, at least, the rights of a Healer went unquestioned.

Then she had the privilege of watching the Lord Protector escorted from the throne-room, to rest under guard in his quarters until such a time as he received his next hearing. As he passed her by, flanked by the pikes of the Crownguard, he turned eyes upon her that were venomous and graceless in defeat. “So much for the vaunted confidentiality of Healers.” He said to her, casting his voice so as to be heard, perhaps in some attempt to discredit her vows to the Council.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Surely you’re not surprised, Lord Viren.” She said, and allowed herself a stirring of satisfaction in her gut, though it did not reach her eyes. “It was my duty.”

“Your duty?” He seethed, the guards pausing to allow the exchange.

“Yes.” She answered, and no more. If he had paid better attention, he would have known it. She owed him no explanation at all.

So, in the end, Lord Viren left the hall in disgrace, and Sarli returned with her apprentice to the mouth of the Valley of Graves.

 ---

 The snowshoes, by necessity, limited their travel speed quite a lot. Rayla seemed to be feeling more lenient than usual, or otherwise was treating them gently, because she barely hurried them or remarked on their pace at all. He asked her about it, an hour or so in, and she shrugged. “Never expected to get far today,” she said. “But we needed to get moving. For…morale, I guess, if nothing else.”

Callum thought of staying in that Mercy-forsaken cave for another day and shivered. He could understand that. It felt, in a very real way, like the place had been stained with the grief and turmoil they’d experienced there, and he was increasingly glad to have seen the back of it. “Okay, fair enough.”

The forced break in their travel had at least allowed his legs to recover a bit; this turned out to be a very good thing, because the going that day was almost entirely uphill. Rayla kept cresting the side of the mountain, looking out, and shaking her head. No safe way down to the other side yet. So they were still climbing, in a steady meandering path around the curving edge of Dorel, searching for a way forward.

The snow made everything harder. Going uphill in snowshoes meant having to stamp the snow twice or more before every step, to ensure it was packed enough to withstand weight, which meant that every step forward took three times as much effort as it ought to. And, of course, he periodically fell in. Less so as he got the hang of snowshoeing, but it was a definite setback. They were walking  almost directly into the wind that day too, with the lingering malice of the storm scouring their cheeks until his skin felt red and raw.

After only a few hours of walking, Callum’s legs were aching, he was struggling for breath, and the straps of his bag were digging painfully into his shoulders…but, weirdly, it was still vaguely satisfying. There was a sense of relief to it all, like he was leaving something terrible behind. Like, somehow, if he walked far enough, the grief wouldn’t follow.

It helped that, walking on the outwards edge of an entire mountain, the views were usually incredible. At least half the times he tripped and fell into a snowdrift were because his eyes wandered to the scenery instead of where he was putting his feet.

Rayla had said they wouldn’t go far today, and was true to her word; she was obviously looking for somewhere to camp by mid-afternoon. The snow-clouds made it hard to judge the time of day, but he thought it was only about four by the time she stopped them, setting her bags down in a thick bank of snow beside some well-frosted pine trees. “This’ll do,” she announced, giving their surrounds a critical look. “It’s sort of sheltered, at least.”

Callum eyed the prospective campsite dubiously. The trees were not particularly closely-packed, but the snow seemed only knee-deep rather than hip-deep, so he supposed she was right. There was some degree of shelter here. “Nice view through the trees, too.” He pointed out, glancing through the sparsely-placed trunks to the silhouettes of the mountains. It was clear enough now that he could almost see some actual details past the haze. There was, sort of, a drop-off a short distance away. A slope steep enough that the snow hadn’t adhered to it particularly enthusiastically, in any case. He thought he could see some sort of forest further down.

She followed his gaze, looking vaguely taken-aback, as if she hadn’t even noticed the scenery. She blinked past the branches. “I was mostly just thinking about easy firewood access,” she admitted. “And not having to clear as much snow. But I suppose it looks nice enough?” She shrugged.

Ezran let Bait down into the snow, smiling a little as the glow-toad promptly dropped out of sight, too dense to do anything but sink in immediately. “I like it better than that stupid not-cave, anyway.” He announced, and kicked out some snow before setting his own bag down in the cleared space. “Are we setting up the tent?”

“Definitely.” Rayla said, eyeing a nearby tree suspiciously. She approached it and gave it a kick, then did a circuit of the other nearby trees to do the same. He wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of it was, but she seemed more satisfied when she finished and added “It’s definitely still too cold to be a good idea to sleep outside.” Callum, who was already getting chilly now that he’d stopped walking, nodded ruefully, and bent to take his snowshoes off.

It was bizarrely, comfortingly normal to go about the camp-making process again. The snow occasioned a few extra steps, but Rayla mostly took care of that; she broke off a branch so large it seemed more like half a tree, still thick with pine needles, and used it as an improvised broom to beat aggressively at the thick snow in their vicinity. While they gathered wood for a fire, she exposed an area of frozen earth that would have been large enough for three or four tents instead of just the one. When she was done she stood back to observe it with plain satisfaction, discarding her improvised broom.

Callum inspected her handiwork. The edges of the snow, all pushed outwards, looked almost comically like some sort of perimeter wall. He half felt like he should be drafting Ez to go build a snow-fort with him. Instead: “Tent time?” he inquired, eyeing the cleared space, and she nodded.

“Tent time.” She agreed, and they all set to work.

Rayla had regained the use of her left hand since the last time they did this, and although it seemed weak enough to not be able to grip or brace things properly, it still made enough of a difference that she joined in on the tent-building with a vicious satisfaction, obviously soothed to have some measure of her capabilities back. He was glad for her, though he did spend most of the process worrying that the tent would catch on her arm wounds somehow.

After startlingly little time, they had a tent again. Right at that moment, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I want to crawl in there and never leave.” He sighed, eyeing the open interior covetously. He hadn’t realised how fiercely he’d missed its dubious comforts until now. Sheltered or not, the alcove they’d spent the last couple nights in had been decidedly open to the elements, and the idea of being able to sleep in an enclosed space again was heartening.

“We can spend the evening warming it up. Putting hot rocks in it and stuff.” Rayla offered, and he glanced over to find her watching him with a slight smile. “Should be relatively toasty. At least for the first part of the night.”

“I’ll take it.” He said, wistful at the mere thought. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt warm.”

Ezran, who’d been slipping the egg out and resting it inside the tent, looked down at his boots. “I know what you mean. My toes have been frozen for days.” Bait inspected his own feet, croaked disagreeably, then crawled into the tent himself. Ez snickered at this, as though the toad had said something amusing that the rest of them weren’t privy to.

“Hopefully not literally.” Rayla said, finally dragging some of their wood over to arrange a fire. “Please, no frostbite. That would be so much work to deal with.”

“Seconded.” Callum put in quickly, stomach roiling a little at the thought. He’d heard stories about frostbite, and they weren’t pretty. “No one’s allowed to lose any toes.” After a moment, he went for the flint in his bag, moving over to hand it to Rayla. She murmured thanks and began casting the sparks, holding the left-hand rock very carefully indeed.

Ezran patted his feet, then stuck them close to the designated fire-area. “I think I can manage that,” he said. “So long as this fire picks up a little, anyway. My boots feel all snow-soggy.”

It all went weirdly smoothly from there. Callum wasn’t sure what he was expecting; some setback, maybe. Like the strong winds of that one other campsite, or an unwelcome thunder-clap. But nothing happened. It all just…worked. The first order of business, once they had a fire, was to start heating up some snow and pine needles for tea. The second order of business was to stash all the still-raw meat into the snow-walls around their campsite to ensure it’d stay frozen. With those more pressing matters dealt with, Rayla started hunting around for suitably-sized rocks to stash in the flames for heating. In what seemed like no time at all, they were passing pine-tea around, everyone except Callum grimacing lightly at the taste as they sipped.

And, just like that, they were sat quiet and idle around yet another campfire.

In the smooth, easy progression of the afternoon…there really hadn’t been any opening to sit and dwell on unhappy thoughts. Now though, the quiet fell for long enough to turn pensive in the air, growing heavier between one moment and the next.

“This is so…normal.” Ezran said into that quiet, after a long time. He was staring into the bubbling pot on the fire, looking conflicted. Rayla turned to watch him, eyes sombre with understanding.

Callum offered a low hum of agreement, heart sinking. It had been easier – when the travel and the campcraft had been distracting him – to keep his mind off of heavier things. But there was only so long that would work.

“It’s like nothing ever happened. Like nothing’s changed.” Ez went on, when neither of them spoke. “But…it has. It has changed. And I just…” he exhaled, lifting a hand to his face. “I don’t know. It’s hard.”

He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I know.” He said, softly. “I - it does get easier? But…”

Ezran glanced up at him, and didn’t seem especially reassured. He just looked back at the fire. “I can’t stop thinking about – about how we weren’t there.” He said, arms tightening around his front, as though he wanted to hug something but had nothing there. The egg and Bait were both in the tent, after all. “For…a lot of things. Like…” He breathed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Like the funeral. That would have been a few days ago, right?”

Callum hadn’t thought of that. It was like a stab through his heart. “I – yeah.” He agreed, miserably, after a second of thought. “Seven sunsets. We passed that at least a couple days back.”

“And those memorial flames, in Verdorn.” Ezran went on, eyes shadowed. “And the flags. That was for him, too. Right?”

He winced. Those had both been signs he’d tried, very hard, not to think about at the time. “…Yeah. I think so.”

“And we just…” Ez shook his head. “We just kept going. Didn’t even know when the funeral happened, or – anything.”

Rayla was hunching her shoulders a little now, too. “Should’ve told you sooner.” She muttered, low and guilty.

His brother sighed. “Yeah, probably.” He acknowledged, seemingly too worn to soften the words. “But it wouldn’t really have changed anything.” He thought. “Maybe we could’ve lit a flame for him, I guess, if it was before the funeral. Now we can only do that at his grave. Or – at Ashtide, maybe?”

He saw Rayla frown at the word, apparently finding it unfamiliar. “That’d be a long way away, though.” Callum said softly. “We only just had Ashtide a few months back.”

Ezran was silent for a moment. “At his grave, then.” He exhaled. “I guess by the time I get a chance, I’m probably going to be King. Or, actually, I – I guess I’m already King? I…” He buried his face in his hands. “Callum, I…don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

His gut tightened. Ez was too young to have to be worrying about something this heavy. Too young by far to be King. But… “I know.” He said, quietly, and offered an arm. Ez eyed it for a moment, then sighed, shuffling closer and letting himself be pulled in. He huddled into Callum’s side. “If it helps…you can always pick a regent. The Queen of Duren’s still using her regent, and she’s a year older than you.”

“Regents. Right.” He blinked a few times, and the words did at least seem to have surprised him out of his misery for a moment. “Forgot about that. But…who would I even pick?” He frowned suddenly, like he’d had an unpleasant thought. “Do you think they already picked one for me? Because we’re – you know, here? It’s not like they can just leave the kingdom without someone in charge…”

“They might have, yeah. A temporary one, maybe.” It was similar to what he’d been thinking earlier in the day. His arm tightened. “They could’ve crowned a Lord Protector instead, I guess, but that would be weird. There’s probably just a regent.”

“I wonder who it is.” Ezran said lowly, then huddled in closer, hunching until he seemed tiny. “Stupid,” he muttered, as if to himself, with an edge of upset rising in his voice. “Dad’s dead and I missed his funeral and I don’t even know who my regent is.” There was a self-castigation there that Callum was far more used to hearing from his own voice than his brother’s. Some King I am, it seemed to whisper.

Callum frowned. “Hey, none of that is your fault, Ez.” His voice came out a little more sharply than he’d intended. Rayla stirred a little, like she wanted to say something, but in the end she stayed quiet, watching them with sombre eyes.

“I know.” Ezran’s limbs furled tightly inwards, knees coming up to his chest. “I know it’s not. I just – it feels bad, okay? Now – it’s not just that dad’s dead, it’s – I’m supposed to be responsible for the whole kingdom too? And instead of being there, doing my job, I’m just…” He trailed off, then shook his head. Lifted a hand and gestured tiredly out at the campsite. “I’m just…here. And I don’t know who’s taking care of Katolis.” Before Callum could speak, he’d already gone on. “And that matters, you know? Because of this whole stupid war. What if whoever it is keeps fighting? My regent could be making things worse while I’m-“ he gestured violently around them, at the tent, at the fire. “-sat here, camping.” His voice went bitter on the last word.

Whatever Callum had been about to say died on his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he’d intended to say, but…

Rayla cut in, then. “You’re doing something important here, Ez.” She said, and though her voice was gentle, it was very firm too. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, since we’re mostly just…walking, and camping. But we’re taking the Dragon Prince home. And, coming from you…” She shook her head for a moment. “Do you know how much that’ll mean, for Azymondias to be returned by the King of Katolis? Not just by some human, but a king? That sort of gesture matters, Ez.”

Callum glanced at her, surprised. He’d not heard her talk about anything like that before. It rang true, though, and he could see it move Ez too. His pale eyes flicked back to the egg in the tent, expression twisted with indecision. “…Yeah.” He said, at last. “I can see how that’s important. How that’s…a big thing. But…” He went quiet for a few long moments. “But I feel like the kingdom matters too. Who’s controlling it. What if by the time we get to Xadia, there’s armies fighting again, because I wasn’t home to tell them not to?” His hands clenched in Callum’s jacket. “What if more people die?”

His gut twisted. “It’s a good point.” He admitted, after a moment. There hadn’t been all-out armed conflict with Xadia since, pretty much, Harrow had been crowned. But in the wake of a royal assassination on either side… “It’s – scary to think about. But I can’t help but think-“ he hesitated, and stopped, not sure if he should say it.

Ezran noticed, of course, and frowned up at him. “Think what?”

“…I can’t help but wonder if it’d actually make a difference. You telling them not to go to war.” He admitted finally, throat feeling tight. Ezran stared at him, confused and almost a little offended, so: “It’s not like child kings are unheard of, Ez. But – sometimes, if people think they’re not making the right decisions, and they’re not ready to rule yet…they’re forced to take a regent anyway. At least for a few years.” He hesitated again, and added, more quietly, “Or they get deposed. Or…worse.”

It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. But kings were valid targets for assassination, as far as Pentarchy standards were concerned. Ezran was King now. It wouldn’t matter that he was only a child. If people didn’t like what he was doing…then there’d be assassins. Probably a lot of them.

There were always people who didn’t like what kings and queens were doing. That went without saying. But something like this?

Ezran’s expression had gone a little stricken, like he hadn’t thought about that. Callum felt like he had to elaborate, at that point. “You’d want to stop the fighting, right?” He said, quietly. “Make peace with Xadia. But – you’d need support for something like that, Ez. You’d need at least most of your council to think you know what you’re doing. Or at least a few important people who’ll back you up.”

He’d been pretty much raised with the idea that he’d be Ezran’s most trusted royal advisor someday. He’d never thought he’d have to start this soon. If he’d known, he’d have paid better attention. But now…he couldn’t help but remember some of his lessons, and think about what they meant for his brother now.

It’s not that simple, Harrow had said, when Callum demanded to know why he couldn’t just make peace, stop the assassination. Thinking of it made frustration rise and seethe in his throat, harsh with upset, because – for all his words, Harrow had had so much more freedom than Ezran. He’d been an adult, beloved by the kingdom, with a history of both peaceful and warlike actions. He’d surely have faced opposition, and assassins, if he made unpopular decisions. All kings did. But if he’d tried, if he’d just tried – Callum was sure he’d have had the clout to see it through.

But he hadn’t. And now the weight of that responsibility was on Ezran. Ezran, who was ten years old, and untried, and didn’t have the trust and support that comes from a decade of ruling. It would be so much harder for him. It wasn’t fair.

“I – I didn’t think of that.” Ezran said, into the silence, looking shaken. “But – it’s not like I can’t try to make peace. That would just be…wrong. But you’re saying…” he swallowed. “You’re saying they might not let me.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Callum hedged, head aching a little. He’d always disliked the politics lessons. But enough of them had sunk in that he was seeing the implications here. “It kind of depends how scared of Xadia everyone is at the moment. But…yeah, I think you’d need someone backing you up to declare peace, or you could lose control of the court.”

“Like who?” He asked, a little miserable now. It was plain he didn’t want to be thinking about this. Any other time Ezran looked like that, he’d be sneaking out of lessons to steal jelly tarts. But that wasn’t an option here, and he knew it. This wasn’t a responsibility he could shirk. Not without terrible consequences.

Callum thought. “Aunt Amaya would do really well, if we could get her on our side.” He said eventually. “She’s a war hero, you know, and everyone trusts her to defend us from elves.” He saw Rayla’s expression and added “Sorry Rayla. But yeah, she’d be a good choice. If she backed you up on the peace thing, a lot more people would trust it. It would just…be hard to convince her about it. She really doesn’t like Xadia.”

Ezran’s eyes were shadowed. “I know.”

Rayla exhaled, then spoke up. “I’m not going to pretend to know anything about your human court politics,” she started, and waited till their eyes were on her. “But don’t you think, maybe, that some sort of grand gesture, like returning the Dragon Prince, might win over your – council people, or whatever?” Her voice was more than a little sardonic, like she thought they were missing the obvious option, and she was getting a bit exasperated about it.

There was a slightly startled pause. “I mean, maybe.” Callum said after a moment. “It depends. But if you told it the right way, it could make people feel a bit less like we’re going to be attacked with dragons the second Ezran lets our guard down.” He thought. “Especially if we can get some sort of diplomatic thing out of the Dragon Queen. Some sort of agreement or gesture or something.”

Ez didn’t seem convinced, though. He looked back at the egg, troubled. “You’re saying that the best idea might just be to…stick with what we’re already doing.” He said unhappily. “Go to Xadia. Give the egg back. Let whoever’s running the kingdom keep running it.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe so.”

He didn’t speak again for a while, only watched the egg with unblinking eyes. Then he looked away. “I want to just do that.” He admitted, lowly. “I want to stay with Zym, and make sure he gets home safe. But…I feel kind of like that’s running away. Like maybe I just want to do it because it’s easier than going home and being King, and not – because it’s the right choice.” He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know.”

Rayla made a face, like she understood uncomfortably well. “I get that, Ez.” She said softly. “I do. But…”

“I don’t know that I could let you go to court without someone I trust guarding you.” Callum admitted, uncomfortable. “And even then – it’s risky, Ez. It’s not safe.”

Ezran looked up, eyes uncannily pale. “No one’s safe,” he said, with a sombre gravity. “Not in this war. It’s my duty to stop that, right?”

“Yeah,” He acknowledged, gut twisting. “But you’re not going to do any good if you go home and make a mess of things and get killed because someone didn’t like the choices you make.” His heartbeat felt weird; too heavy, too hard. The thought of Ezran leaving made him feel sick. The thought of him being in danger, alone, made his skin prickle with cold horror.

“All kings have to deal with that.” Ez countered, but there was no heart in it. Just a rote objection.

“You’re not ‘all kings’, Ez.” His arm tightened around his brother’s side. “You’re ten.”

He ducked his head, ever-so-slightly, then sighed quietly. He looked away. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s kind of a moot point at the moment, anyway.” Rayla said, and their eyes turned her way. “We’re up a mountain right now, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s not like you can go back alone, Ez. And I don’t know how long it’ll be until we’re near a town again, but-“ She squinted out past the trees for a moment. “-it’s at least three mountains off, I think.”

“No settlements in this part of the Belt.” Callum supplied quietly. “There used to be a lot of towns along the Rhodane river, a long time ago, but – not anymore.” He shook his head. “If we’re travelling down that way, the first ‘town’ we find is probably going to be Greatport. And that’s all the way over on the Bay.” He was hard-pressed to call Greatport a town, really. It was one of the biggest cities in the Pentarchy.

“There you have it.” She nodded, briskly. “No point worrying about this now when going home isn’t even going to be an option for weeks. And at that point maybe we can have a poke around your ‘Great Port’ and get some news.”

“Weeks,” Ezran repeated, in a very plaintive tone. “That’s so far away. I’m going to be worrying about who my regent is for weeks?”

Callum hesitated. “I…” He stopped, considering his words. “If it helps, there really isn’t a lot of people it could be. Not many people have the kind of reputation they’d need to get appointed without your decision.”

Ez blinked, looking up at him out of the corners of his eyes. “…Like who?” He sounded wary, but a little curious too.

