#I barely know anything about pjo

[blueboybot]

Nico's Ghost

Nico, on a trip, found a small pretty gem emitting the faintest of death energy and decides to take it back with him.

Back at camp he gets it made into a necklace and wears it wherever he goes. However, things take a turn when the necklace protected him by putting up some kind of green shield, followed by the voice of a teenager.

To be honest, this was kinda his fault, Danny could admit that.

You see he was trying to get a handle on his new portal powers and thought practicing in the park was a very resonable idea. It was not! It had taken fifteen minutes before he was surrounded by a total of 10 GIW vans, all very happy to test their new weapons on him. He was doing pretty well handling them until he used his new power on the giant gun connected to one of the vans. Danny thought he could just portal it away but surprise surprise it didn't work, furthermore it got stuck in the portal and he had all but a moment before it exploded, encasing him in a bright light.

When he woke up he realized he had retreated back into his core which was super bad because while cores were very indestructable it would be very bad for the GIW to get a hold of even one. He was so deep in panicked thoughts that he didn't even notice someone had picked him up until he felt fingers laced with death energy brushing against his core.

He was taken back to a camp where he was made into jewellery. Okay, he wasn't too upset about that, he got to see himself when he was put close to a mirror and honestly he was fine piece of jewellery, Paulina would be jealous.

So maybe it wasn't all that bad being a necklace to some death-touched kid, even if his friends seemed a little weird, but who was he to judge? He's basically a weirdo to everyone who isn't his family or friend. Things were going surprisingly good for him...which means things were about to go absolutely wrong for him.

While away from the camp the death-touched kid, whose name was Nico, was attacked by these weird creatures that did not feel like ghost at all. He watched as Nico defended himself pretty good but eventually a monster slipped by his field of vision. Danny acted fast and quickly put up a barrier between them and the monster, releasing it when Nico was ready to attack.

It had taken a while but all the creatures were finally defeated.

"That was a close one."

"You can talk?"

"...Shit!"

[bayetea]

I don't like the judo flip in moa as much as the next guy but in my eyes it's largely the result of rick not taking female violence half as seriously as male violence (a result of viewing women as weaker and inferior to men such that their acts of violence don't need to be taken as seriously) and not so much anything about annabeth herself. like I do genuinely feel that annabeth is a complex heroine and definitely one of the better ones in the realm of ya action-adventure fiction produced in the past 25 years but she is still a girl being written by a man and all I'm saying is that her writing clearly reflects that sometimes (more in tags)

[thaliasthunder]

if nico & will ran into the arai monsters in tsats and we get to know percy ever fucking dared to CURSE nico for the things he did to him i promise on god's name i will hunt down perseus fucking jackson MYSELF

[ladynicte]

Just thinking about how heartbroken Reyna must have truly been when Jason came back to Camp Jupiter and barely remembered her.

Because she met Percy, she does know that even when Juno takes your memories away, if you truly truly love and care and need another person you will be able to remember her, even if not entirely perfectly, but the memory will be there with you the whole way. Like the memory of Annabeth was with Percy.

And then Reyna sees Jason arrive with Piper, and it's okay really, it doesn't even hurt that much, she's Praetor, she has got a job to do, she cannot be getting distracted with silly little sentimental things like that.

And, okay, sure, Reyna can say, maybe Jason and her weren't that close in that sense, it's okay, but they were still good friends, co-leaders of a grand city, he still mattered a lot to her.

And same thing right, Percy did remember Nico, not that vividly or anything, but he did immediately know Nico and him knew each other from somewhere before, because The Ambassador was important to him, in a different way but still, important to Percy.

And then, Jason tells her that he didn't remember her at all, no name, no blurry face, no dreams, no voice, no vague sense that he was missing somebody from somewhere.

That he only started sorta remembering her days after he had already finished his quest, for his new patron goddess, and his new friends, at his new camp, in his new life, with his new girlfriend.

But it's fine, really, Reyna is mature, she doesn't let little things bring her down. She's roman, truly roman, daughter of a fully only Roman Goddess. She's Praetor, she's strong, she will welcome these strange Greek people into her city and throw a feast in their honour, she won't even be salty or rude about it. Really, Reyna is fine, it doesn't even hurt.

[aroaceleovaldez]

Okay these tags on this post reminded me of a HoO/TOA thing that I complain about a lot but I don’t think i’ve ever elaborated on here:

[Image ID: Tags from @fr0zenpepsi​ reading - “#and jason fUCKING DIES before he even get fixed like #you dont know how excited i was when the diorama thing was mentioned like #make him artistic too!! make him be into architecture too! #and he plays lacrosse???? #like his character has sooo much potential yet hes just a boring white guy :< #thats prolly why his death is pretty lame #it meant a lot to the plot but like do we even know who we lost?? #more than half of the fandom doesnt even like him bc hes just so plain :/ #also hazel is a queen and i love her shes literally the best” /end ID.]