Callum thought. “Opeli, definitely. But she’s got a lot of jobs already, so she’d probably have to pass one of them off to do it. Aunt Amaya, same. She’d probably need to step down as General. And…” he hesitated on the last one, gut twisting a little. “And Lord Viren. He…wouldn’t need to step down from anything, I don’t think. He’s just the High Mage. There’s not a huge amount of work with that.” He exhaled. “So, if I had to guess, I’d say…probably him.”

Ezran was silent for a few long moments. “I don’t think I like that.” He said, finally.

Rayla scowled. “Isn’t he the dark mage who killed the Dragon King?” She asked, with an edge to her voice. “The one who stole the egg? And-“ She broke off there, but Callum thought he could guess what else she was thinking: if her parents weren’t cowards, it would have been Viren who killed them.

“Yeah.” Callum nodded, shortly, and remembered the phantom sensation of a dark hand stealing his breath away. He lifted his fingers to his scarf, adjusting it uncomfortably, and – wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything. Was it relevant? Did it matter? Was there any point in mentioning it?

He should have known better than to think Ezran wouldn’t notice his indecision. His brother turned a little to stare at him, frowning a little. “Callum?” He questioned, with sudden concern. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated, then looked away. “…He was there, when I went up into the tower that night.” He said, in the end, not meeting their eyes. “Lord Viren, I mean. He was guarding the royal chambers with Soren, and the other Crownguard.” And that was a thought. Had Viren even survived? Had Soren survived? The other Crownguard had died so fast… “I tried to get him to let me in, so I could tell – dad – about the egg. But…” He trailed off, throat feeling tight.

“…He didn’t let you?” Ezran guessed, unhappy, and Callum shook his head.

“No. I mean – no, he didn’t, but-“ He clenched his fists. “He made it sound like Harrow already knew. And then he said some…stuff.” Mongrel, whispered his memory. Thinking of it made him feel so…confused? Angry? Betrayed? He had no idea. Viren had never seemed to be fond of him, maybe, but he’d not expected that. “And he used dark magic on me,” he concluded, quietly. “To stop me from calling out to Harrow. It didn’t last, but-“

“What?!” He and Ezran jerked with surprise at the vehemence of Rayla’s voice, both of their eyes snapping to her at once. She’d half-risen, looking murderous, like she wanted to spring to her feet and go for someone’s throat. Her hands were twitching for her weapons.

Warily, Callum repeated it: “He used dark magic on me. Some kind of spell to take my voice away.” She made a noise that was almost a hiss, a sharp exhalation of tightly-held air. She looked furious. “It didn’t hurt,” he hastened to add, which didn’t seem to reassure her at all. “I just – couldn’t call out. Couldn’t get through. When my voice came back I…ran. And then I found you guys.”

“He used dark magic on you?” She bit out, now actually on her feet, pacing around the fire like she was searching for something to fight, hands flexing at her sides. “That’s – you never mentioned – ugh.” She stopped, brought a hand up to her face in a brief agitated motion, then whirled suddenly on Ezran. “You are not going back there!” She snapped, almost angry, with a protective fury in her eyes that he’d never seen before.

Ezran was watching her with a measure of surprise. “…We don’t know if he’s the regent, though.” He pointed out, a little soothingly, and Rayla made a disgusted sound.

“He’d still be there. You can’t live in a castle with someone who cast dark magic on your brother.”

“I’m fine, though?” Callum attempted, and she whirled on him, staring fiercely down from where she’d paused in her pacing.

“That’s not the point, Callum.” She said, tersely, hands shaking with her tension. “The point is – if he did it once, he could do it again. Maybe not just to you. Maybe to Ez, too. You’re royalty, right? Isn’t it a big deal if someone does dark magic on you?”

“…It is, yeah.” Ezran agreed, before Callum could say anything. He looked sidelong at him, brow furrowed. “It is a big deal. He could get jailed for that, right? Executed, even, if it actually hurt you. I…had no idea Viren would do something like that.”

Callum opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss. “I…” he started, uncertain. “I – get the feeling he mostly just did it because he didn’t like me.” He remembered the man’s diatribe again, throat clenching. It hurt to recall, even though he’d never been close to Viren.

The remark didn’t seem to please either of them. Ezran scowled, and Rayla made a sound like an angry snake. She knelt down, and for a second rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rested’ was the wrong word, actually. It was more like she was gripping it, fingers tense and tight. “You matter too, Callum.” She told him lowly, quietly furious. “It’s not okay that he did that to you.”

He stared at her, struck as mute as he’d been when Viren had stolen his voice. In the end Ez sighed and turned away, staring at the fire. “So, it’s not safe for me to go home.” He concluded quietly. “Not until I’ve got…court support, and – someone to make sure I’m safe. From assassins. And…maybe Viren.”

Rayla withdrew her hand, then sat down at Callum’s side as heavily as a dropped stone. “Sounds about right to me.” Her voice was still tight, her expression angry. Angry on Callum’s behalf.

Still he didn’t speak, looking away, staring at his gloved hands. Inanely, he observed that they looked weird fully-covered. He was more used to seeing them in his usual half-finger ones. What a stupid thought to be having now.

Ezran was right, was the thing. There were very, very heavy restrictions on when and how dark magic was allowed to be used. Claudia using it against Rayla that night at the castle would have been perfectly allowed and justified, but – Viren using it on him? That was illegal. That was really, really illegal. And…he was the prince. He didn’t really like to think about how important that technically made him, but – it was true. And Viren had used dark magic on him.

Could he be sure that Ezran was safe from that? That it was just a one-off, because Viren hated Callum specifically?

…No. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t be sure of it at all.

“We’ll find out more about what’s going on in the kingdom later.” He said, finally, when he found his voice again. “But…yeah, you’re right. If – if Viren’ll do dark magic on me, we can’t be sure he wouldn’t – that he won’t…” He trailed off, and shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

All of them sat in a very glum, very heavy silence after that. Ezran probably would have been perfectly able to brood on his thoughts for the rest of the day; Rayla, apparently, was another matter. She started to look agitated only a couple of minutes into the quiet, then finally said “Right,” and stood, going for their bags.

Ez turned to look at her. “What are you doing?”

She pulled out a jar. “There’s no point sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.” She said, determinedly, and returned to the fire already struggling for the leverage to uncap the thing with her bad hand. She didn’t manage it, and Callum could see her frustration at that, flitting across her face. Instead, she switched hands, holding the jar against her chest with the left and twisting the cap off with her right. “Might as well have dinner. Some food should cheer us up a bit.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.

“Well, worst case, we’re unhappy and full.” Callum offered optimistically. “Which is probably better than unhappy and hungry.”

“Exactly.” Rayla nodded resolutely, then started pulling the cooked meat out. After some prompting, Ezran begrudgingly admitted to a preference for eating it warm, so Rayla emptied the residual pot-tea into their waterskins and stuck the meat in it with only a thin film of water in there. Callum didn’t feel quite as picky, so got started on some of his while the rest was heating. In short order, they were all chewing on rabbit or venison, and it did make him feel a little better.

Ezran seemed a little more fixed in his preoccupation, though, and was eating his food quite unenthusiastically. He didn’t look particularly cheered. Rayla was adding a second batch of meat to the pot, insisting that they all needed to stuff themselves, when Callum had an idea. He inspected their surroundings, smiled a little, then sidled up to his brother to nudge him conspiratorially.

“You know, Ez, something just occurred to me.” He said, pretend-thoughtful, and Ez looked at him suspiciously.

“What?” he asked, wary.

In a dramatic, sweeping gesture, he indicated the thick snow-banks around their cleared camp area. “Been a while since we made a snowman, don’t you think?” He asked, and saw Ezran blink; first understanding, then sceptical. “And we’ve got plenty of sticks and spare scarves and stuff.”

“Really?” Ezran seemed very unimpressed, which was as good a sign as there’d ever be that he was determined to stay miserable. Callum had no intention of letting that stand.

“What, are you too old for building snowmen now?” He pretended to swoon in horror, and saw Ez trying very hard not to let his lips twitch. So, naturally, Callum piled on the dramatism as heavily as he could manage. “Alas! My little brother is all grown up and boring!”

“Nooo,” Ezran muttered, protesting half-heartedly.

“No what?” He prompted, aware that Rayla was watching them from her periphery, hiding a smile. “No, you’re not too old for building snowmen? No, you’re not boring?”

“I’m not boring.” His brother grumbled, folding his arms. “You’re boring.”

“Oh, am I?” Determinedly, Callum poked and prodded at Ez until there was enough space in his posture to reach out and tug him encouragingly to his feet. “Then I bet you’ll make a way better snowman than me.”

“This isn’t going to work.” Ezran told him severely, but didn’t really protest being frog-marched to the snow-banks. He eyed the packed snow with a look of extremely un-Ezran-like disdain. “I’m not gonna magically cheer up because of snow.”

“Oh really?” Callum asked…directly before he lobbed a snowball at his brother’s face.

It was only a little one, assembled secretively behind his back, but it did the trick. Ezran spluttered with shock, looked briefly outraged, then responded in the only logical way: he picked up a handful of snow and threw it back.

It seemed like more of a reflex response at first, or even almost genuine annoyance, but that didn’t survive the next rounds of the impromptu snowball fight. In short order Ezran’s eyes were alight with vicious glee as he launched his projectiles, crowing triumphantly when he nailed Callum in the forehead and dislodged his hat. The next ten minutes were a mad haze of chasing and throwing and falling over in snow; eventually Callum accidentally tumbled over the snow-bank, Ezran following a second later, and they both fell with a muffled oof into the cleared camp-space.

“You done murdering each other with snow yet?” Rayla asked them, eyebrow raised, looking very amused. She’d been watching the spectacle but hadn’t made any move to join in, and suddenly, Callum thought that sorely needed correcting.

He locked eyes with Ezran, who had just finished picking himself up off the ground. Slowly, both of them reached for more snow. “That depends,” Callum said, secretively, and saw her eyes narrow with suspicion.

“On what?” She demanded, then spotted what they were doing. Her smile widened into something closer to a smirk. “…If you throw that, you’d best be prepared for the consequences.” She informed them, watching in an almost challenging way. Daring, even.

Ezran never had been good at resisting dares.

Rayla dodged the first projectile launched at her face with almost insulting ease, then rose to her feet. “You have surprisingly good aim, Ez.” She said, ominously, still wearing that smirk. “But now-“

Callum interrupted her. With a snowball.

His aim wasn’t great, so he only got her in the neck, but her astounded face more than made up for it. He had a second to admire it and guffaw before she was leaping at them, and both he and Ezran scattered, shrieking.

In a bizarre parody of the day they’d met, he and Ez ended up fleeing Rayla through and around the campsite for the next fifteen minutes, creating chaotic trenches through the deep snow. Occasionally she threw snowballs after them; other times she tackled them down. Gently, but she made a point of it: flattening them onto their fronts in the snow, chucking a snowball at the backs of their heads, and then jumping off in pursuit of whichever of them was still up.

He and Ez did get a good number of hits in, but in the end Rayla sat triumphant atop a pile of the both of them submerged in snow. Literally sat, at that; she’d deliberately set herself down on Ezran’s back, who was in turn on top of Callum, and grinned victoriously at them. “I win.” She announced. “And now, your forfeit is going back to the fire and eating.”

Callum, who was now very winded as well as very cold, said faintly “Fire sounds good.” Ezran was giggling madly on top of him, so all told, the endeavour had been a marvellous success.

Rayla graciously got up and pulled them both to their feet, then ushered them back to camp to warm up and get stuffed full of food. “Meat isn’t great for keeping fed, so we’ve got to have a lot of it.” She informed them, ushering yet more of the stuff into their hands. “We need all the energy we can get. Especially if we’re going to be having snowball fights, on top of all the walking.”

“That was pretty tiring.” Callum admitted ruefully. “Fun, though.” He thought. “We never did make that snowman.”

“We can do that after we eat and warm up.” Ezran suggested, clearly thoroughly knocked out of his glum mood. It was a very Ezran sort of thing to find any excuse for messing around in snow.

“Take your outer layers off first.” Rayla ordered, peeling her hat off tentatively. She inspected it and made a face. “Think we’ve got ourselves all wet with the snow. Better dry that off a bit.”

So they all shed a sweater, their hats, and an outer pair of gloves. Callum was left with just one thin pair of gloves over his half-finger ones now, and flexed his hands over the fire, feeling them sting as they warmed up. That was normal enough; if you warmed up really fast when you were really cold, it did hurt a bit. It was only to be expected. But then he spotted Rayla starting to wince and cradle her arm, and- “Did you hurt yourself?” he blurted, alarmed, and she looked up. “In the snowball fight – did you open anything?”

That she didn’t answer immediately wasn’t reassuring. “Pretty sure I didn’t.” She said, after a moment, and twisted to stick a hand down the collars of her arrayed sweaters and jackets and shirts. She felt around the site of the wounds experimentally, while saying “It just got numb from the cold, you know? Didn’t hurt so much. And now it’s warming up again, so…” After a careful investigation, she seemed satisfied, and withdrew her hand. “Feels fine.”

He subsided a little, and for that moment was relieved enough that she’d not re-opened her wounds that he didn’t think of the other part. But then Ezran shot her a look, set his food down, and said “You can take something for the pain now, you know.”

Rayla paused, thrown. “What?” She asked eventually, but she was plainly thinking through it herself. Callum was thinking it through too, for that matter, and cursing himself a little for not considering it earlier.

“You can’t have the willow bark because it messes with your healing. And you couldn’t have the lilium earlier because we needed to travel, and it wasn’t safe.” Ez laid it all out very matter-of-factly. “But we’re camped now. We’re not doing a fire-watch, so it’s okay if it makes you fall asleep. And there’s nothing tricky or important to do, so it’s okay if you go weird and loopy again, too.”

Callum had expected her to be reluctant about it. She hadn’t enjoyed the loss of control associated with the lilium, and wasn’t keen on the idea of fostering a dependency. But instead of objecting, she just listened to Ezran speak, exhaled with plain relief at the words, and went at once for the bags. That, more than anything, told him how much pain she must have been enduring. She didn’t even offer a token protest, just extracted the bottle and returned to the fireside to measure the tiny dose out.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she said at last, dipping her fingertip into the tiniest drop of red. Callum had seen enough blood recently that the colour left him slightly uncomfortable. “I honestly kind of forgot.”

“More like you forgot to stop ignoring how much it hurt.” Ezran amended, and she flapped a disgruntled hand at him, setting the bottle down.

“Same difference,” she claimed, and licked the lilium off of her finger. If previous experience with that dose level was anything to go by, it’d take a while to take effect for her, but Callum was just relieved she’d not made a fuss over it. She’d been in constant horrible pain for days now. She deserved a respite.

“I can do your bandages once that kicks in.” He said, deeply relieved. He was fully aware that the whole process did hurt, given the fresh lividity of the wounds. “And your hand.”

“The hand doesn’t hurt anymore.” Rayla pointed out, flexing it. “Well, not really. Still aches a bit, but it’s nothing much.”

He paused. “And the…numbness?” he asked, carefully. He’d already observed that it still seemed just as weak as earlier, but…

She grimaced and shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It’s cold, so it’s hard to say.” She said, dryly, then deliberately changed the topic. “Weren’t you two going to build a snow-elf?”

Ezran snickered at her. “Snow-man.” He corrected.

“Close enough.” Her lips twitched, and then she was prodding them all over to the snow-banks again. Apparently she had every intention of joining in from the start this time.

Callum and Ezran cooperated on the creation of the giant snowballs necessary for the endeavour, but even so, it started to feel an effort once the bases got heavy enough. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” Callum admitted, pausing to catch his breath, one hand braced on the giant snowball that was to be his snowman’s base to stop it from going anywhere.

Rayla rolled her eyes at them, abandoning her own snow-boulders, and came to commandeer theirs. “Give that here,” she said, and proceeded to demonstrate that she was more than equal to the task of pushing snow around. Once she deemed that they were large enough, she returned with relish to her ‘snow-elf’, going at the task with an enthusiasm that surprised him a little. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes, smiling reflexively at the grin she didn’t seem to realise she was wearing, and wondered when she’d last had a chance to play around in snow. A lot less recently than them, he was sure.

In the end, after an hour or so, they each had a crude snow-person constructed at the campsite, positioned as if standing guard. Rayla had made use of a couple of large sticks to put horns on hers, and after a little packing and chipping of snow, Callum helpfully produced two pointy, icy ‘ears’ for her to attach.

“Thanks.” She said, after she got them affixed, and stood back to observe her work with satisfaction. “Suppose we can put the wet hats and scarves on these for decoration, since we’re not wearing them.”

“Won’t that mean they’ll just freeze solid?” He asked, amused, and she shrugged.

“We’d better take them off there before we go to sleep, yeah. Leave them close-ish to the fire. But for now…” She grinned, and went to fetch a scarf. He and Ez followed suit, and in the end, they had an array of snow-people that, amusingly enough, vaguely matched their party. In the encroaching sunset, they were shaded somewhat orange, braced against the darker reddish shadows of the trees.

“Mine’s a bit taller than I am,” Ez decreed, when this was pointed out, surveying their creations with interest. “But they’re pretty good. Yours is even a little bit shorter than Rayla’s, Callum.”

Callum blinked, and checked them. Ezran’s was in the middle, which made it a bit harder to judge, but… “I think you’re right.” He agreed ruefully, and after a second, arranged his snow-person so its scarf was more appropriately mimicking how he wore his own.

Rayla snickered, and said “Shame you don’t have any more of those half-finger gloves. That’d really complete the look.” He snorted, and glanced down at his hands. He’d already been reduced to just the one pair of extra gloves, and now that those were also snow-wet, he’d likely be down to just the normal half-finger ones in short order.

“I’d better make a snow-egg and snow-Bait.” Ezran decided, while Rayla was still scrutinising her snow-elf. “Or they’ll feel left out.”

“You do that.” She said generously, then stepped away. “I think I’m going to go sit and warm up a bit though. Starting to feel a bit…” She waved her hand a little, expressively, to evoke some sort of wooziness.

“Oh, it has been a while since you took the lilium.” Callum remembered, and eyed her with interest. “How’s it feeling?”

“Well, I’m cold-numb again, so still hard to say.” She said dryly. “But…better, yeah.” She glanced down at her arm, and flexed it a little. “Not so sore. Anyway, you two have fun.” With that, she adjourned to the campfire, a short enough distance from the snow-group that she glanced over at them periodically as they went back to work. She also apparently took the opportunity to carefully extract the heated rocks from the fire and take them, towel-wrapped, into the tent. She closed it up and went to find a new round of rocks to heat, and finally settled back at the fire while they put the finishing touches on their snow-group.

Progress was quick, all told. The egg was very simple to render. Bait was more or less just a lump with two rock-eyes and a grumpy face drawn on, so very easy as well. “Perfect,” Ezran declared, and then they were done. He went to retrieve the egg from the gradually-warming tent before sitting down, and Bait followed it out, going over to inspect his snowy facsimile with disgruntlement.

Rayla was pressing gingerly around the edges of her injuries when Callum and Ez finally planted themselves down beside her at the fire. She seemed to be testing the wounds, even through the various layers she wore. She caught Callum’s questioning glance as he sat down, and explained “Think I might’ve taken a bit low of a dose, honestly. It does feel better, but it’s still…” She made a face.

“Think you’ll take some more?” Callum offered, after a second. “You’re taking well under the…recommended safe dose. It’d be fine to take another little one.”

She seemed to seriously consider it, which was yet more evidence for how much pain she had to be in. She was reluctant this time, though. “Dunno.” She said, dubious. “That seems like a great way to go off my head and maybe start scratching these open too.” She nodded to her arm, and he winced.

“I think you’d probably have a harder time doing that with so many layers in the way.” Ezran eyed her, then reached out and touched his fingers to her neck; the most easily-accessible bare skin on her. He made a face even as she shooed his hand away with a glare. “Yeah, I think you should take some more. That’s…really not that much better.”

“Didn’t we talk about you empathy-ing my pain?” She demanded, irate. Callum thought uncomfortably about the discussion they’d had while Ezran was sleeping, and her observation that he was trying to manage them. He could see it a lot better now that he was on the look-out for it, and…yeah, he thought this was a pretty good example.

As if to wilfully reinforce Callum’s bad feelings on the topic, Ezran looked away, a little sulkily. “I was just checking on you.” He muttered, petulant. “It only hurts for a second when I do that.”

Rayla exhaled and seemed to be very carefully keeping her first choice of words in. “I appreciate you’re worried, Ez,” she said in the end, very precisely, “but there’s better ways to check up on me than hurting yourself, even if it is just ‘for a second’.”

“But you always deal with more pain than you need to.” Ezran persisted, glancing up at her with a stubborn and mulish glint to his eyes. “And…downplay it, if we ask. You don’t tell the truth if I ask a normal way.”

She twitched at that, looking genuinely annoyed, and Callum hastened to intercede before she said anything she might regret. This was looking like the beginnings of a potential sibling-argument again, and he was keen to interrupt before it got to the snapping and spitting stage.

“Ezran,” he opened, firmly, and both of them turned to look at him. They seemed almost surprised, like they’d forgotten he was there. That was what happened when two stubborn people got caught up butting heads, he supposed. The surprise was useful, though. It meant Ezran was listening, rather than stuck in stubborn-mode. “If Rayla doesn’t want to talk about – her pain or feelings, or whatever, then you just need to accept that, okay? That stuff’s private, and it’s kind of a jerk move to…empathy-read it on purpose when she doesn’t want to share it. So don’t do it. Alright?” Rayla shot him a grateful look for that. Ezran meanwhile had gone a little shamefaced.

“…Right.” He said, after a moment, eyes averted again. He held the egg tighter to his chest. “I – yeah, that’s kind of rude, isn’t it.” He glanced sidelong at her. “…Sorry, Rayla. I just…I get…worried. And…I don’t like it when you put up with stuff you don’t have to.”

She didn’t quite seem to know what to say to that, so Callum moved onto his second point, looking at her this time. “Yeah, and about that. Rayla-“ he hesitated for a second, then pushed on. “If you don’t want to take more lilium, because you don’t like the side effects, or whatever…I guess that’s your choice too. Just…” He exhaled, and rubbed at his temples a little. “Even if you take some right before you go to sleep, so there’s no time for you to act weird, and you can at least sleep better…I think we’d all be a bit happier.”

“It’s not like we’re going to judge you.” Ez spoke up, before Rayla found a reply. He glanced at her, still vaguely mutinous, and her eyes looked startled as they settled on his. “For acting weird when you’re on medicine. You don’t need to be embarrassed or anything.”

“He’s right, you know.” Callum said, after a moment. “You act kind of like you think we’ll judge you, or like…you need to be totally composed around us, or whatever. You don’t have to be.”

“…Easier said than done.” Rayla said finally, voice a little dry. She looked away. He could practically see her debating whether to speak or not, and then – finally – he watched her shoulders slump a little as she decided to open up. “Moonshadow elves…it’s not really just fear we’re not supposed to show. Fear’s just the worst thing. We’re supposed to be…controlled. Composed, like you said.” She shook her head. “It’s okay to be…emotional, around friends and family, I suppose. Even in public, sometimes. But you’re still supposed to be in control of yourself.” A grimace. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“…Most of the time?” Callum asked after a moment, unable to hold the question in. She glanced at him sourly.

“Full Moon.” She informed him, looking like she’d rather not think about it. “It’s…a lot more okay to be mad and emotional in public then. You’re supposed to be, even.” For a moment, she looked almost nostalgic. “We do these community dances every Full Moon, you know? Kind of like a party. Everyone’s plenty unrestrained at those. But aside from that…” He eyed her with interest, feeling the familiar thread of fascination at this latest revelation about elven culture, and wanted to question her further. It wasn’t the time, though.

“Being out of control of yourself in public is kind of like dropping your pants in public, huh.” Ezran guessed, and Rayla seemed to choke on her next breath, snorting with laughter.

“Yeah, not a bad way to put it, actually.” She agreed, with a little mirth.

“We do get that, you know.” Callum offered, after a pause. “We’re…royalty. We’ve had decorum lessons for years. How we’re supposed to act in public or whatever. It was pretty relaxed if we were at home – in the castle – but anytime there were dignitaries about, or we went out into the city?” He shook his head ruefully. “Not fun.”

“Oh, ugh, decorum lessons.” Ezran agreed with distaste. “I hate those.”

Callum very kindly did not remind his brother that he’d have to mind said lessons a lot better now that he was King. “Anyway, point is, we might not be as…” He searched for a diplomatic word. “…strict, as Moonshadow elves are. But we get the idea. And-“ He hesitated, glancing at her almost cautiously. “It’s…just us here, right? This isn’t exactly public.”

“And friends and family are fine.” Ezran added, with a stubborn set to his jaw as he looked at her. “You said.”

“I did say.” Rayla agreed, after a pronounced pause, voice a little rueful. “I know you’re not going to be weird about me being weird on pain drugs. It’s just…kind of a hard habit to break. And I don’t like being out of control of myself, even if I’m not in public. But…” She sighed, shook her head, and reached for the little bottle she’d set aside earlier. She eyed it consideringly.

“…Please don’t feel pressured into it, though?” Callum spoke, while she was still making a face at the bottle. “It feels weird to be trying to convince you to take something that’s technically the same thing as an illegal addictive drug. Even if it will stop your injuries from hurting. So, just…” he shrugged, awkward. “It’s your decision.”

She was silent for a few moments longer. Then: “I am pretty sick of being in pain all the time.” That sounded final. She opened the bottle, dipped her finger in it again, and imbibed a full drop. Still considerably lesser than the dose that fit into the little provided spoon, but considerably more than what she’d taken earlier. As she capped the bottle, she levelled a flat stare at the two of them. “If you let me pick my scabs open while I’m moonstruck, I will be annoyed.” She warned. “And if I start acting like an idiot again – well, you know what you signed up for.” He thought she still sounded a little uncomfortable at that last part.

“Well, if you just act dumb while you’re high, you’re doing better than Callum.” Ezran said, casting a mischievous glance sideways at him. “He acts dumb all the time.”

The only reasonable response to that was to hook his brother in and bestow a very firm noogie while he squawked. The hair was, as ever, quite a shield; but he had plenty of practice. Rayla looked very amused, both at Ezran’s comment and at its rightful rebuttal. “Is that so?” She asked, voice dry.

Callum shrugged, and didn’t bother to deny it. He wasn’t exactly the most serious of individuals, after all. “It’s a talent.” He claimed solemnly, and her lips twitched.

In the end, the second dose took effect noticeably faster than the first. Rayla started getting vague and smiley not fifteen minutes later, and responded to queries about her state of mind and pain levels with “nice” and “itchy” respectively. It did seem like significant lilium doses sapped pain and left a sort of irritating itchiness in its wake, because she kept lifting her hand to her arm to scratch and then lowering it with consternation. “It itches,” she complained to them, shuffling over to Callum unsteadily. “But I’m not supposed to scratch it. I think.” She frowned. “Right?”

He patted her on the forearm as she settled beside him, a smile pulling at his lips. “Right.” He agreed. “Good job remembering that. Keep it in mind, okay? No scratching.”

“Mm,” she accepted, and seemed to think about it. “I’d bleed everywhere again, wouldn’t I. That wouldn’t be fun.” She glanced down and pulled at her sleeve. “Don’t want to ruin any more clothes.”

“I’d be more concerned about the bleeding part than the stained clothes part,” Callum said dryly. “But yeah, that helps too.” He glanced at the sky, which was now very nearly completely dark. “Speaking of, I’d better get the bandages changed soon.”

“And my hand?” She offered, looking weirdly interested, and he nodded.

“And the hand.”

“Should we deal with your wrist binding again?” Ezran asked, and both of them looked over. After a moment, Callum understood the ‘we’ in question to be his brother and the dragon, whose egg was sat in his lap. “Is it getting tighter?”

“Mmhm.” Rayla agreed, indistinct, and the fingers of her right hand went to her wrist again. “Getting a bit sore again, actually. Well, it was earlier, anyway. Can’t feel that so much now.”

Ezran frowned at her and shuffled over. “You should’ve said,” he told her, almost admonishingly, and reached out to push his fingers up her sleeve to touch her binding. A second later, there was a little flicker of the bright light of the egg, and he leaned back. “There. Done.”

Callum blinked. Rayla looked startled as well, even as marsh-whacked as she was. “That seemed easier than before?” She offered, perplexed, and Ez shrugged.

“It is, yeah.” He rested a hand on the eggshell. “It’s getting easier for both of us. He’s still…all full of magic, from the storm. It’s not so hard to deal with anymore, but…he’s definitely awake now. Which does make it a lot easier to focus on stuff.”  He frowned. “I think it’s gonna make it kind of annoying to get to sleep, though. Unless he sleeps too.”

“…Maybe being connected to you while you’re sleepy will make him sleepy?” Callum suggested, a little weirded out by the idea, and his brother shrugged.

“Maybe.” A pause. “Please let it work like that. I’m so tired.”

“Bandages.” Rayla reminded him, nudging him in the side, and he jolted a little.

“Oh, right.” He shot her an evaluative glance, wondering at her impatience, then reached over to help her with her layers. She was much more sluggish than usual about facilitating the process, and even clumsy; it took a fair bit longer, and he kept catching things on her horns. Weirdly, she giggled when he unhooked her shirt from one, looking a little light-headed. “You okay?” He asked her, dubiously, and she offered a lopsided smile.

“Uhuh,” she said, then mumbled something indistinct that he thought had the word ‘horns’ in there somewhere. She seemed to find this hilarious, and started snickering under her breath, cheeks vaguely flushed, while he finished pulling the shirt away.

“If you say so.” With her upper arms finally exposed, he reached out to untie the bandages, and had his customary look at the wounds. There hadn’t been much visible progress, but he supposed there had to be a lot going on under the surface, what with how deep the gouges had gone. He winced a little in sympathy, unable to imagine how much that must be hurting. “Well, nothing’s opened.” He judged optimistically, and had another look at the shallow shoulder-stab before wrapping it all up again. “And nothing’s infected. So I guess that’s the best we can really ask for, right now.” Something occurred to him, then: “How’s the bruising?”

“Hm?” Rayla seemed confused for a moment, as if uncertain what he was talking about,

“You know, those horrible bruises around your middle?” Ezran interjected helpfully. “From the chain?”

“Oh. Those.” She blinked, then leaned forward and pulled up her undershirt without further ado. It was almost a reflexive instinct that saw Callum looking away, flushing, but then he remembered he was supposed to be checking on her and made himself look back. “Can’t really feel them at the moment.” She reported, seeming very cheered by the thought. “Maybe I’ll be able to lay down without it hurting tonight.”

He hadn’t been aware that was an issue. But now that she said it…he winced, looking at the bruises in question. A couple of days hadn’t done much for their lividity. They looked dramatically dark, and still swollen in the lines where the chain had pulled so tight around her. They must be viciously sore to sleep on. “No problems?” He asked, a little anxiously.

Rayla shrugged. “Think I passed a little blood, the first day, so I might’ve bruised a kidney or something. Been fine since then though. Just….” She waved vaguely. “You know. Tender.”

“Sleeping on hard stone probably didn’t help that.” Callum muttered, with a twist of concern in his gut, and he frowned. “Do you think we can sleep on the cloaks again today? Or is it still so cold we need to wear them?”

It took her much longer to think through that than it ought. Plainly, the lilium was well and truly in effect. Eventually, she said “Could try it. But we might get cold in the night, when the…rock-heating wears off.” She squinted backwards. “Has anyone changed the rocks yet?”

“Er. No?”

She made a vague grumbling noise, then swayed like she was trying to stand up. “I should do that…”

Callum put a hand on her arm to stall her. She looked down at it as though perplexed by the sight. “How about you tell me what to do and I do it?” He suggested, not at all convinced that she was in a state where she should be allowed to extract hot things from a fire.

Ordinarily, she’d probably have protested. Under the artificial lassitude of the lilium, however, she just blinked placidly and said “Okay.”

In a vague, disjointed sort of way, she talked him through prodding the rocks out of the fire with a large stick and then picking them carefully up with the towels salvaged from the first round of rocks in the tent. The heat seared through quickly, and his hands were starting to hurt from it by the time he got them into the tent and placed them around its corners, refastening the door-flaps as he left. “Definitely feeling warmer in there.” He claimed, cheered by the thought, as he sat back down by the fire. “Should be a much nicer sleep than the last few days.”

“That’d be nice.” Rayla mumbled, already looking vaguely drowsy, and his lips twitched at her as he shuffled back to her side.

“Let’s get your layers back on, and do your hand, and then we can all get an early night.” He suggested, and she…perked up. Visibly. She instantly shoved her hand at him, and seemed a little confused when he pointed out that the layers should probably come first, or she’d get cold.

“…I’m not cold, though?” She offered. Beside her, Ezran was watching with interest, like he’d seen something that surprised him.

“Layers first.” Callum repeated, a little amused. “You’re probably just not feeling the cold because of the lilium, or something.”

She grumbled, but accepted it; so he helped her back into her various layers and then rolled up her sleeve a little, exposing the dark ring of stiff still-healing skin around both sides of the binding. “Hand now?” She asked, a little plaintively, and he eyed her strangely.

“…Yes?” He offered, perplexed at her insistence, and bemusedly accepted the hand she thrust at him. “��Is it sore, or something?” he tried, searching for some reason she might be so insistent about it.

“Nope,” she pronounced, with obvious satisfaction, and settled in to wait. Ezran was trying to hide a smile, like he had figured it out. Whatever ‘it’ was. “Kinda numb and prickly. But doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“…Okay. Good?” Callum accepted, a bit confused, but got to work anyway. He wasn’t quite expecting the pleased hum she offered at the first press of his thumb into her palm.

“Thought so,” she said, and then – entirely devoid of any sort of self-consciousness – shuffled closer and leaned comfortably into his side. A second later, she claimed “Feels so much nicer now. Last time, it still…sort of hurt. Ached? Doesn’t anymore, though.” She huddled down a little, and let her head drop against the edge of his shoulder. Callum stared down at her, suddenly and abruptly flustered, and didn’t realise he’d frozen until she flapped her hand impatiently between his. Still, he didn’t move.

He cleared his throat, heartbeat feeling strange, but didn’t actually say anything. He suddenly found himself sitting very rigidly indeed, hyper-aware of the way she was leaning on him, and oddly transfixed by the sight of her hair falling over his shoulder.

She grumbled at him when he’d been immobile long enough, peering up at him as though to check what the delay was. He found himself looking quickly away as her eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat again, and finally found the wherewithal to keep moving his hands.

“…Were you looking forward to this?” he asked, finally, because that was suddenly the only interpretation he had for her behaviour.

He still wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but when he snuck a glance he saw her pursing her lips in thought. “Kinda, maybe.” She said, eventually, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not she wanted to be saying it. “It’s nice now.”

He had literally no idea how to respond to that, so…he just sort of didn’t.

“Makes sense to me.” Ezran piped up, and when Callum looked over at him, he seemed to be fighting very hard to keep his expression level. His eyes, meanwhile, were alight with a kind of mirth that made Callum intensely suspicious. “I mean, most people who have hand massages do it because it feels nice, not because they need to keep their hands healthy. Right?”

“…Right.” Rayla agreed, after a moment. “Guess so.” She glanced down at her hand, eyes half-lidded. “Still medical for me. But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. That was…” She blinked a few times, vaguely. “Didn’t like that.”

“…I didn’t like that too much either,” Callum muttered, face feeling weirdly hot, hands over-warm on hers. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “Wasn’t fun making you be in more pain. So…” he coughed. “I’m – glad? That it’s better?”

“Mm.” Apparently done talking, she let her eyes fall closed, sighed, and settled her weight fully against him. It was…unexpectedly cosy.

There wasn’t really anything to do except keep going, so that was what he did.

Ezran kept shooting him amused, vaguely mischievous looks, so he sensed trouble brewing there. Callum was relatively certain that if Rayla wasn’t there he’d currently be receiving a lot of sibling-style mockery for something. He wasn’t entirely sure what, but he’d had a little brother for long enough to see it looming. He shot Ez a warning look, and in general tried to be less excruciatingly aware of the warmth of Rayla leaning into his side.

He held silent, tongue-tied through the whole thing, and tried to figure out why it felt so different to before. He’d leaned on her plenty yesterday, and even today, when she was comforting him. She’d leaned on him a bit the first time he’d done this, even, the first time she’d taken lilium. But…

He glanced down, flustered, and saw her head loosely propped on the edge of his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and she was tucked into his side so thoroughly that he felt sort of like an upright human mattress. It looked weirdly comfortable.

Maybe that was the difference. He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he found himself tense in a way that seemed almost directly proportional to how relaxed she was, and it was almost a relief when he could declare himself finished and put her hand down.

She didn’t appear to notice for a while. Evidently, the lilium had well and truly gotten to her, and now she was drowsy enough that it didn’t seem to register that he’d returned her hand until most of a minute later. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, looking drowsy. “Oh. Hm. You stopped?” She mumbled, sleepily.

Mutely, he nodded, and watched as she peeled her head from his shoulder.

“You’re quite comfy.” She informed him, and patted him on the arm as if to congratulate him for a job well done. Finally, apparently unable to hold it in, Ezran started snickering. Quietly, maybe, but he was definitely snickering.

Determinedly, Callum exhaled, reclaimed his voice, and ignored his brother. “You should get to bed,” he decided, pretending that nothing was unusual about this situation at all, and that Ezran wasn’t giggling at him, and that his face wasn’t still weirdly warm. “We all should, honestly.” When she didn’t seem liable to get up, he carefully took her hand and stood; she followed the pull automatically, stumbling to her feet. She blinked at him hazily, and then followed agreeably along as he led her to the tent.

The interior was surprisingly toasty by this point. He set Rayla’s cloak out for her and guided her to it, and much like the first time she’d taken lilium, her consciousness didn’t survive contact with the floor. The second she laid down she was out like a light, dropping instantly into sleep. He rather envied her that.

He went out to meet Ezran with unmistakeable wariness, and this turned out to be warranted. “Good job on being comfy, Callum.” He greeted him at once, grinning. “I bet you’re proud.”

Callum rolled his eyes, ignoring the weird unidentifiable squirming of his insides, and ushered his brother up. “I am, thank you.” He said, with great dignity. “Now, if you don’t mind, there’s two cloaks and a comfy tent with our names on them, and I’d like to get to sleep.”

Ezran followed along agreeably enough, egg in his arms and Bait at his heels, but couldn’t resist another remark. “Your face when she laid on you was amazing.” He informed, gleefully. “You went so red.”

Had he? He coughed, self-conscious, and wondered how much of this evening Rayla would remember. “Uhuh. I’m sure.” He accepted, steadfastly refusing to rise to the bait, and prodded Ezran into the tent. “Now get in there before all the warm air goes out.”

Thankfully, Ezran did calm down a bit once he was in the pleasantly-warm interior, glancing at the already-sleeping Rayla and shutting his mouth. Insistently, Callum poked him through the process of laying his cloak out, and then down onto the thing.

“Get some sleep.” He told him, voice low so as not to disturb Rayla. He wasn’t entirely convinced she could be disturbed, right now, but it only seemed polite to be careful. Finally, he laid down himself, body feeling astoundingly pleased with even the bare padding his cloak provided. He wondered how he’d feel when he next encountered an actual bed.

He listened to the sounds of Ezran rustling his way into a comfortable position, sighed, and arranged himself on his side. He spared one more glance for Rayla, soundly asleep, then closed his eyes.

It took maybe five minutes for the strange tumult of emotion to quiet. Five more for his body to remember how profoundly exhausted it was. And then, barely a second later, he was drifting off.

 ---

 Sarli was quietly satisfied when she returned home. Some part of her that had lifted its hackles from the first moment Lord Viren had questioned her vows was now soothed. There had been an itch in the back of her mind that had been insisting, every minute of every hour, you have a duty. This cannot be borne. And now it was quiet, and she had done her duty, and she was satisfied.

Cairon…Cairon was not.

He was tense and plainly distressed as he swept the room, yet again, for shadow-bugs. Upon concluding his search he settled with plain unease into his customary chair, and sat there bristling as Sarli watched him. He’d held quiet and composed all through the Council meeting, but it had dropped from him like a burdensome cloak as soon as he was past the doors.

Perhaps driven by his plain agitation, he didn’t stay seated for long. Within minutes he was up again, near-vibrating with tension, fluttering through the motion of tidying away their things with an anxiety she’d scarce ever seen from him.

“Cairon,” She said to him, finally, when he failed to put words to his discomfort. He stilled, shoulders taut, and glanced at her with troubled eyes. “You would do well to speak of what troubles you.”

He exhaled, slowly, as though forcing some of the stiffness from his frame. Then, quietly, he asked “What just happened, master?”

“The prisoner was confiscated from Lord Viren according to law.” Sarli said, watching him curiously. “He will now be interred in a proper dungeon, under proper guard, in a cell with access to moonlight.”

“I know that part.” He said, with near-impudent impatience, pacing in shallow strides to and fro from the coat-hangings, straightening and rearranging the cloaks as if he found some new issue with them every time they passed his eyes. “But what about ‘exceptional measures’?”

She tilted her head at him. “I was under the impression that you were acquainted with the Millennium War Crimes Accords.”

“I am,” he said, with the sort of fervency that betrayed a particular interest in it. “But – I didn’t realise-“

“It did not occur to you that such a prisoner would become an immediate candidate for legally sanctioned torture.” Sarli concluded, and his head dipped glumly.

“It should have, I know.” Cairon exhaled, dropping into a chair and staring into the wood-grain of the table as though it might offer him answers. “I just…didn’t think of it.”

She inclined her head, thoughtful. “We will have to solve that.” She said, after a moment, and he lifted his head to regard her warily. “It occurs to me that I have perhaps been remiss in your education on the various philosophies of Mercy at work in the kingdom. All Healers should have a thorough grounding in religious ethics.”

He eyed her. “I’m not a Healer.”

“Plainly.” Sarli said, with an amused twitch at her lips. “But that is no excuse for lesser conduct from my apprentice. I will be called on to attend our patient’s exceptional measures tribunal, for certain; I will take you with me. I imagine it will be very educational for you.”

That, at least, seemed to interest him. “I’ve never heard about how the tribunals work,” he offered, after a moment. “Based on the name, there must be some sort of…council, or panel, of three people? Officials?”

“One representative of Mercy,” said Sarli. “One representative of Prudence. And then the final representative varies case-by-case. Usually it is Justice, and it may be so this time as well. The tribunal speak for their respective positions, and hear the arguments of those permitted to attend, and then take a vote at the end. Two votes of three are necessary to permit the use of exceptional measures in the interrogation of prisoners of war.”

“Mercy for the perspective that suffering should be alleviated wherever possible,” Cairon guessed, eyes narrowed. “Prudence to decide whether the suffering is worth its price. Justice for the legal perspective?”

“You have the basics,” Sarli allowed. “But the positions are rather more complex than that. Mercy’s, especially. As a Healer’s apprentice, you have dealt entirely with…face-value mercy, shall we call it. The representative of Mercy in a tribunal hearing must balance the suffering of one against the suffering of many, and that is a more difficult thing.” She watched the flicker of understanding on her apprentice’s face with satisfaction. No dullard was he, her boy. “Yes, you begin to see, I think. But enough on this for now. It grows late, and we have had a long day.”

He watched her. “And you’re relieved that your duty is expunged.” He guessed, a little impudently, but she allowed it.

“Yes, Cairon.” She agreed, a little amused. “It has been a wearying strain, these past days, and now that the weight is from my shoulders I feel I have earned my rest.” Her eyes turned a little watchful, then. A little penetrating. “And you? Do you not feel that your duty is done?”

He tensed, just a little, then let his eyes fall as if to study the wood-grain of the table. “…I’m concerned that we may face retaliation from the Lord Protector.” He said, eventually. It wasn’t quite an answer to her question, but it rang with truth regardless. “He seemed very angry. I think that he is the sort of man to do rash things when he’s angry.”

It was an apt character assessment, she thought. However: “That may be so,” she allowed. “But I think he knows better than to strike at a target that he has been caught fouling already. It is known that he sent dark magic for us; were we to be harmed, or to disappear, he would fall under such heavy suspicion as to dethrone him. I think that we will be safe.”

“Until the dust clears, maybe.” Cairon muttered, plainly not very reassured.

Sarli shook her head at him. “Keep to your caution if you prefer it, boy. Only remember that you are my apprentice, and an Acolyte of Mercy; not a guard. Yours is not the duty of policing the Lord Protector.”

He sighed. “As you say, master.” And that was all.

In the morning, no doubt, they would be called to their patient again; but for now, Sarli’s duty was to rest. She attended to it gladly.

 ---

End chapter.

  Chapter Notes:  https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OGBo7nKVDIfWjhxGe90fwaS3lP0IfQJ3?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

  This chapter's notes cover: provisions for ‘Exceptional Measures’ within the Millennium War Crimes Accords, Ashtide, and Pentarchy politics.

  Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

  PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

  Author Notes: 

Credits: one of Sarli's lines in this chapter is taken from a book I like very much, 'Even the Wingless' by M.C.A Hogarth. The original line is as follows: "Surely you aren't surprised, Most Exalted. It was my duty. Even the wingless need the sky." It's an extremely cool moment of the book and I couldn't quite resist using it where the vibes were so right.

  Reminder: Callum and Ezran have no idea that the entire kingdom (plus literally everyone within communicating distance of Katolis) thinks they're dead. They also have no reason to guess that Viren pre-empted their dad's funeral, and would assume Harrow had his pyre on the dawn after the seventh sunset as tradition dictates.

  Anyway, that sorts that chapter. At the moment it’s looking like 24 is going to have some of my oldest, most beloved scenes in it, so I’m excited. 23 has a while yet to go, but there’s not a huge amount pencilled in for it, so hopefully shouldn’t take too long.

  I’m enjoying everyone being super sus of Cairon, by the way. Lots of fun.

[ladynestaarcheron]

Invisible String - Chapter Two

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @iammissstark @sayosdreams @ncssian @westrangecollectionkoalaposts @queenestarcheron @nessiantrashh)

thank y’all so much for your kind words!! so happy to hear people are enjoying this. here’s chapter two!!

---

Her predicament is not new, but it's still a surprise for Nesta when she realizes if she wants to leave, she can simply go. She defers to no one, and hasn't for a while, but her lack of communication with Elain means something else: no one is going to miss her while she is gone.

She'll have to be quick. Feyre will notice, eventually, but there isn't anything odd about the pair of them not seeing each other for a week or so. And since there isn't anyone randomly, infuriatingly checking up on her anymore...

It stings more than she admits to herself.

But no matter. It's almost all behind her now.

With clothes packed enough for fortnight (she's certain she won't be gone that long, but it never hurts to be prepared), Nesta boards her carriage and waits.

A quiet, busy sort of air about her when she walks the streets of Velaris is enough to ensure no one try and talk to her, but evidently, the same is not promised for carriage rides. She supposes the only task she has to pretend to focus on is reading a book, and that's not enough to deter the passengers from incessant conversation.

"Are you traveling, Lady?" one asks her.

Obviously. "Yes," she answers.

"Will the High Lady be joining you?"

Ah, that didn't take long. She supposes she should be pleased--she can answer honestly, the faeries will all be disappointed and bored, and they'll leave her alone.

Alas.

"So are you in need of an escort, Lady?" a pretty female asks eagerly.

"No," she says, sharply. "Thank you," she adds.

"Are you traveling about the Court, Lady?"

"No," she says, hoping she sounds cryptic enough that they think they are not allowed to question further, "I have business elsewhere."

Delighted looks are exchanged amongst the young faeries, excited to have caught real Night Court fieldwork in the act.

Something moves inside of her, but Nesta's not sure what. She's not jealous, of course. She's never desired a career in politics in her life, she definitely doesn't want to start one now under Rhysand, and she certainly doesn't care enough for the well being of the people of this land to do so.

She's angry, she decides. Angry that these people are so taken with the Inner Circle.

Yes, that must be it.

There are magical checkpoints she passes, once she shows her papers and proves she's allowed to travel through five other Courts to get to Spring--most people on the journey seem to depart into Dawn and Summer, and by the time Nesta reaches the southernmost part of Prythian, she is alone.

"Good afternoon, Lady," the footmale says, bidding her goodbye. He and the carriage are gone before she can answer.

There's no point in dallying any longer, so she sets off on her way.

Spring is not as constructed as Night. There are no roads here--at least, not in this part of the Court--and Nesta can't see any buildings at all. Just a dirt path she walks along, with endless, lush green hills, rolling on either side of it. Thick-stemmed flowers of all kinds dot the grass, with fat bees fluttering from one to the next. Songbirds whistle to each other in the fruit trees. The air is almost dizzyingly sweet.

Nesta likes it, she decides. The quiet, the warmth. But probably not too many libraries.

She's not wearing a watch, but she guesses a half an hour of her walk has passed when the first sight of civilization comes into view. A metal gate in the middle of a dying hedge, encircling a mansion--an estate. White marble, with any number of ornate windows and patios and balconies.

Beautiful, but eerie, for every step she draws closer, the quieter it grows. There's not the barest trace of people inside, and even the birds can't be heard up the steps at the gash-ridden oak door.

She knocks, more out of habit than anything else. Of course, no one opens it, so she pushes it on her own.

Black and white checked flooring spills out to several doors and a vast staircase. Sunlight falls limply onto nothing, for any decor has been shoved away.

A door opens on her right. Nesta turns.

They only stare at each other for a minute, not speaking.

Tamlin looks worse than she remembers. Same golden hair, same gem-green eyes, but...thinner, perhaps, in his cheeks. Paler. Hollow.

Quite the same image she imagines others see when she looks at her, she realizes with a start.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, voice...devastated? But why?

Oh, she says to herself, the thought hitting her, he thought I was Feyre.

"You owe me a favor," she says.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Because this is your fault," she explains. "My...Hybern. So you owe me."

"Do I?"

She doesn't back down from his stare, only nods once.

"And who else do you blame? Or am I the only one?" His words are careful but she doesn't understand what he wants.

"You're all to blame," she says. "You're all murderers. None of you did a good enough job keeping humans safe. It's not my place to judge which of you is the most monstrous. I'm content to hate all of you quietly."

Tamlin chuckles--low, dark. "Not your place to judge?"

"Do you deny your role in my murder?" she snaps.

The shadow-grin on his face fades. "No," he says.

"Then help me."

His shoulders tense. "What do you want?"

Nesta inhales deeply. "You struck a deal with him...to undo the mating bond. Between my sister and Rhysand."

Tamlin stops breathing.

"I want to know how to do that."

He doesn't answer her. Stays silent for a full minute, before she presses on.

"Tell me how to do that."

"You're trying to--destroy--whose?" He is desperate, searching.

Her jaw clenches tightly. "That doesn't concern you."

"You can't."

"You thought it could be done, obviously. That's why you were willing to give us to Hybern--"

"I didn't--"

"--so just tell me."

He glares at her, and Nesta wonders, briefly, if she should be concerned. But she's too angry to be nervous. Her world has been thrown off its axis too many times now and this is something she knows she can fix. She has to.

"Don't you think," he says, through gritted teeth, "if I knew of any way to undo a mating bond, I would have done it myself?"

Nesta doesn't bother stifling her eye roll. "But how did you think he was going to do it?"

"I don't know." He looks to the side, to the nothing that lays beyond the manor. "I don't know what I thought."

Nesta does not have time for his introspection nor does she care. She puts her hands on her hips. "Well, who can I go to, then?"

Tamlin looks at her, surprised, as if he'd forgotten she's still here. "I suppose...you can catch a Suriel."

A Suriel. Nesta remembers talk of one, during the war. Feyre had gone to find one. But that one is dead now, she knows.

"How do I do that?"

Tamlin loosens a frustrated sigh. "If I catch one for you, are we even? You'll consider our score settled?"

Nesta scoffs. "I will never consider our score settled. But rest assured, if you catch me this Suriel and it tells me how to undo a mating bond, I will never have any reason to come to Spring again."

His head tilts as he considers her words. "Fine," he says, grudgingly. He stalks past her, out the door and down the steps. "Follow me."

She does, off the path and into a deceptively quiet grove that leads into an even more forbidding forest, and she doesn't know for how long--she really should get a watch--until he finally holds out his arm and says, without turning around, "Wait here."

He disappears into a thatch of shrubbery. Again, she wonders if she should be nervous. Tamlin's a High Lord--this land's High Lord. Surely, if she's here with him, nothing will attack her.

And there is also the matter of...herself.

A sharp hiss escapes the spot where Tamlin crossed into, and then he barks out, "Come here!"

Moving a fair bit of bush aside, Nesta steps into a small clearing. There's a quiet stream. Tamlin, beyond it, with his arms wrapped around...a Suriel.

Hunched over, beneath a robe that might have once been very finely embroidered, the creature looks up at her with eyes filled only with whites.

"For this you have caught me, High Lord?" it--he? She?--says, its cold voice making her flinch.

Tamlin rises, letting go of the Suriel. "She has something to ask you," he says flatly.

The Suriel doesn't run once he lets it go--scared of him or her? It only straightens out the collar of its robe with long gray fingers that appear as though they have been broken more than once. "What is it, Eve-daughter?"

It knows she was human. Once, at least.

No matter. That's not what she has come for.

"I want to know how to undo a mating bond," she says, keeping her voice even. "Please," she adds.

The Suriel clicks its tongue. "Most would consider such a bond a dearly loved gift."

Nesta bites her tongue. It won't do her any good to snap at this creature. "Can you tell me?" she asks.

"But you don't like anything gifted from the Cauldron, do you? No...you prefer your gifts stolen..."

Nesta's heart stutters. Tamlin looks on, curious, but she forces herself to keep eye contact with the Suriel. "Will you tell me?" she says, trying again.

Another hiss. "I can't tell you."

"But you know who can?" she presses, guessing at its linguistic trickery.

The Suriel bites its yellowed teeth together twice. "An old friend of yours, I would say."

An old friend...Amren? But Amren is only High Fae now, surely she doesn't have any powers like this anymore...and Amren's not an old friend. Only a former one.

"Call upon the one your sister bargained with," it says.

"Which one?" There are a great many, she suspects. Each deal more foolish than the last, she's certain. If she's come all the way to Spring just for a Suriel to tell her to go ask Rhysand--

"Bryaxis."

Oh.

Well.

"Where is Bryaxis now?" It had not returned to that library after the war.

"It'll come to you," the Suriel replies. "Call upon it."

Call upon...the only thing that Cassian fears.

Fine.

"What's that in your bag, Eve-daughter?"

Nesta looks down. "Clothes."

"Could you spare any?" it asks, clicking its fingers together.

She blinks. But she remembers all too well what it was like to be freezing, and is still at the mercy of stronger Fae, and she meant what she told Tamlin: they are all monsters here and she's not any authority on who amongst them is the worst.

"Sure," she says, and takes out the cloak she had brought. Simple. Charcoal gray, with purple hem so deep it's nearly black. She steels her arms as she extends it, willing herself not to show emotion when her fingers brush its.

The Suriel rises to its full height--taller than Nesta, obviously, but taller even than Tamlin. It slips off the tattered robe and lets it fall at its feet. Nesta's cloak hits its knees.

"Well," she says. "Goodbye, then." She turns on her heel and heads back through the bushes.

This time, Tamlin follows her. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"Back to Night." Where else can she go?

"You missed the last cross-Court carriage of the day. I'm not winnowing you there."

Her steps only falter slightly. "Well. I packed for this. Where's an inn?"

"You can stay at my estate."

This causes Nesta to stop and turn to him. "What do you think this is about?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are not coming with me to see Bryaxis. This is not about my sister."

He flinches. "I know that," he says, voice low, rough. "I...I let her go. Weren't you there?"

When Rhysand died, he means. "I don't care," she says honestly.

"You can stay at my home for tonight," he says again. "See Bryaxis in the morning."

Nesta thinks about it. Is staying in Tamlin's home worse than staying in Rhysand's?

No.

But she still doesn't want to.

"No," she says to him. "I won't come ask you for anything again. You can consider us square, if you like."

So for the second time, she turns and leaves him. This time, he does not follow.

When the sun sets, Nesta stops walking. This was a good idea, she thinks, even as her heart beats in her throat. It's good precisely because of her fear. Her fear of being alone in a strange land, at night, with no sense of direction, and no way to get back until tomorrow.

Because now, what choice does she have but to go to Bryaxis.

Hoping her walk has helped to summon some nerve, Nesta lays her bag down neatly at her feet and smooths her hair. She clears her throat.

"Bryaxis," she says, the stupidity she feels stronger than any scariness, "I call upon you."

She stands there, looking out onto flowing hills and nothing else, feeling foolish, at best.

Perhaps Tamlin had offered her a kindness. A safe place for the night. Then she could have taken a carriage back in the morning and swallowed her pride and asked Amren for help finding Bryaxis.

Her spine straightens suddenly--only then does she hear. Her body recognizes it before her mind.

"Nesta Archeron," it says, from behind her.

She does not turn to look, keeps herself focused on a spot on a distant hill. "Hello," she says.

"You have grown thinner," it notes.

"I can't be sure, but I imagine you look much the same." The words are out before she can stop them.

But--Bryaxis laughs. Dark, shivering, under her bones. But a laugh, all the same.

Not so terrifying, she thinks. Just...stare ahead. Don't turn around. She can do that.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? So far from...your home."

"The Night Court is not my home."

"Oh?" it asks, mildly interested. "So where would it be?"

She hesitates. "I...am from the south of the island."

"Is that your home?"

Nesta exhales slowly. The Suriel had called her Eve-daughter, had it not? Why shouldn't she be allowed to claim human lands as hers?

"But I believe you have a question for me, Nesta Archeron."

"I do." Nesta takes another deep breath. "I want to undo my mating bond."

"That's not a question."

"...can you undo my mating bond?"

"I can."

She almost wishes she could turn around. Almost.

"Will you?" she asks, and pinches her fingers.

"Neither you nor I come from the Night Court," Bryaxis says, "but we have both found ourselves residing there, have we not?"

"I...yes." Small talk with this demon...is that the price to say? To ensure her sister's happiness, get her to speak to her again?

"A special history of bargains in the Night Court. Your sister broke ours, you know."

Nesta stiffens. "You left. How could she fulfill it?"

That laugh again. "Perhaps you can fulfill it for her."

She hesitates, bringing her hand up to touch her hair. "What...would you like me to do?"

"Tell me why you want your bond broken."

Sucking in her bottom lip, Nesta tugs a lock of her hair out of its coronet. "It was only given to me to hurt me. Because my sister cares for him."

"Tell me why, Nesta Archeron."

She closes her eyes. Do it, she commands herself. Just--say it, just this once, and then it'll be over.

Eyes still shut tight, she nods slowly. "The bond...hurts me because it hurts Elain because she cares for Azriel. And it hurts me..." Just say it, you stupid girl. "...because I...care for his brother." Her voice cracks, barely a whisper on the last word.

Her cheeks heat up. There--she's admitted it. She's said it.

Oh, she--she hates this. Hates it so much. She hates him. For everything he's done to her. How he treats her, even though he makes her feel--how he makes her feel! Far too many ways!

Everything about him. His hair and his eyes and his skin and his arms and his stupid smirk and his vile tongue and every single one of his fingertips and his scent and his thighs and his shoulders and--

"There, Nesta Archeron," Bryaxis says softly. "That's it."

Nesta fists her hands together. "Will you just end it now?"

"Certainly," it says. Something cool reaches out and caresses her cheek. "Face me."

The touch is gentle, almost loving. Not scary. Not threatening. So she does.

The gentleness ends there--it all goes dark.

When she opens her eyes, the sun is rising...in the Night Court.

"Good morning, Nesta Archeron," Bryaxis says from behind her.

Nesta pushes up off the ground. She's dressed in one of the night-things she brought in her bag.

"I brought you to this place neither of us call home," it says. "Our bargain is done."

She reaches down to pick a cardigan out of her bag, but her arms are shaking. That same touch from before--gentle, sweet--picks it and helps her put it on.

"Thank you," she says, her voice coming out in a whisper. She tries to swallow, but it burns.

"You should go to the High Lord's house. They're all waiting for you." Bryaxis pushes her a bit forward. Not roughly, just enough to get her legs moving on their own again. "Call upon me again, Nesta Archeron...when you'd like."

Bryaxis' essence disappears. Without looking behind her, she knows it is gone.

Strange looks punctuate her on her walk to Feyre's home. The High Lady's sister, dressed in a nightdress, clutching a travel bag. All she wants to is get back to her apartment and shower off the past day, but if they're all waiting for her...she supposes it can wait.

She wants to see Elain, anyway. Wants to show her...how much she loves her. What she did for her.

Bryaxis had been kind, though. Had hidden most of the pain from her. Only the aftermath remains, like the hollowness she always feels after her cycle, or shaking after being sick.

She stops dead in her tracks and gasps violently. The hollowness...it's not hollowness at all. It's...wholeness. Because she's whole. She's alone.

The mating bond is gone.

A laugh--a real laugh, carefree and joyous--escapes her. For the first time in...she can't remember how long. Every step after is easier, lighter. And she is more eager to take it. Elain awaits. Elain and...

She practically skips up to the riverfront manor, not able to fully suppress the small smile on her face as she throws the door open. She starts to call her sister's name, but the sight in the front room cuts her off.

Elain is there, with Feyre. Elain lies in the latter's lap, shaking slightly. Rhysand sits behind Feyre, on the floor, his hand on her back. Her tear-stained face is still. Azriel sits on a chair, arms propped up on his lap and head buried in his palms. Morrigan sits on a couch by Amren, who stares blankly at the wall.

It is Amren who first looks up and sees her. She inhales sharply, which makes them all, one by one, look to her...and then to what she is staring at. Nesta.

Elain notices last, her face still at Feyre's legs. With their younger sister's soft cry, Elain picks up her head and turns.

She bolts upright. Nesta jerks back for her suddenness. She is wrecked.

"Nesta?" she breathes.

Nesta looks around. "What?" she says, uncomfortable and bewildered.

"You..." Elain reaches out a hand. She stumbles a few feet forward, and touches Nesta's cheek. Clammier than Bryaxis, and not nearly as gentle. "You're alive."

Morrigan rises next. "I'm going to find Cassian," she says, to no one in particular. "Tell him..." She gives Nesta a look of--fright?--and scurries out of the house.

Quite suddenly, Nesta comes back to herself. "What is going on?" she demands.

Elain draws her hands back towards herself, looking at her fingers, as if she thinks they are not real, either.

"Feyre, it's okay," Rhys says to her sister, who has gone very white.

"What is going on?" she says again.

It's Azriel who answers, standing up fast. Far too fast. "You...were...dead."

"I...what?" Nesta asks. "What are you--oh."

The bond...when it had...because she had not told them.

Oh.

Perhaps...this has not been her best thought out plan, she thinks.

"Well," she says. "I'm...I'm not dead." She looks to Azriel. "I...undid the bond."

Every one of them-like they're all puppets on a string controlled by one person-tenses at the same time. In any other situation, it would be funny.

But it's this situation. So all that happens is Elain, bursting into hysterical tears, and running away.

No, Nesta decides. Not her best thought out plan.

[hoodwinkd1]

Your Eyes Whispered Ch 15

Ch 14 here.

Chapter 15: light hearted jokes

A pillow smacked his face, shocking Eris out of what had been an extremely pleasant dream. He almost snarled at the attack, turning onto his side, before remembering that the object of said dream was lying beside him.

“Sorry,” Rhia whispered, her eyes wide. “Did I wake you up?”

Her fingers played with the edge of the pillow still sitting between them. To Eris’ delight, she appeared to be in the process of removing the barrier, explaining the early morning attack.

“Not many people are brave enough to assault the High Lord first thing in the morning.” Testing the waters, he placed his hand next to hers, palm splayed open. The tumultuous ocean between them turned into a gentle stream as she took it.

Rhia let out a soft sigh. “Go on then, if you must. Lock me in the dungeons, imprison me for life.”

Was it his imagination, or had she shifted closer? Either way, Rhia looked entirely too tempting in the mornings. Her hair had fallen out of its updo and into complete disarray, but framed her face in a way that reminded him of cozy sweaters and falling leaves, of the brief moments he had ever truly relaxed in his life, of safety and of comfort.

He twisted their joined hands so he could press a kiss to her knuckles. “You shouldn’t dangle an idea like that in front of me. I may just keep you here forever, though certainly not in the dungeons.”

She hummed in response, releasing his hand to run hers through his hair. Her fingers continued to explore, drawing the most delicious shapes over his cheekbones, his nose, his jaw, and his neck. Eris would have traded all his fire power in exchange for the fiery lines her touch brought forth.

He also would have traded his powers in an instant for nothing at all. The unpleasant memory of the night before shadowed his thoughts, reviving the roaring self-hatred and guilt at causing her pain.

“Is this why you wanted to remove the pillows? I hadn’t guessed you’d be so affectionate this early.” Eris kept his tone light. She could take his question at face value or use it as an opening to talk about what had transpired.

Rhia grimaced. “Am I that easy to read?” She pushed his shoulder lightly, and he let himself fall onto his back. Eris almost lit the curtains on fire when she moved forward so they were chest to chest, one arm slipping on the other side of his waist. He curled his hand, the arm pinned underneath her, around her back, reveling in the simple touches. “The pillows were in my way.”

“We can’t have that,” Eris concurred. He grabbed the remaining pillow, resting against both of their knees and threw it over the side of the bed. He might have aimed too low and brushed her cheek. All’s fair in love and pillow fights, of course.

“Asshole!” Rhia launched herself on him in earnest this time, straddling his waist with her insanely gorgeous legs. She let a wisp of magic loose, pulling the pillow from the floor to her hands. Eris sat up, hands flailing to grab her wrists, but she got a good smack in before he could. He caught one of her hands and--

“This is too cute!”

Eris let out a snarl that could have woken half the palace at the intruder's voice.

---

Rhia desperately needed to catch up on inter-Court politics. She was relatively confident that  foreign diplomatic officials weren’t allowed to show up in High Lord’s bed chambers without invitation or announcement. And yet, Carina Archeron leaned against the door frame.

“Take your time! Just letting you know I’m waiting in the sitting room when you’re ready for a chat.” The dark-haired female sauntered out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Eris dropped her hand and pinched his forehead in frustration. “I would say she’s not usually like this, except...she is.”

Rhia sighed and removed herself from his body. She had hoped that in the morning light, maybe some activities would be marginally easier than the night before. “We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

“I have some very choice words for her,” Eris grumbled. “No more showing up wherever, whenever like she owns the building.”

“Oh? Does she show up in your bedroom often?” Rhia raised an eyebrow.

Eris’ reaction was better than she’d hoped. The High Lord, halfway through putting on a new shirt, whipped his head around, almost ripping the fabric apart. “We haven’t, she’s not, I can promise you that there’s nothing to worry about--”

“I’m teasing, love.” She reached up and helped navigate the sleeves down his arms. “Do you have a spare dressing robe? And not one that was meant for your previous consorts?”

He bit the tip of her ear as he moved past her towards the massive closet. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Carina perked up when they finally joined her in the main room. “That was much quicker than I expected. Look, I even put up a sound barrier.”

Rhia could feel the magic buzzing, right as Carina popped it. At least she had more faith in their sex life than Rhia did.

“I’ll be brief.” She sat back on one of the golden chairs, watching as the couple settled themselves on the couch. “I am sorry for interrupting; I forgot you would stay the night. Anyway, long story short, my parents have invited Eris to come stay the week before the Winter Solstice.”

“How wonderful,” he replied drily. “My ideal vacation.”

“They’ve also extended the invitation to you.” Carina winked at Rhia. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell them about your hero worship tendencies.”

She glanced over at Eris, who’d gone surprisingly stiff at the statement. “Isn’t that normal? Letting a fellow High Lord bring guests?”

“Of course it is,” Carina continued. She shifted in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Half of Prythian has heard the news of your mating.”

Eris let out a low growl. “I’m sure Rhysand has the purest of motives here.”

“Ignore him. Rhia, they stressed that you’re invited to come, even if you must come alone.”

Eris growled louder this time. “Not a fucking chance.”

Rhia whipped her head to face him, mouth gaping at the blatant demand in his tone. He never, not once, had said anything territorial or commanded her in anyway. “And who are you to stop me?”

“I would never stop you.” Eris clenched his jaw. “I just want you to see this charade for what it is.”

“Is it? A charade?” She directed the question at the Heir of the Night Court, who looked increasingly uncomfortable with every tense remark.

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought it was anything less than genuine,” she insisted. “Eris, you know I’ve never taken their grudge seriously.”

He leaned forward in his chair. Rhia tracked the movement of his arms as they slid down his thigh, hands joining together and elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me, then, with complete certainty, that the Inner Circle has no plans to investigate our relationship. That they have no desire to inspect my mate for themselves. That they have no beliefs that she might be in any danger.”

“What?” Rhia almost choked on nothing. “They can’t think — they have no reason to believe that you would harm me.”

Eris looked down into his palms, searching for something in the creases that brought her so much comfort. “You know our history. Of course they have reason to believe I would treat you maliciously.”

Carina glanced between the two of them. “Yeah, so third wheeling a fight isn’t really my idea of a grand time. I might just go—“

Eris cut her off. “Answer my question or return home with our most insincere apologies.”

“I don’t know! I didn’t ask and I honestly didn’t consider it.” Carina uncrossed her legs and stared him down, intensifying her gaze. “I swear on all the stars in the sky, I only came here with good intentions.” Her eyes jumped to Rhia and her smile turned apologetic. “And if they did pry, it’s only because they happen to be the nosiest assholes in this world.”

Rhia wanted to sweep this entire conversation under the rug and never address it again. She knew that Eris, like he would with any topic, would let her do exactly that if she asked him to.

But something in her heated. Some fire in her core, some deep-seated instinct urged her to defend, to protect, to snarl at any threat with every drop of her power.

“That isn’t fair. They have no right to judge what’s ours, without proof or complaint.” Her words were quiet, but the look from Eris screamed so loudly that she blushed. “If they have any sort of motive, then I have to decline.”

Carina dipped her head. “I can send that message to my parents. If you did say yes, I would set down clear and strict boundaries for your comfort.”

“Thank you. It’s not a yes or a no at this moment.” Eris’ response was much calmer than before, drawing a soft sigh of relief from her lungs.

Rhia offered a weak smile to the other female. She genuinely wanted to bond with Carina, sought friendship with one of the few Fae Eris trusted, and this conversation had deterred her from that goal. One last question lingered, though.

“I know the history between our Courts is tense, and rightfully so,” she began. “But truly, what purpose does it serve to antagonize Eris like this? After successfully allying with him for so long?”

Carina shrugged. “They always have to be the hero. My parents and family have centered themselves in one narrative for too long, unable to really break the molds they were forced into.”

“My father grew more powerful than anyone expected, than anyone knew how to handle, all while facing scorn from both halves of his bloodline. He had to comprise his own beliefs when dealing with the Illyrians and the Hewn City, yet never could find a way to actually fix the problems. My mother was thrust into almost unlimited power and given a hyper-dedicated soulmate at 19 years old, with no worldly perspective or aged experience.” Carina bit her lip, as if holding back a grin before adding: “oh, and of course they both died for Prythian, so that really set the entitlement in.”

She waved a hand casually, wiping away the fact that she had just analyzed the two most magical beings in this world with utter candor. “Whatever, enough about them. Think on it, and send me a note when you decide. Either way, I’ll still visit and demand the latest Autumn gossip.”

She winnowed before Eris or Rhia could move, a person much too used to always getting the last word.

“How are you feeling?” Rhia leaned back into the couch cushions and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Eris draped his hand over hers and squeezed. “I don’t think I ever feel normal after conversing with Carina,” he admitted. “But I’m no longer angry. I apologize that you had to see that.”

Rhia snorted. “You’re much too calm normally. I can appreciate some rage now and again.”

“Never at you.” He leaned over to kiss her knuckles. “Not ever at you. If you’d like me to rage at someone on your behalf, however, that’s completely acceptable.”

“A wonderful sentiment.” The hand on his shoulder slid behind his neck, while its twin danced across his abdomen. “I would like to see the Night Court someday.”

Eris hummed. “I’ll make sure you see all the Courts and the continents beyond, if you wish.”

“Even Illyria?” she teased.

“Nope.”

“Why the hell not?” Rhia pouted. Rhia hadn’t felt any actual desire to go to the bitterly cold mountains, but his denial struck her as a bit odd.

Eris glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Well now I simply must know,” Rhia giggled. “Or I’ll assume something much worse than what it is.”

She watched him scrunch up his nose in the most adorably frustrated way. “The General and I....we don’t mix.”

“Eris,” she sighed. “You can’t let this grudge eat away at you like—“

“It’s not the grudge.” A blush crept up his neck. “It’s not me that, well, I don’t want you meeting  Cassian.”

Rhia swatted him. “Is he so horrible? Or are you worried I’ll take one look at his hulking body and fall madly in love?”

A beat of silence. Another. Too much time passed, and Eris still didn’t respond to her taunt.

“No.”

He groaned and pulled her closer to him, hiding his face in her curls. “It’s not what you’re thinking! It’s beyond silly, I know, but he did manage to take not one, but two betrothals from me.” His voice went soft. “It’s silly to even think this.”

Rhia bit her tongue, trying to think of anything comforting or sweet to say. She couldn’t do it. A giggle slipped out, and Eris shot his head up.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me.” His eyes flashed in warning, pushing her over the edge.

Rhia gasped for air as the laughter fully overtook her. She covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to be serious but...” Another laugh interrupted her sentence. “That is so incredibly ridiculous and superstitious!”

Eris glared at her. “My ego is utterly shredded right now, thank you very much.”

“I love you.” She finally calmed down enough to  press a light kiss to the edge of his mouth. “I love you and we’re mates and I promise I won’t leave you for the General of the Night Court.” She kissed the other side of his mouth, punctuating her words.

He wouldn’t risk her pulling away, gripping her waist to keep her against him. She teased him with a few more pecks, adjusting her position to hover directly on his lap.

“Kiss me, you cruel, despicable creature.” His breath fanned her neck and she smiled against his forehead.

A heartbeat later and they were tangled up in each other, lips and tongues and limbs coming together as one. Rhia gasped when he bit her bottom lip and Eris purred when her nails dug into his shoulders.

"Promise me we won't be interrupted this time," she breathed, as he moved down her jaw and back to that one spot on her neck.

Eris smiled against her skin. "I've tripled the wards."

She licked her lips, drawing his attention back up to her face. Slowly, torturing them both, her fingers grazed the neckline of the dressing robe, gliding it down her shoulders, letting it fall off her arms. He looked at her with all the intensity and desperation of a drunkard on his last bottle of wine.

She leaned forward, kissing her way from his chin to his ear. "Should we try again?"

-----

thank you for reading! 

tag list: @moonbeamfenrys @qamariana

[dfroza]

A conservation work

“caretakers of the mysteries of God”

And a question mark (?)

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 4th chapter of the letter of 1st Corinthians:

Rather than power brokers, think of us as servants of the Anointed One, the Liberating King, caretakers of the mysteries of God. Because we are in this particular role, it is especially important that we are people of fidelity and integrity. It makes little difference to me how you or any human court passes judgment on me. I even resist the temptation to compare myself to the ever-changing human standard. Although I am not aware of any flaw that might exclude me from this divine service, that’s not the reason I stand acquitted—the only supreme judge, our Lord, will examine me in the proper time. So resist the temptation to act as judges before all the evidence is in. When the Lord comes, He will draw our buried motives, thoughts, and deeds (even things we don’t know or admit to ourselves) out of the dark shadows of our hearts into His light. When this happens, the voice of God will speak to each of us the only praise that will ever matter.

Right now, brothers and sisters, the best thing I can do for you is to apply these principles to the situation with Apollos and me. Maybe we can show you the meaning of the saying, “not beyond the things written.” If you learn that, perhaps none of you will swell with pride because you fall into the seductive trap of pitting one against the other. Is there any reason to consider yourselves better than others? What do you have that you didn’t receive? If you received it as a gift, why do you boast like it is something you achieved on your own?

Now let’s see if I have it straight. You suppose that you already have all you need. You already are rich and prosperous. And without us you’ve already begun to reign like kings. To be honest, I wish you did reign so that we could reign with you because it seems to me that God has put His emissaries at the end of the line, like convicts in their final walk to certain death. We have become a spectacle to the rest of the world—to all people and heaven’s messengers. We are nothing but fools for the cause of the Anointed One while you are wise in Him. Am I right? We are feeble and tired while you are mighty and full of life. You are well respected by others while we’re treated as contemptuous creatures by pretty much everyone everywhere. Up to this very minute, we are famished, we are thirsty, and our clothes are shabby, practically rotted to pieces. We are homeless, hapless wanderers. But still we labor, working with our hands to meet our needs because, despite all of this, when a fist is raised against us, we respond with a blessing; when we face violence and persecution, we stay on mission; and when others choose taunts and slander against us, we speak words of encouragement and reconciliation. We’re treated as the scum of the earth—and I am not talking in the past tense; I mean today! We’re the scraps of society, nothing more than the foulest human rubbish.

I am not telling you all this so that you’ll feel guilty or be ashamed of how you have acted. I am only trying to warn you, just as a father would warn his children. You may have 10,000 instructors in the faith of the Anointed One, but you have only one father. In Jesus the Anointed I have become your father through my efforts in spreading the good news. So as your father in the faith, I want to encourage you to live as I have lived. Imitate my life. This is one of the reasons I sent Timothy to be with you. He is my dearly loved and faithful child in the Lord. His mission is to remind you of the way I experience life in the Anointed. In all the churches everywhere I go, I teach the same lessons the same way, and I live out those lessons. But the reality is, some of you have put yourselves on pedestals and live like you are high above the rest—it’s as if you assumed I would not return to confront your misguided pride. But I am coming. Lord willing, I will be with you soon. Then I will know what power is backing those arrogant folks and their words. The kingdom of God is not a realm of grandiose talk; it is a realm of power. So tell me what you want. Should I visit you, rod in hand ready to discipline a crew of self-important people; or should I embrace you, love you, and gently teach you as we celebrate the blessings of God together?

The Letter of 1st Corinthians, Chapter 4 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

Paul explains and exemplifies the goals of a mature believer in a way that may be easily contrasted with the desires of an immature believer. He is seeking love and truth more than popularity, embracing suffering rather than comfort. In fact, he disregards popularity and comfort completely so that he isn’t distracted from the love and truth of Jesus. This could be a powerful force in the world if believers embraced this kind of maturity.

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 5th chapter of the book of Jeremiah:

Eternal One: Roam the streets of Jerusalem, and tell Me what you see, Jeremiah.

See if you can find anything good happening anywhere.

Look in the marketplaces and open spaces of the city.

If you can find just one honest person who lives according to My ways,

I’ll spare the city of this horror.

I hear them making oaths in My name. “As the Eternal lives,” they say.

But they know the oaths are not true.

Jeremiah: O Eternal One, aren’t You looking for truth and integrity?

You struck them, but they did not flinch.

You destroyed them, but they did not yield to Your correction.

They wouldn’t change their ways.

They have set their stony faces against You—

defiant and determined, refusing to repent.

And I thought to myself, “How could they know any better?

They are poor and senseless people, unfamiliar with the ways of the Eternal,

Unaware of what their God requires.

So I will go to their leaders and share what I see.

They will do the right thing because they know the Eternal’s ways.

Surely, they will do what their God requires.”

But to a person, I was wrong; leaders were no different;

They, too, had broken the yoke, burst the bonds,

and pulled away from God’s guidance and correction.

Therefore, from the forest, a lion will strike.

From the desert, a wolf will pounce and destroy.

And from the shadows, a leopard now stalks their villages,

waiting to tear apart any who dare wander outside.

Such is the fate of all who fall away,

for their rebellion is great; their sins are many.

Eternal One (to His people): How can I forgive what you’ve done?

You have passed on your legacy of rebellion to your children who also rejected Me.

They have made unholy oaths in the names of so-called gods.

Why? I have fed them till they were full, and still they wanted more.

So they betrayed Me with their adultery,

trooping off to worship idols, filling up the houses of prostitutes.

They have everything they need, and still they want more.

Like lusty stallions, they call for each other’s mate.

Should I not punish them for these atrocities?

Against this nation, should I not avenge Myself?

(to His people’s enemies) Walk through the rows in her vineyards, and destroy them.

But do not destroy them completely.

Lop off the branches,

for they do not belong to Me, the Eternal.

Both the house of Israel and the house of Judah have betrayed Me.

They spew lies about the Eternal that mock My sovereign power.

They have said, “Nothing will happen! God will not hurt us!

All this talk of war and famine is just talk.

As for the prophets, they are full of hot air;

the word of God is not in them;

Let their words of doom fall on them.”

The Eternal One, Commander of heavenly armies, has this to say:

Eternal One (to Jeremiah): Because this is the way they speak,

I am going to turn My words in your mouth into a fire,

A fire that will consume these people; they are nothing but kindling for My fury.

(to His people) O house of Israel, I am stirring up a distant nation to march against you.

They are an enduring people from ancient times.

The language they speak is unknown to you;

you will not understand them.

Their quiver is like a gaping grave, full of death.

They are all mighty warriors.

They will devour your harvest and your food.

They will devour your sons and daughters.

They will devour your livestock, flocks, and herds.

They will devour your vineyards and orchards.

They will wield their swords

and cut down the fortified cities you think are so safe.

(to Jeremiah) But even then, I will not destroy your people completely. So when they ask you, “Why has the Eternal done this to us? Why would our one True God treat us this way?” remind them and speak to them My words: “Because you have rejected Me and bowed down to foreign gods in a land that was yours, now you will bow down to a foreign people in a land that is not yours.”

Declare My truth to the house of Jacob.

Proclaim it throughout the land of Judah:

Hear Me you foolish, heartless people.

Even with eyes and ears you are still blind and deaf to what is happening.

Do you not realize who I am? Do you not fear Me?

Do you not shake in the presence of the Eternal, the Creator of all things?

It is I who has drawn for all time the boundaries of the sea.

The waves may crash and roar against the sand,

But the waters do not cross the lines I have drawn.

But with stubborn and defiant hearts, this people

ignored Me and left Me for another.

It never occurs to them to say,

“Let us stand in awe of the Eternal our God,

For He sends the rain—both the autumn and the spring rain—

and He brings the harvest at just the right time year after year.”

It is your sins that hold back the rain.

It is your rebellion that keeps good things from happening to you.

Lurking among My own people are the wicked

who watch and wait, preying on the less fortunate.

Like hunters who set traps for birds,

they ensnare people for their own benefit.

Like a cage full of noisy birds, their homes are filled with screeching lies.

This is how they have become so rich and important—because others fell for their lies.

This is how they have grown so fat and polished.

Their evil deeds know no boundaries.

They do not take the side of the orphaned to help them prosper.

They do not seek justice for the poor;

Should I not punish them for these atrocities?

Against a nation like this, should I not avenge Myself?

(to His people) Something horrible and appalling has happened

in this land of promise.

The prophets who claim to speak for Me

are nothing more than false prophets, spewing lies and empty predictions.

The priests who were to do My bidding have chosen to go their own way,

and all the while, My people think nothing of it.

They actually prefer it this way,

but when the end comes, when My justices arrives, what will you do then?

The Book of Jeremiah, Chapter 5 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

As when Abraham pleaded with God over Sodom’s fate (Genesis 18:23–32), God is willing to spare Jerusalem if the prophet can find a single person, honest and true, living there.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Tuesday, September 5 of 2023 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about being spiritual “aliens” in this world:

To be a human being is a paradox, caught between the realms of the infinite and nothingness; a union of endless possibility yet terminating limitation. Man desires to live forever but is conscious that one day he will die. He is an incongruity - a mix of flesh and spirit, saint and sinner, good and evil, angel and animal... A spirituality that demands for us to be always happy, always "up," is therefore dishonest, since the truth is grounded in what is real, and that includes both the miserable and the tragic as well as the joyful and sublime. It's not that there is no difference between good and evil within the heart, but both are part of who we really are. It is the bittersweet struggle, the process of walking as "saintly sinners," "holy fools," "dying immortals," and so on, that defines us. We must embrace our brokenness, in order to become whole; there is no healing without true confession of our need. Therefore we come to the paradoxical cross - the place of utter pain, separation, and death - to find healing, acceptance and life.

Please note this is not to deny that we are to walk by the Spirit and reckon ourselves dead to sin in the Messiah (Rom. 6:11); however, far from being a sign of a lack of spirituality, personal struggle is a sign of its presence.... Only those who are conscious of the tragic, who are haunted by the disparity between what "is" and what "ought" to be; only those who are divided within themselves, torn by inner tension and conflict - those aware that they are both in this world but not of it - sojourners, a long long way from home, homesick for the heavenly city, who inwardly ache and yearn to be fully redeemed - only these, it may be said, are consciously spiritual. After all, the worldling, the self-confident and self-possessed, rarely desire deliverance from themselves and are often content to rationalize the state of their soul; the spiritual person, on the other hand, senses a profound incompletion, a lack, a fracture that runs straight through the core of reality, a breach that needs to be healed...

I would utterly die of despair over myself were it not for the truth that it is not about who I am that is as important as about who He is...

There is great joy, of course, and we are indeed to “rejoice in the Lord always,” but there is also real pain in our lives, and I'd rather be in the company of those mourning the mess they have made of their lives than with someone who thinks they've got it all together... "We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything" (2 Cor. 6:8-10).

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Psalm 41:4 Hebrew reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm41-4-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page pdf:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm41-4-lesson.pdf

9.4.23 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel 365:

Whether we’re stuck in traffic, grappling with doubt, or pondering the broader destiny of a nation, Psalm 89 offers timeless wisdom. It teaches us that even when faced with uncertainty, our faith should remain unshakable, reminding us that the end of the road often holds promises that make the journey worth it.

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

September 5, 2023

Behold, My Servant

“His visage was so marred more than any man, and his form more than the sons of men.” (Isaiah 52:14)

The last three verses of Isaiah 52 begin the well-known Suffering Servant passage (Isaiah 52:13–53:12). The passage begins “Behold, my servant” (Isaiah 52:13) and uses abrupt topic changes. It says “he shall be exalted and extolled, and be very high” (v. 13), then without transition switches to today’s text. This doesn’t read with much flow, but God through Isaiah had a reason.

The sudden change makes the reader pause. The text jolts us into reading it again. Like a preacher who lifts his hands in a moment of passionate conviction, Yahweh wants us to behold His Servant with a double-take.

What’s so important that it deserves a closer look? The next verse tells us: “So shall he sprinkle many nations” (v. 15). The very act of the Servant’s disfigurement is the means by which He will fulfill His purpose to “sprinkle many nations.” The apostle John saw those future nations. “After this I beheld, and, lo, a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, stood before the throne…saying, Salvation to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb” (Revelation 7:9-10).

What could He sprinkle that would redeem such a throng? Surely this is Jesus’ blood, “which is shed for you” (Luke 22:20). “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). He sprinkles His blood over us now. His shed blood is the only way to remove our sins. His death means our life. Now, that’s worth beholding. BDT

A few words about Garden of the Gods from the September / October issue of Acts & Facts by the ICR:

The worldwide extent of this erosional surface baffles uniformitarian scientists. Why is this near-planar boundary found at the same level on every continent? This question remains one of the great mysteries of evolutionary geology.2

The worldwide Flood is the best explanation for the global nature of the Great Unconformity.

And another article about global population after the Flood:

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

tapestry 👑 XVIII

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The reader struggles.

Note: Bienvenue power bottoms. So hopefully I can post another chapter on xmas eve then have my day off from everything while I slave over a turkey dinner :) I work straight through the week with the exception of xmas itself and I’m hoping y’all are enjoying it. Also sorry about tags. I can’t really keep up bc I have no other time and these are usually queued to go up when I work and I don’t tag in original posts because they don’t work.

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

masterlist

The trial stretched beyond a fortnight. The council called a dozen more witnesses to the stand as they examined both the queen’s behaviour and her alleged role in the poisoning. 

Several stablehands testified to her role in your injury, another half dozen kitchen servants were called to answer for the preparation of the king’s tainted breakfast, and Eleanor’s own personal servants were questioned on her marriage. They all reaffirmed the story being laid out so perfectly against her.

With each day, you found yourself more on edge. As you listened to the witnesses, as you thought of the last night you’d spoken to the queen, of her earnest pleas, you found yourself watching her. You prayed, against all that faced her, that she would not meet that most final and cruel fate. For if she did, you could not help but feel your hand in it.

That day was no different. Your chest felt tight and you found it hard to breathe as you entered the courtroom. You were exhausted of being there. The room must have been as grim as the cell they kept Eleanor in. The light that glowed through the stained glass was blinding and near torturous. The seat was hard and unforgiving beneath your skirts. The air was suffocating. You didn’t know how much longer you could stand it.

The room went silent as the cardinal stood and announced the commencement of proceedings. Ellis stood and lingered by the bench for a moment. He bent to hear whatever slithering words your father whispered in his ear. Your shoulders slumped as they called for Eleanor and the door opened; the usual whine of hinges that mourned her each day.

She stood at the podium and her blonde hair shone in the morning light. She wore another white gown as she resumed her vigil. Ellis approached his own perch and unwrapped his paper from his leather folder. He took his time as if to rile the queen; as if to draw the audience to impatience.

“Your holy cardinals, your highnesses, your grace,” He addressed each figurehead with a nod. “Today we would call a most important witness to stand and hope that this case is even closer to its conclusion. We have tarried here for long and I know we do grow weary but we must not leave a stone unturned.”

All in the room seemed to squirm at Ellis’ words. All were tired of his airy words and prolonging tangents. They were eager to reach the end of it; if not to be free of the courtroom but to see how it would all come together. Though it was not difficult to surmise how it would end.

“So today, we call a witness who did find herself at the mercy of the queen’s wrath and one of only a few witnesses to the attempted murder of King Steven.” Ellis spoke flatly but his voice built; almost excited. “The court shall call upon the youngest daughter of Malford.”

Slowly, the audience turned and craned on the benches to look at you. You blinked, stunned. You were certain you’d imagined the announcement. How could they call you without warning? How could they call you to testify on a queen who had outrightly declared herself your enemy? How could they expect you to do anything more than you already had?

“Lady,” Marion nudged you and you looked to her dumbly. “They call on you.”

You just stared at her and shook your head. She took your elbow and stood. She pulled you to your feet as you latched onto her wrist.

“Please,” You whispered. “Please, I can’t.”

She looked at you startled. Sad, even. “You must.” She peeled your fingers from around her wrist and squeezed your hand. “I can’t go with you.”

You trembled and raised your head. You glanced around at the benches and then to the cardinals and royals. All watched you intently; with untethered expectation. You grabbed your skirts and held your breath as you walked along the row to the aisle. 

You descended to the floor where the queen stood across from Ellis and the judges loomed in their box opposite the other. You passed behind the queen as you went to the witness stand and stepped up to the podium. You let out a long exhale and released your skirts.

“My lady, do you swear to the truth entirely and without censor before these cardinals and before our lord in this court of the See?” Ellis asked.

You glanced over at the queen. Her face was set in a cool mask as she refused to acknowledge you. Your eyes floated up to the box where the king sat. He sat with his shoulders set and stared you down. You lowered your chin and cleared your throat. Finally, you found the strength to lift your head again.

“I do.” You said as firmly as you could. “Though I do not promise I can offer any truth you shall find convenient.”

“Very well, my lady, you need only be honest with the court,” Ellis replied and flipped the paper before him before turning it back. “What is your relationship with King Steven?”

You were shocked by the question. Your head pulsed as the words returned to you; ‘Do not let yourself fall into the same trap.’ You gulped and focused on Ellis. Don’t look at the kings or the cardinals, just stand and tell the truth.

“I did serve his wife, Queen Eleanor, for two years past,” You said. “But our relationship has been strictly as any king’s would be with any unwed lady.”

“And your relationship with Eleanor? What is, or was, that like?”

“I sat among her ladies and found her to be a most generous queen. She was ever kind to me…” You pressed your hands flat to your skirts as they began to sweat. 

“Generous? Kind? How was it then that she came to rig your saddle upon a hunt and nearly maim you as a result?” Ellis intoned. “That does not seem to fit your description of her demeanour.”

“She was those things until a point,” You admitted. “But I never did see her as entirely cruel, only… hurt.”

“Hurt? And why should she be hurt by the daughter of an earl who for two years has gone unnoticed and unaffected?” Ellis asked sharply. “Did it perhaps relate to the king’s favour for you?”

“It might have. Surely, it did for she did say it,” You said. “But I could not blame her.”

“You would not blame her? Is that because your relationship with the king was more than just a lady and king’s acquaintance should be?”

“No, no,” You shook your head. “It was never more than propriety should permit but…” You looked at the queen.

“But…?” Ellis led and you shrugged as you looked forward again. “How was it you came to favour with the king?”

“I suppose he enjoyed my company,” You answered plainly. “But I did warn him of the circumstance. I did remind him that I was a lady who did seek a proper and true marriage.”

“And so there never came to be anything untoward between you and the king?” Ellis prompted.

“If you ask if I was his mistress, I can attest the answer is no. If you ask if I did seek to distract him from his wife, the answer is no.” You stated bluntly. “I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to be stood here opposite this woman in such a circumstance. I never wanted her to guide her husband towards me or to have such attentions grow so dubious.

“If you ask if I believe the queen to be malicious, I do not. If you ask if I believe her to have attempted to intimidate me thereafter, I do, but I do not believe her to have done so with the intent of true harm.” You frowned at Ellis as he tapped his fingers on his podium. “If you ask if I think she should face such dire consequences and be cast out, I do not. I do not wish this upon any.”

There was a stir from the benches and flurry of whispers. You didn’t move. You didn’t look behind you or beside you. 

“And when you say she guided her husband towards you, what do you mean?” Ellis pondered.

“I…” You began.

“Did Eleanor intend to lead Steven to adultery?” He asked.

“I don’t… I don’t know what she intended.” You rasped.

“But you say she guided him? How do you know she did? Or is this a supposition?”

You blanched and peeked at the queen. Her brow wrinkled as her eyes bored into the stained glass.

“Did she ever tell you of such intents?” Ellis prodded.

You looked back to him and let your shoulders slump. “Yes,” You breathed. “She did suggest to me that she was unhappy with the king’s former mistress and she wished him to be more modest in his affairs.”

“His affairs? And what proof did she have of these affairs?”

“I don’t know.” You swallowed. “The court spoke of them.”

“Rumours? The same which would paint you in the same light though you uphold your virtue?”

“I… Yes, I suppose they would be rumours.”

“And so it would not be ridiculous to assume that Eleanor intended to defame Steven? That she, perhaps, sought to deflect the guilt from herself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it true, my lady, that Eleanor did banish you from court?” Ellis continued, unfazed.

“She did.” You affirmed.

“And why did she do this?”

“I do not know. Because she did not like the king’s attentions towards me.”

“But you did not indulge her ploy?”

“I did not. I never attended the king without a witness and I never did seek him out,” You said.

“And so she was unhappy that you did not take the role she assigned you in her attempts to disparage Steven?”

“She might have been but I cannot say with certainty.”

“So would you still call Eleanor kind and generous?”

“I… I… don’t know.” You grasped your skirts tightly. 

“My lady, you are distressed? Why?” Ellis dropped the paper in his hand.

“Because I was unaware that I should stand here today. Because I never thought to answer these questions as such.” You hung your head and exhaled. “Because I never wanted to cause anyone else so much grief.”

“But if this should be the truth, then you should not have been the cause of all this grief.” Ellis argued. “And you needn’t feel so bad for saying it. It is the truth, isn’t it?”

“I can’t lie,” You raised your head. “I could not and I fear that has been the cause of all this.”

“And do you think then, that should Eleanor’s attempt to poison Steven and yourself had been successful, it would’ve been earned because you did evade her will?”

“N-no,” You winced. “No, I only think she felt as any woman would have.”

“And would you, in a similar situation, have turned to such a final resolution?”

“No, b-but I do not… I don’t…” You blinked as your eyes burned. “I do not wish to see Eleanor harmed. I stand here and I do not wish her ill, as I do not think she wished it on me. Not in so much as this court would infer. I only think she was angry and her pride wounded. I cannot forsake her when I never believe she did the same to me.”

“So, if you do not believe it was Eleanor who poisoned you, who would have motive to do so?” Ellis continued.

You opened your mouth than closed it. “I… the king has a taster for the very purpose that poison is a danger. I suppose there would be many unseen enemies.”

“But should those enemies also wish to affect you? Who else could seek to act against both the king and yourself?”

“I… I…” You sputtered and shook your head. You looked at Eleanor, her eyes were downcast. Her veneer had softened. She looked vulnerable as a rainbow glinted off her pale skin and ivory dress. “I don’t know.”

“And you have heard the testimony of this trial? Of the servants who swore to the queen’s orders and her own hand in the act of treason? Do you think that your belief in the queen should disprove their accounts of the events?”

You peered around desperately. The cardinals watched you with vacant interest and the three figures in the kings’ box leaned forward eagerly to hear you. Steven’s eyes were crinkled with blatant intrigue. His lips threatened to curve.

“I suppose… No.” You said softly. 

“My lady, do not blame yourself. You are young and naive, but you have behaved most admirably in your circumstance. Your innocence has led you to misjudge the queen and we cannot hold that against you.” Ellis pontificated as a priest would at confession. “How can we condemn a young lady such as yourself who did hold herself to the upright standards of morality when she was surrounded by such misconduct?”

You were silent. You reached to the podium to brace yourself as you felt like to crumple.

“My lady, we thank you for your honesty this day. We commend your comportment in these matters and we do hope that we can seek for you and all those who have been affected justice and truth.” Ellis ran his fingers along the sides of his papers until they were straight. “You may step down.”

You stood stunned. You didn’t move until you sensed a figure beside you. A guard in mail beckoned you down from the stand and helped you down from the shallow platform. The audience was rapt as they watched you retreat from the stage and as you approached the benches, they all stood. As you walked along the aisle, they bowed their heads.

You walked carefully along the bench and resumed your seat beside Marion. The people sat and Marion touched the back of your hand. Your fingers were curled around the fabric of your skirts. You sat stiffly as you tried to see through the blur which rose in your vision.

“My lady,” Marion whispered, “You did well.”

👑

That night was the most restless you had ever known. Even those days before your debut at court, you had never been so unsettled. Eleanor's face stained your mind and kept you awake. The king's too.

When at last you gave up and rose, you dressed in the dark. An old plain gown without a corset beneath. You pulled a cloak over your shoulder and slipped your feet into a pair of slippers. You hid your hair beneath the loose hood of the cloak. You lit a lamp and held it aloft.

You tiptoed to the doors and pulled one open. You were greeted by the mailed guard who stood outside as he turned to look at you. He didn't say a word, only held out his arm to block your way.

"I only wish to go for a walk," You said. "I cannot sleep."

He stared at you and squinted. You saw him weigh his thoughts. He slowly lowered his arm and nodded. 

"I will follow." He stated. "As my duty would have me."

"Very well," You allowed. "Though I don't know that my enemies lurk in the night but rather stand proudly in the light."

He did not reply. He merely waited until you stepped out and pulled shut the door behind you. You set off along the corridor and he kept a pace back. The light of the lantern formed a small halo around you. Your slippers padded on the stone as the guards boots echoed loudly behind you.

You’d never walked the corridors so late. You wondered if perhaps it was wise to. Your doubt quickly passed as your mind returned to the day’s events; your turn at the stand; the way your heart plummeted when you thought of the queen’s expression. As if she had realized something but was too afraid to truly face it.

You walked without heed to direction. You were certain you made more than one circle before straying in your reverie. You stopped before the dark corridor. Bleak and vacant. You raised your lantern as you crept along the offshoot and turned to look up at the tapestry that hung from a peg high on the wall.

The rosettes were colourful in the lamplight, even as shadows drowned in their creases. You shuddered as you felt a draft around your neck. You leaned and reached to pinch a rosette between your fingers. The very one you’d sewn that day months ago. You tugged at it until the thread snapped and it unraveled in your hand. The red silk looked like blood as it rippled over your palm.

Your guard snapped to attention and his blade whispered against its sheath. You stood straight and looked along the corridor from behind him. The footsteps came clearer and he drew his steel entirely. A shadow appeared at the mouth of the hallway. It held a glowing orb.

“Who goes there?” The guard readied his sword. The shadow approached as the light distorted its features.

“It is only me,” Lord Barnes angled his candle away from his face. He stopped short as he spotted you behind the guard. “You would allow the lady to wander at night?”

“I have been told to keep watch over her,” The guard replied plainly. “And I have done that. She is safe with me.”

“We have many visitors in the castle. Many unknown faces.” Barnes said. “Harder to recognize in the dark.”

“And should I worry of those who do lurk in the dark?” You stepped up beside the guard.

“Some,” Barnes replied. “Though not all.”

“Not all?” You countered.

“Yes, surely none should fear you.” He chided.

“I only wander, my lord, to soothe my wandering mind,” You assured him. “I do not seek out trouble.”

“You need not seek it out to find it.” He grinned and the candle caught his sapphire like eyes. “I was only upon my way from a late night meeting. The trial does extend one day into the next.”

“So it does.” You agreed and rubbed the red silk with your thumb. His eyes flicked to the subtle movement. He squinted then nodded in recognition. He leaned over to glance behind you through the black.

“We can wish away the past but we can not unravel the threads of time,” He mused. “Do you wander or do you find yourself trapped and seek to find the way out?”

You hung your head and brought the fabric closer to examine it. The wrinkles of its former twists marred the smooth silk. The lines could not be steamed or ironed out. They would remain after so long restrained.

“How the time does seem to pass so slowly and yet so quickly.” You said and tucked away the fabric. “And this night does wane in kind.”

“My lady,” He stepped closer, but not too close, and your guard clinked his sword against the stone. “You cannot undo what is done. You would only torture yourself by dwelling on it.”

“This court is all so eager to forget. To sweep aside what was and for what?”

“You think too much.”

“Or not enough. Perhaps if I had thought more, I’d not be in this position.”

“Or perhaps you’d be in worse.” He breathed. “You cannot save her, but you can save yourself.”

“And what do you care?” You challenged.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen women come and go. Now I should see the one I never thought to see gone on her way out. And I see you and I foresee the same. But I also see another end. A better one which you might attain should you learn from those who came before. Should you use that which the other women never had to your favour.”

“Which would be?”

“His love. You might not believe it to be such but it is as close as he’ll ever know,” He said. “Foster it. Nurture it. For if you appease his heart, you do assure your fate.”

You shook your head and the lamplight wavered and cast shadows over him. “Why do you say this to me?”

“Because I do not relish the thought of seeing you in Eleanor’s place,” He said as he stood straight. “In fact, I think I might fear that as much as you.”

You stared at him in the firelight. He wasn’t the sardonic lord or staunch advisor, he was just him. He was genuine. And he was the first you’d know at court to be thus. Your lips parted but your thoughts never reached them.

“I shall bid you good night, my lady,” He said. “I should hope you find yourself safely back to your chambers.”

“And you, my lord,” You returned. He bowed and hesitated before he finally turned away. You watched him go and let the lamp hang at your side.

“If I may, my lady,” Your guard remarked. “I think he might be right.”

“Do you think that?” You looked to him in the dull glow of the lamp.

“Why surely,” He said, “It would be a pity to end up as the queen has.”

[wesleyhill]

The Throne, the Coal, and the Voice

A homily on Isaiah 6:1-8, Psalm 29, Romans 8:12-17, and John 3:1-17, preached at Trinity Cathedral, Pittsburgh, on Trinity Sunday 2021

“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.”

May I speak to you in the Name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In the eighth century BC, in ancient Israel, in the kingdom of Judah, there was a king whose actions became a warning to subsequent generations to tremble with fear and awe in the presence of God.

The king’s name was Uzziah, and at first — like so many new rulers who take the reins of power aware of their deep need for wise counsel and due caution for their awesome task — Uzziah was humble. But, as Israel’s Chronicler records, “when he had become strong he grew proud, to his destruction” (2 Chronicles 26:16).

Contrary to the law of Moses, King Uzziah bypassed the priests and approached the incense altar in the temple to bear the censer himself. The priests objected and tried to intervene, but Uzziah forged ahead anyway. He scoffed at the priests who stood in his way, and just at that moment a skin disease broke out on his forehead, right there in front of the altar. Then the Chronicler tells us: “When the chief priest Azariah, and all the priests, looked at [Uzziah], he was leprous in his forehead. They hurried him out, and he himself hurried to get out, because the LORD had struck him” (26:20). And he remained so struck until the day he died.

Like every other story, no matter how seemingly bizarre, in the Old Testament, this is ultimately a story about God — about the sheer mysterious otherness of God. The God we meet in this story of King Uzziah’s folly is a God of power and glory who will not be approached flippantly or arrogantly: “he [scatters] the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He [brings] down the powerful from their thrones” (Luke 1:51-2). This God is holy — He is “set apart,” lofty and exalted, morally pure (whose “eyes are too pure to behold evil,” as one of Israel’s prophets says [Habakkuk 1:13]), resplendent and radiant with eternal life and light: in a word, transcendent. As the book of Hebrews in the New Testament tells us, “indeed our God is a consuming fire” (12:29).

In the year that the proud and reckless King Uzziah died, with the skin disease he received in the temple still spread across his forehead, one of Israel’s greatest prophets received a vision of this fiery, holy, transcendent God. Isaiah the prophet says: “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.”

In the year that yet one more brash and arrogant human ruler passed away, his pride being no help at all against the inevitable forces of decay and death, Isaiah sees the God who remains unrivaled, sovereign, majestic, unchanging, impervious to the fleeting schemes of would-be usurpers.

No one can see this God and live, the Bible says, and yet somehow Isaiah is granted a vision of the LORD. He sees into the inner court of the heavenly temple: “I saw the LORD sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple.” And he sees fiery angelic creatures attending God’s throne: “Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew.” And Isaiah hears their voices calling out to each other like the pulsing of an earthquake:

“Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”

This chorus is so thunderous that Isaiah adds, “The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called, and the house filled with smoke.”

And just like so many other characters in the pages of the Bible who encounter God’s searing holiness, Isaiah’s first response to this heavenly vision is to be instantly aware of how unworthy he is — more than that, how doomed he is because of his impurity, his complicity in the evil of his nation. “Woe is me!” he cries. “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” It is not only King Uzziah who is guilty before God: it is Isaiah, and it is all the people of Judah — it is, in fact, all the world, including you and me. As we think of God’s radiant, fiery holiness, aren’t we instantly confronted with the wreckage of our lives? Aren’t we like Peter when he came face to face with Jesus’ divine power and said, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:9)?

“Woe is me!” If we were dealing with any other god, that would be the end of the story. Isaiah sees into the inner sanctum of God’s holy, fiery throne room, and he is undone by it. We are undone by it. But — contrary to all just deserts and all expected outcomes — that is not the end of this story.

Isaiah says that after he protested his unworthiness, “one of the seraphs flew to me, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched my mouth with it and said: ‘Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.’”

Rather than being obliterated by the blazing holiness of God’s life, Isaiah is touched and made pure by it himself, made to share in God’s radiant purity, with fire from the divine altar. The white heat of God’s holiness does not destroy Isaiah but delivers him instead. The coal taken from God’s presence does not consume Isaiah but cleanses him. The sacred fire that touches Isaiah’s lips does not abandon him in his guilt and sin but absolves him — sets him free to live and speak in trust and hope.

Alexander Pushkin, the celebrated nineteenth-century Russian poet, once wrote a poem about this scene from Isaiah, and he pictures the coal not only touching Isaiah’s lips but reaching into his innermost self:

[God] split my chest with a blade, Wrenched my heart from its hiding, And into the open wound Pressed a flaming coal. (Ted Hughes trans.)

This heart surgery, where the poet sees the winged seraph invading Isaiah’s life with the burning coal of God’s presence, is what the prophet Ezekiel foresaw when he prophesied: “A new heart I will give you [the LORD says to Israel], and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you” (Ezekiel 36:26-27). The flaming coal that Pushkin sees pressed into Isaiah’s heart is nothing other than what John the Baptist foresaw when he said about Jesus, “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matthew 3:11). The LORD who is lofty and exalted, who inhabits eternity, draws near to us who are lost, ruined, guilty, mortal. He touches us, cleanses us, forgives us, burns away our sin, and makes our hearts aflame with life and love by the fiery presence of His Spirit, the One Whom we name in the Creed as “the Lord, the giver of life.”

After the coal has touched his lips, Isaiah says, “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I; send me!’” Isaiah is not only touched to the depth of his being by God’s cleansing fire; he also hears God speak. He hears God’s voice. And as the rest of his prophecy makes clear, that divine voice conveyed to him God’s Word for the people of God. God speaks and sends Isaiah as His prophet to deliver His Word to us who cannot live without it. “The voice of the LORD is a powerful voice; the voice of the LORD is a voice of splendor” (Psalm 29:4).

This Word that God gives to Isaiah to speak to the people of Judah is the same powerful Word by which God brought the universe into being. It is the same Word that was with God in the beginning, the Word Who was God. It is the same Word Who became flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth. It is the same Word Who said, “The Father has sent me… God sent his Son into the world… that through him the world might be saved” (John 20:21; 3:17, NEB). That Word is the human being Jesus, God in human flesh, God’s voice for us, God’s self-communication, God’s ultimate self-revealing. And what He says to us is, “I absolve you. Your sins are forgiven. Peace be with you. Behold, I make all things new. Believe in Me.”

According to the writer of the Fourth Gospel, what Isaiah saw when he saw the LORD of Israel high on His throne, reaching out to sinful humanity with His cleansing fire, speaking to sinful humanity with His judging and saving Word — what Isaiah saw was none other than the glory of the God we know and worship and call out to as the Father, “the maker of heaven of earth,” who sent His eternal Word, Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord, to reconcile us to Himself, and the Holy Spirit, who pours God’s love into our hearts and by Whom we cry out, “Abba! Father!”: “Isaiah said [what he said] because he saw [Jesus’] glory and spoke about him” (8:41).

To Him, therefore, with the Father and the Spirit, one God in three Persons, be ascribed, as is most justly due, all might, dominion, majesty, and power, now and forever. Amen.

[spirit-of-vengeance]

@spxcemuses @mr-mansnoozie @xxstar-bluesxx

Guess who gathered enough mind to finally write her full backstory of Western Verse. Her being a bounty hunter is set in the Wild West time period (1865-1895), there is no current year(s) to set her story in mainly because I don't want to make a mistake messing up the timeline.

Calm before the storm

Her father, Attila a lesser Hungarian noble whom supported the 1848-1849 revolutionary war but after the failure of it he escaped emigrated to America to avoid the Habsburg revenge, soon followed by his brother Gábor. He could save a small amount of his fortune along with his two most important horses: a purebred Lipizzan stallion and an extremely rare Akhal Teke mare. He had settled near a small town, due to his financial situation and education as a noble he established a school with the support and approval of the local church. To quieten his guilt for abandoning his country in its peril, he poured all of his heart into educating children; at least he is still useful in some way.

One day, a group of artists traveling artists, acrobats traveled through the town and the aristocrat fell in love at first sight. She was like the queen of fairy from the folk tales he'd heard in his childhood, she was tall, blue eyes sparkled like light sapphire, long golden brown hair floated ethereally with every twirl. The smitten lord shamelessly courted the the graceful acrobat, determined to know at least the name.

The group had stayed in the town for a few weeks, allowing Attila's and Myra's romance to blossom; after a month she ended up staying with him, just like in true fairytales.

My obsession with angst backstory strikes again

The lord was in love, deeper than poets could express it. Since the loss of his home and country he had found his place in the universe along with the perfect companion by his side. He paid less attention to the school, the church and other public affairs; it wasn't like he abandoned them but became more withdrawn to spend time with the love of his life, especially after the birth of their daughter. She was almost the perfect miniature of her mother, same beautiful hair glinting gold in the sunlight, only her eyes were the brightest emerald green he'd ever seen.

While Myra's heart and aura was as pure as a fairy's; the local church was beyond distressed. They claimed that Attila had completely abandoned helping those in need because of her wicked seduction. When they witnessed her performing for the amusement of the crowd, the 'temptress witch' brand couldn't be lifted. They gathered a few enthusiastic townsfolk whom shared their views and a few morally questionable men whom only wanted a piece of the lord's fortune.

10 year old Karma was awakened from her deep slumber by her frantic father; smoke and yelling blinding her senses as he carried her out of the burning house into the nearby forest so the mob won't find her. He promised her he will be back but he had to return into their home for Myra; he couldn't leave her inside. Karma watched her dad disappear into the flames, the air filled with suffocating smoke and religious shouts for god to smite the sinners. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the spot where her father was gone, waiting for her parents to stumble out of the half collapsed building; but that never had happened. She sat unmoving from her spot, struck staring into the flames then into the ashes as the sun has risen.

Birth of the marksman

Attila's brother, Gábor arrived the next day after hearing the news, he was the one whom found Karma still staring at the ruins in a catatonic state. He couldn't avenge his sibling as it meant endangering his niece and she has lost more than enough.

Gábor expected her to become a soft spoken, reserved lady once she overcame her trauma; that theory was soon abandoned when once he had awoken to his niece practicing with his rifle outside with frighteningly great accuracy. The young girl naturally had an extraordinary aim and after a few long talks, he'd seen the determination burning in her to avenge the murder of her parents. Given by her mother's dance lessons, she was also flexible and capable of many different acrobatic moves; this combined with her aim proven to be a very dangerous combination.

To not awaken suspicion he told his friends Karma was an orphan whose parents were killed by bandits and he had adopted her to give her a family and education. Karma was fascinated chasing greater heights of her skills, this involved reading every possible book about anatomy, marking, engraving the useful spots of the body. Karma knows where to shoot to disarm, to cause a slow death, to paralyze, to disable for life and when it is only a warning: an injury which will heal with time. Along with her accuracy, her drawing speed only can be compared to lightning. Although she prefers/most comfortable with her dual revolvers (model undecided yet), she is still a menace with shotguns, rifles, flintlocks and even bows due to Gàbor's 'A Hungarian is not a Hungarian if they can't use a bow' mindset.

The bounty hunter quicker than death

Karma had her first official gunfight at the age of 18 on the auction. for Vihar (Storm), the filly of her father's horses.

Detailed post about Vihar

She officially entered the bounty hunter business when she was 20 and Vihar was 2, aiming for the most dangerous criminals whom committed the worst acts possible. In her early years after the kill she slit open corpses she trying to find the bullet, surverying the damage it caused and adding filler information to her anatomy knowledge. Of course she didn’t bother burying the bodies, she knew as a woman she has to be extremely vicious above talented to be hired and mutilated dead bodies did send a great message & served as cement for building her reputation. The name Karma wasn't entirely her idea, many thankful family members claimed that karma has came for their loved ones' murderers. Her talent spread like wildfire among the men of law, glad to be rid of the dangerous scum; with careful planning, use of environment and Vihar as backup she had wiped out gangs, not solely focused on individuals.

Unfortunately her reputation summoned an unofficial grand price on her head as well in certain circles; they had tracked her back to her uncle's house. The battle claimed Gábor's life and nearly her sight as her right eye was almost slashed out. The new loss opened old wounds: her not being able to protect her loved ones. She couldn't look into a mirror, the scar a reminder how despite all years of training she wasn't untouchable; after burying her uncle plan to gain control over her psyche already formed.

She took a knife and carefully carved four half circles around her eye to form a crosshair with her pupil being the middle of it. She made sure she kept the wounds open for enough time to scar as visibly as the vertical cut; she wanted a symbol to add to her legend. Excuse my pathetic excuse of an edit, I'm not good in this, nor I can draw.

Now Karma is 25, Vihar is 6, both of them in their peak physical prime; the name Vihar is also symbolic a little, Karma is the lightning to her horse. She is dancing on the thin edge of bounty hunting and being an outlaw as she often takes...side jobs to help people who deserve it and usually that person doesn't have a bounty on their head, therefore it is technically murder.

Local antisocial feral monk & cocky gunslinger feral lady / addition of the AU with the amazing @mr-mansnoozie

Near her uncle's house, Karma had discovered a cave and a grumpy mute monk living in it along with his pet bear. The monk, Sandy eventually became a second uncle to the traumatized angry orphan, he taught her how to move & creep upon someone soundlessly, disappear without a trace, cover her stances and behavior patterns of various animals. Before and after returning from a job she always visits her uncle of choice for a chat; a silent way to prepare him to the possibility of her not coming back. But she always do. She considers Sandy as part of her tiny family, although his...copying mechanisms with his own traumas were a bit strange to get used to; she adapted quite fast, after all who is she to judge with a past like that?

I'm a dead man walking, Hell's at my door.

aka collection of small headcanons

🎯 Her dual revolvers are called Salvation and Damnation because she's dramatic

🎯 Karma has a small sketchbook filled with anatomy drawings for further practice.

🎯 She actually can sing, but rarely does, only to Vihar since she never received positive feedback on it. Her voice is gritty, rugged and deep; definitely not the usual and desired sounding from a woman.

🎯 If her target was an outstandingly cruel bastard and/or one of those whom killed her parents she uses a little psychological torture. After fatally wounding them she starts whistling (for the most terrifying experience wear headphones & close your eyes while listening) as they try to crawl away or beg for mercy. The first time the whistle gets shrill & more intense is when she lazily reloads, knowing she has both the time and the upper hand. The second pace shift is when she aims; she shoots during the last, long drawn out high note.

🎯 This is her only verse where Cindy is afraid, no terrified of fire; during her....26 AU's she's always been associated with fire despite dying in or being wounded by it. In this verse she is more tied to lightning, the scent of smoke is enough to send her into a silent panic attack and despite loathing the cold she will never sit close to the fireplace. Her other deep fears include injuring her hands & sight and losing Vihar. Her horse is the only remaining family member of hers, she can't fail her too.

🎯 Most of Karma's scars, injuries are a result of her standing between Vihar and a knife/bullet/ even a bullwhip when a criminal was smart enough to catch on their deep emotional bond.

🎯 She has recurring night terrors about the night her parents died, she always wakes up in cold sweat; she's sort of used to them. Though, sometimes she still cries but thankfully Vihar is there to comfort her.

🎯 Karma has a special morning stretch routine to keep her flexibility and warm up her hands & keep them steady and fast.

🎯 Due to her dad and uncle she received high quality education

🎯 For the untrained eye, the belt of her hat are simple crosses while in reality, they are inverted crosses to symbolize her stance with Christianity

🎯 Karma's middle name is Emerald, given by her father due to her eye color.

🎯 Karma was first inspired by League of Legends Miss Fortune because that name alone is great but unfortunately she is too pirate coded for a western so I abandoned the relation. Though when Karma is not being the 'Call me a slow reader but I only made it to the Dead part, the or Alive didn't register.' ; her personality is similar to hers.

🎯 Due to her dad, Karma is actually half aristocrat. Not like she cares about it the slightest; the only indication of noble blood is her idle stance. It is an unconscious mirror of how her father used to hold himself: back straightened to almost impossible point, left arm behind it, right hand resting on the grip of in her case, revolver instead of hilt of a sword.

🎯 If given the chance to live a normal life, she would've grown into a captivating, lively young woman, much like her mother but with the aristocrat elegance of her father; finding a suitor who lives up to her parents' and her standards would've been the challenge of the century.

🎯 Her special move is called Dance of Death. This is used as last resort when she's facing more opponents up to 12, as with her dual revolvers she has 12 bullets without reloading. She mentally marks the stances of all opponents, predicts their movement, firing order and possible way of their bullets before whirling out of her hiding place. Each pose minimizes the chance of getting shot, and with each change of movement two bullets are fired, two men drop dead.

🎯 Her accuracy isn't just 'gun goes boom >:D' but a combination of natural talent, endless practice, movement prediction, sharp, quick thinking & analytical skills and different techniques molten together to utilize them all at once

🎯 Her hair is now as long as her mother's, she always keeps it in a single tight braid to keep it out of the way; without her hat and hair down she actually loses some of her dangerous edge.

🎯 The only physical memory Karma has of her parents is her dad's hussar sword she found underneath the ruins of the house, it was protected by a very thick wooden box & a lock of her mother's hair is tied to the grip. She has hidden it in the nearby forest, her thoughts often wander to it along with the wish to wield it.

[screamingatanemptyroom]

I Refuse to be a Named Character Pt 6

Hey Everyone I’m back! New job has definitely kicked my butt, but I’m kicking back! I’m going to try to write more and maybe post smaller updates in the meantime! So probably another part or two to finish off this tale! 

Master post linked here! 

Enjoy!

________________________________

“The others are fighting for all the advantages they can get prior to the first party tonight.” 

The masked servant knelt on the cold floor without any sign of discomfort, reporting in a dispassionate tone. His master sat on the windowsill, staring out into the gardens, a single finger tracing patterns in the condensation on the glass.

“How many keys do my brothers control?” Luke’s voice was cold, as if he didn’t care much about the answer that every nobleman in the city would give all their possessions to know.

“None. Prince Graham’s mother has bought over some relations of the third, fifth and eighth Lords, and Prince Fetter has been blackmailing every servant in the city, but the Ten Lords themselves have not given their loyalties to any prince.“

“Holding out for the highest price?” Luke sneered, his eyes searching the gardens as he spoke. “I can’t imagine those greedy old men having any notions of loyalty or fairness.” 

The servant bowed his head silently.

“So it will actually depend on the three parties? My father should be pleased that his final test will be carried out so well.”

“… Your Highness?” The servant hesitated a long moment before finally speaking up. “Why are you participating in this ridiculous trial? It’s a complete farce! With your forces…”

“It is none of your concern.” The chill in his voice seemed to freeze the air between them. 

“…Very well, Your Highness.”

“She still sees something worthwhile in me.” He muttered quietly. “I won’t betray that.” His eyes caught a glimpse of a figure walking along one of the garden’s pathways through the glass, and his gaze softened, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

“If there’s nothing else, let’s end it here.”

“…” The masked servant didn’t move, staying in his kneeling position. Although his expression couldn’t be seen, his discomfort could be felt as he fidgeted in place. As the silence dragged on, Luke reluctantly looked away from the person in the gardens, turning towards the masked man with a frown.

“What is it? Something important?”

“I’m… not sure.” The man’s brows knitted together. “It’s a little… unusual more than anything.”

Luke waved a hand. “Well? Go ahead.”

“There’s been a… movement? A religion?” He shook his head. “Perhaps ‘cult’ would best describe it… spreading amongst the servants and craftsman in the capital.”

“I see.” Luke raised an eyebrow. “And why is this my concern?”

“Well, partly because the majority of your servants have taken part… but also because of its source.” The servant looked away from the prince’s gaze, uncomfortable. “You see… it’s a peculiar belief system, that states that by casting off one’s name and identity, one can avoid the deadly trouble and world and live a happy life.”

“…” Staring at the kneeling man for a few stunned moments, Luke couldn’t help but throw his head back and laugh loudly. “How many have joined this cult?”

“Well… it began with just a handful among the areas she lived in… but it seems to have spread like a wildfire.”

“Of course.” A grinned tugged at the prince’s lips. “She can’t help but draw you in.”

“Your Highness…”

“Leave it be, unless you judge there’s any danger to her.” He turned back to the window, a finger tracing over the glass outlining the person in question. “Go make sure all my forces stand ready in case something goes wrong.” 

“Yes, Milord.” With a brief nod, the masked man quietly exited, leaving Luke alone.

“I’ll play by the rules while I can, but I won’t let you get hurt.”

He whispered a name, so quietly even he could barely hear it.

________________________________

“So you’re saying that in our story, all important characters are doomed to die bloody, violent deaths?” The servant girl stared up at me with an awed expression, making me slightly uncomfortable.

“All except the main hero and main villain, yes.” I nodded my head slowly.

“And that’s why you don’t have a name?” The young man next to her smiled with understanding.

I hesitated at his expression, but finally answered slowly. “Yes. I’m just an unimportant, nameless side character. Fading into the background.”

“A nameless side character.” The small group of servants repeated reverently after me, their eyes bright and excited. 

“…” 

Something’s… off. When I had originally been asked by one of the servant’s in Luke’s quarters why I didn’t have a name, I hadn’t thought much of it. Without mentioning the “transported into a book world” bit, I had explained my theory that all important characters died terribly.

 It had apparently struck a nerve. 

Ever since that day, that servant had been bringing small groups to talk to me, sometimes up to several times a day. They all seemed eager to listen, despite my increasingly wary replies. Even stranger, I had noticed that the servants in the household no longer called each other by name. 

What is going on?

“There you are!” A pleasant voice called out, interrupting my uncomfortable musings. 

“Luke!” I turned with a smile, waving goodbye to the group I had been talking to earlier.

“He has a name…”

“Fool! His Highness is a main character!”

I thought I heard some muttering behind me, but right then Luke reached out, grabbing my hand and distracting me.

“Having fun starting a new religion?” 

“Pardon?” I cocked my head to the side, confused. He stared at me for a few moments before laughing, the delighted sound making me grin back . 

“Never mind, as long as you’re happy.” He squeezed my hand gently. “Ready for the party tonight?”

“I’m going?” The thought made me nervous. It would be the final trial, so all the princes would be there. Fetter…  Graham… I swallowed uncomfortably. I hadn’t seen Graham or his mother since our last run in, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. 

“Who else would be willing to stand by my side?”

“And you… you’re participating?” I couldn’t help but ask; feeling confused. In the book his character hadn’t taken part in the parties at all, simply attacking the city at the night of the third party instead and trying to take the throne by force. It had been a vicious, bloody attack, every horrifying detail described. It was the final straw that made me unable to finish the fourth book Chloe had lent me.

Now I wished I had finished it despite how awful it was to read. I don’t even know what happened to Luke after the attack on Western City. Was he successful? Had he gotten hurt? Anxiety pierced my chest at the thought. He was so different from his character in Deadly Crown, but I wasn’t sure if it would help or hurt him.

How much have I changed the story?

Luke pulled me over to sit next to him on one of the benches in the garden. “It’s true, I don’t have the strongest political skills… that’s Fetter. And I don’t have a large base of support… that’s Graham. It seems like a hopeless cause.” Despite his depressing words however, he was smiling brightly at me.

“Then why are you so happy?” 

“Because you’re by my side.” He chuckled. “Winning isn’t important. We just need to stay alive, and then once they no longer see me as a threat, you and I can go live a life of obscurity in the woods together.” He paused, thinking it over. “Or the desert, if you like, since Blade has named you her successor.”

I shook my head, ignoring the outlandish statement at the end to focus on the point of his words. “So you don’t want the crown?” My tone held some disbelief as I studied his eyes. If he truly never wanted the throne, he could have abdicated at the very start.

Luke didn’t look away, meeting my gaze head on. “I did once.” He admitted it openly, his smile sad. “But it was never for me. It was for my mother.”

“Your mother.” That surprised me. The book had never mentioned her.

“She was from the desert. She and Blade grew up together, but while Blade is a fierce warrior… my mother was the opposite.” He stared down at the ground, a bitter expression taking over his face. “She was kind, loving… far too trusting to be a woman in the Royal Court.”

I pulled his hand into my lap, holding it between my two hands. It was cold, despite the warmer temperature in the garden around us. 

“She loved the king, despite his faults, his many women… his cold nature.” Luke’s eyes closed slowly, hiding the pain I could see in his eyes. “The man cares for no one but himself, but she gave her heart to him. She always hoped that he and I would get along, but I was only ever a disappointment to His Majesty.” He laughed softly, but it was not a happy sound.

“How…?” The question I wanted to ask died on my lips, I couldn’t say the words. I didn’t want to force him to remember, to make him hurt anymore than he already was. But even though I stopped myself, he understood what I wanted to know. Taking a deep breath, he continued to speak, his tone flat, as if discussing a long forgotten history, or the weather, rather than the death of his only family member.

“Poison. I still don’t know who did it. Plenty of people with reason to. My mother was beautiful, favored by the King more than most of the other woman who had born him children. She died slowly, fading away in front of me into skin and bones, and there was nothing I could do. But no matter how much it must have hurt her, she continued to smile, to hope I would live happily without hatred or fear.” His voice cracked towards the end, his eyelashes damp from the tears he was trying to hold back.

I reached out, hugging him tightly, and slowly he lowered his head, resting it on my shoulder. His ragged breath felt warm on my neck as he slowly regained his calm. “So you decided to win the crown to avenge her?”

I felt him nod at my words. “They threw me into the Ninth Lord’s household after her death, beat me, cursed me, humiliated me. A useless prince with no backing. But I didn’t give up. I was going to take everything they wanted. The crown, the country, their power and wealth… I would crush it with my own two hands.” His tone was dark. 

“I had planned it out. Get their guard down by participating in the first two trials, and strike while they are fighting and squabbling for power in the final party. Even if only one of them was the one who murdered my mother, they all stood by and watched, seeing it as one less opponent to fight with rather than the death of an innocent woman. I was going to kill them all.” 

And he had… or at least he had tried in the book. I licked my lips nervously, stammering out my next question. “Umm… Are you still going to do that?”

He lifted his head, his tear stained gaze meeting my own. “Would you hate me if I did?”

“Hate?” I didn’t want him to be a villain. I was horrified still at the thought of him becoming a merciless killer like I had read about before. But even so, I couldn’t help but smile at him. “I can’t hate you. If you choose to turn against this world… I’ll fight them all with you.”  

Maybe I’m the real villain in this story.

A hand reached out and brushed the hair away from my eyes. “I don’t want to see you fight the world for me. So win or lose… I’ll play this game until the end.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief, separating from him and standing up, brushing the dirt from my dress. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” His whisper could barely be heard, “That’s only as long as I can keep you safe. If they try to hurt you…”

I met his gaze, seeing a darkness that I didn’t recognize there. “Luke?”

He sighed, standing up and hugging me briefly, before turning back towards the castle. “Let’s get ready for the party.”

________________________________

 By the time the first party started I was already mentally exhausted. Before we had even left, there was a brief fight over what I would wear. My initial suggestion of wearing camouflage and hiding in the bushes was vetoed, not only by Luke, but the entire service staff. Luke’s suggestion of a purple gown, the color only worn by royalty or those married to royalty was also rejected. We went back and forth a few times before deciding on a low key but expensive gown.

As I walked in a few steps behind Luke, I stared down at my ball gown. It was a little too fancy for a nameless side character, which made me nervous, but looking around at the other women in the room, I felt slightly relieved.  Bright colors, large gems and very low necklines seemed to be in style. The dark green color of my gown was less eye-catching, but reminded me of my previous hunting gear, with a high collar open only at the throat, where a simple silver star necklace lay. The sleeves were long and loose, the skirt billowing out but less voluminous then those around me, the style choices allowing me unrestricted movement.

It wasn’t a bad compromise.

As I looked around the room, I realized that the room had separated into groups, each centered around an older man or woman wearing a red sash with a  golden key attached.

The Ten Lords. 

Now that I was looking at them in person, the plot, which had evaded my memory in the past years suddenly, was more clear. In the book, Graham had used the knowledge gained from all his followers he had saved along the way to sway the Lords to his side. Each girl he had rescued, who was desperately in love with him, conveniently knew how to convince one of the Lords.

At the time, it had irritated me. I thought it was the author’s way of explaining why Graham’s harem and terrible treatment of the girls who cared for him was necessary. But now…

I knew exactly what to say to get the Lord’s on Luke’s side.

Feeling excited, I started walking towards the first group, only to be stopped by a gentle tug on my hand.

“Luke?”

At my questioning glance, he bowed with a bright smile. “May I have this dance?”

“Sure.” Fortunately the dances in this world were fairly simple, not unlike a waltz back in my old life. Finally that ballroom class I took comes in handy! As we danced, we settled into an easy rhythm, and I cast a worried look around the room. 

“Shouldn’t we be… you know…”

Luke chuckled. “Scheming?”

“Yes!”

He shook his head. “It’s only the first party. They’ll use this one to feel us out, see what cards we’re holding. If we’re too eager, they’ll be less likely to side with us in the end.”

“… If I told you, I knew exactly what each of the Lords wanted in exchange for their key, would you believe me?” I felt nervous. Graham believed that Chloe and I had psychic or prophetic powers, which was easier to explain then the concept of living in the world of a fantasy book series, but I had never used the knowledge in front of Luke openly before.

Luke’s gaze was serious as he continued to lead me through the dance. “I believe you.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I know?” A girl who had been trapped as a slave in the Ninth Lord’s household, and then spent years in the forest hunting. How could I explain my intricate knowledge of the Ten Lord’s motivations?

I could just tell him the truth.

Even as I considered that tempting, terrifying option, he shook his head slowly. 

“I don’t need to know.” Seeing my confusion, he added. “You’re allowed to have secrets.”

“But…”

“So relax during the first party, and we’ll figure out recruiting the Lords in tomorrow night’s event.

The song ended, and Luke stepped away with a small bow. I curtsied in return, but as I straightened up, someone had stepped between us with a wide smile.

“I claim the next dance.”

Graham.

________________________________

Luke shook his head, reaching out to pull him away. “Don’t think about it.”

“Careful, brother,” Evading his grasp, Graham stepped closer to me, grabbing my arm. “If you make a scene here over a woman, it will be hard to gather support from the Lords.”

Luke rolled his eyes at the warning. “Like I care about that. Now let go…”

“It’s fine.” At my words, both men turned towards me, confused. I smiled at Luke, trying to reassure him. “It’s just a dance.”

“Are you sure?” Luke’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared at his brother’s hand which was holding on to me.

“Wait for me.” Pulling my arm from Graham’s grasp, I positioned myself across from him, a much more formal distance than what I had danced with Luke. “Your Highness?”

Graham frowned, but took my hands and began to lead. “Why are you treating me so coldly?”

“… Are you an idiot?” I stared at him as we danced. “You do remember that you tried to drug me last time we met?”

“Only because I love you so much.” His gaze was intense, with more than a little obsession brewing within. It was uncomfortable to face. “And I didn’t succeed, anyways. You drugged me in the end, so actually you owe me.”

I stepped on his foot. Hard. “I owe you nothing. So let’s pretend we don’t know each other.”

“Don’t fight the inevitable, Darling.” His smile widened. “We’re destined to be together.”

Is this the confidence of the main hero of a story? I remembered that in the book he had innumerable women falling in love with him. Perhaps it had messed with his head? Realizing it would be impossible to convince him through logic, I stayed silent, hoping for the dance to end. Unfortunately, Graham kept talking, and was difficult to ignore.

“After the third party, I’ll have the token back, we can announce our engagement then.”

“Don’t be delusional.” I stepped on his foot again, smiling as he winced with pain. “We’re not even friends, much less in a relationship.”

“You’re mine.”

“I’m no one’s. And you have at least eight women who would love to marry you.”

His hands tightened on my own, the grip painful. “I don’t want them.”

“And I don’t want you.” I shrugged. “That’s life.”

“Do you want my brother?” He tried to pull me closer, but I stopped on his foot hard enough to stop the motion.

Yes. “It’s not any of your business who I want.”

“Fine.” He snarled. “I’ll become King, and then you’ll have to listen.”

The song ended, and I gave a sigh of relief. Graham kept holding onto my hands, despite my less than subtle attempts to pull them free. Just as I was considering a more drastic escape strategy, which would involve kneeing him in the testicles, a voice interrupted our silent struggle.

“Brother, how good to see again! How about we trade partners for the next dance?”

I looked over to see an unfamiliar smiling face. He was obviously younger, at most seventeen or eighteen years old, his golden hair and green eyes similar to Graham. But his face was more angular, giving him a sharp, severe look, and his eyes seemed to roam around the room, stopping seemingly at random as he assessed everything before him. I felt his gaze crawl over me, and shuddered with disgust at the delighted light in his eyes.

There’s something wrong with this man.

“Fetter, what are you…?” Graham started to question him, but trailed off in shock as he saw the man’s partner. A very familiar woman.

“Hello, Your Highness.” Chloe, dressed in a long, purple gown, smiled sweetly at him.

“Chloe, you joined Fetter’s side?” I was shocked. As far as I knew, she had disliked that character in Deadly Crown, obsessed over Graham instead. 

At my question she shot be a glare, before recovering her expression. “I happened to get lost in the castle, and Prince Fetter was kind enough to offer to escort me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Graham. “Shall we dance, Prince Graham?”

I watched, shaking my head as Graham took her hand slowly, studying her dress with a cold expression

He might be an obsessed, egotistical prick, but he’s not an idiot. Graham had been involved in intrigue since he was a small child. His mother was a scheming force to be reckoned with. Did Chloe really think he would trust her once she had shown support for Fetter?

 “Let’s dance.” As i thought it over, Fetter took advantage of my distraction, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the center of the room, ignoring Graham’s look of anger at his gesture.

________________________________

The music started up again and we began to dance.

“You don’t seem excited.”

“Why wouldn’t I be excited?” I answered in a flat tone. “I get to dance with all three princes today. I’m honored beyond all expression.”

Fetter smiled, the expression making my skin crawl. “Between dancing with the princes in a beautiful ball gown and drinking poison…?”

I thought it over. “I guess it depends on the poison. There are a few that might rank lower than this.”

“I see it.” He laughed. “I wondered why they were so desperate. But I see it now.” He leaned closer. “It’s your eyes. We’ve grown up crooked thanks to that worthless old man on the throne, never knowing what it would be like to have someone treat us as people instead of a tool to be used. Your eyes are refreshingly free of greed and desire. It’s almost as if you have no expectations from this world.”

I followed his lead silently. He was right. I didn’t have any expectations. This world was nothing but a nightmare for me, with the exception of Blade and Luke.  I honestly wasn’t sure how I had gotten here, and if or when I would return. “Your point?” After a long silence, I asked coldly.

“My brothers covet that in you. Want to preserve it, or at least steal it away and hoard it for their own.” 

I lifted an eyebrow. “And what do you want?”

“Me?” His smile grew vicious. “I want to destroy it. Break you into a thousand pieces, and watch them cry as they try to put you back together, only to break you again.”

My blood ran cold. “You’re insane.”

“We all are crazy, darling. Each and every one of us in the Royal family.  Our father wanted it that way.” He shrugged as he danced. “Even your precious Lucien hides his own madness deep down so as not to scare you off. I’m just the most honest about it.”

Stepping away, I ignored the fact that the dance hadn’t ended, I ignored the political implications and the gossip that would be spoke about an unknown woman rudely interrupting her dance with a prince. My mind, my body, my entire being was overwhelmingly consumed by a single need.

To get away from him.

I felt it strongly. A sense of danger. A certainty of death. It hung over Fetter like a cloud, and the longer I stood next to him the more certain I was that I would not escape. I walked quickly, not noticing the mix of concerned and angry stares, until a familiar hand reached out and grabbed my own, startling me.

“Are you okay?” Luke’s face was pale as he studied my own, he looked over at Fetter and I saw hatred flare up deep within his gaze.

We all are crazy.

I shook my head silently.

“We’ll leave early.” Pulling me along, I was surprised, barely able to keep up with his pace.

“But the test...”

“It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t hesitate as he walked away. “None of it does.”

As we moved along, I heard Luke add under his breath. “As long as you’re okay.”

Feeling warm, I squeezed his hand in return, following him back to his rooms. 

________________________________

We sat down, in the dark and silent rooms, facing each other. The rooms were cold with the evening chill, the only light from the moonlight streaming in from the window. But it was enough light to see Luke’s face.

He watched me, his expression concerned, his eyes studying every inch of my features as if to etch them into his memory. There was a hint of panic in his gaze, one hand clutched tightly at his chest as he watched me, as if he was worried that I would disappear the second he looked away.

“Should we run away?” He asked quietly, his voice serious.

“Would they let us?”

“…” He leaned his head forward, laughing bitterly. “This late in the game? They’d be more likely to have us hunt down for fear it was part of a scheme.”

“Then why would you ask?”

Luke stared at me in silence for a few moments, the pain and panic becoming more clear with each passing second. “I don’t want to lose you. I won’t let them even have the chance.” 

Even your precious Lucien hides his own madness deep down so as not to scare you off.

I couldn’t escape the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. Remembering Graham’s obsessed words, Fetter’s undisguised violence… I shuddered, and reached out to hold his hand. 

He was shaking. I held his hand between both of mine, feeling him slowly calm down.

I had run away tonight. I was still afraid of dying. Of being involved in the plot too much. But I wasn’t going to run away again. 

I took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, tired sigh. “We need to talk, Luke.”

He blinked. “About what?”

“About how I got here, why I know so much, and why I refuse to have a name… it will sound crazy. You may not believe me.” I swallowed uncomfortably. “But I think it’s the key to surviving all this madness. Winning the crown if that’s what you want. But... If…after… you want me to leave, I’ll understand.”

“...”

After a brief silence Luke smiled, the expression startling clear despite the fear I could still see in his eyes. “Nothing could be crazy enough for me to want that.”

I didn’t smile back. “Then I’ll tell you about a story… called ‘Deadly Crown.’”