One of the big issues I take with both HoO and TOA is that literally every death in both series feels cheap because death has lost consequence. For the majority of HoO it’s at least somewhat still of a risk, but even things like Tartarus feel extremely lackluster when we actually encounter them - Tartarus especially after we saw how much it affected Nico, but then Percy and Annabeth’s plot armor kind of negates all of the threat and it feels like they don’t actually experience much more than their usual threats down there or that it has any lasting effect on them. And after Leo’s “death” we’re basically solidified into “Death has no consequence” because we just finished a series with at least SIX INSTANCES of major or minor protagonist-aligned characters notably directly cheating or miraculously avoiding death (Jason, Hazel, Gwen, Frank, Jason again, Leo), not including also miscellaneous minor antagonists. Which is aggravating because you can make a “Hey, these characters can’t die!” plot work, especially if that’s the root problem they’re trying to solve! It does work in TLH and SoN! And we’ve even seen it before in Battle of the Labyrinth when Percy fights his half-brother!

But HoO basically nullifies all consequence the characters face from MoA onwards and post-BoO “death” carries no weight, because by this point we have so many excuses to get around it or avoid it or come back from it that who cares! And this continues to be a thing post-TOA! Even just in the plot summary of Chalice Of The Gods we’re introduced to YET ANOTHER “Cheat death!” item! And I’d bet we’re gonna get one in TSATS too cause we’re almost guaranteed to see Damasen again, and the like one singular myth that exists referencing Damasen also specifically mentions an herb called “the flower of Zeus” that can revive things from the dead.

And it’s extra annoying because in TOA we keep getting character deaths shoved in our faces and told we should care about them, but either they’re characters we have little to no emotional connection to (such as, like, All Of Camp Jupiter in Tyrant’s Tomb when the camp is threatened and we’re told we should care, but we’ve barely seen the camp at all besides beginning of Son of Neptune and beginning of Mark of Athena, and the only living characters we get to actually see in Camp Jupiter from before TOA are Gwen, Dakota, Don the Faun, and our HoO protagonists.)

And Jason’s death is particularly annoying because a.) He’s essentially cheated death twice already [Piper bringing him back from either death or near-death when he accidentally witnessed Hera’s true form, and then his whole spear injury that was slowly killing him but was healed with [checks notes] the power of friendship], and b.) the scene DIRECTLY PARALLELS HIS FIGHT WITH MIDAS. Which, you know, he WON. VERY EASILY. And you can’t even argue “oh but this time Piper and Apollo were right there so he couldn’t have done the same thing!” because PIPER AND LEO WERE THERE WITH MIDAS. Heck, so was Lit! Who also survives and comes back in TOA! So not only is there no excuse for Jason to have not somehow miraculously avoided death (alongside every other TOA character, basically), but he SHOULDN’T HAVE DIED IN THE FIRST PLACE because THAT’S NOT A FIGHT HE SHOULD HAVE LOST! Him losing that fight is directly contrary to what we know about his character! And “he shouldn’t have lost that fight and died” doesn’t feel tragic here, it’s just aggravating! It’s just bad writing! And there’s no way around it because nobody cares about characters dying by that point in the series anyways because it doesn’t mean anything! We’ve had too much random death fodder in HoO (like the Hunters) directly alongside characters experiencing little to no consequence when they should from their experiences (Percy & Annabeth in Tartarus, literally every character nearly dying, etc.). The only characters we do see experience any kind of lasting consequences from near-death experiences are Hazel having blackouts in Son of Neptune (which are magically erased by Mark of Athena) and Nico being heavily implied to be permanently physically disabled after Tartarus (which is half-ignored when not plot relevant in TOA and completely ignored in the short story Un Natale Mezzosangue, which gives me reason to suspect it will also be ignored in TSATS). Not to mention Frank’s curse is also randomly erased in Tyrant’s Tomb, which is extra stupid because by following the logic of that scene his curse should have been lost back in Son of Neptune when he freed Thanatos, because he was using his curse for the same exact reasons with the same exact mindset. He literally did his character arc twice. Whatever.

HoO and TOA are just such a mess writing-wise of Rick trying to haphazardly incorporate as many myths as he can with zero attempts at cohesiveness that it doesn’t make any sense (I invite you all to read just the Team Statue chapters of BoO and take a moment to process how absolutely nonsensical it is) and he fails to consider the consequences of including certain myths, both in terms of how their aspects will impact the larger plot and also the historical context behind those myths and if how they’re being applied is offensive.

TL:DR: Jason’s death is stupid from literally every angle and HoO and TOA have a problem with literally any kind of narrative consequence.

[itspercyintime]

Explaining pjo lore to my mother is so fun. She's currently somewhere between interested in and perplexed by "guy who murders stuffed animals" and "the little skeleton kid". Also I told her Aryan wanted to have a say yes to the dress bts thing for grover and her exact words were "Well, give the kid what he wants"

[atlabeth]

bleedin' me dry | luke castellan

runaway with luke ending here!!

summary: luke has a proposal. it doesn't go over well.

a/n: so um. obviously im a huge percy jackson stan ive got annabeth in my name and ive literally wanted to be her since i read the books in second grade and by virtue of being an annabeth stan i hate luke but i also think he is so interesting and so good for angst and i also love the pjo resurgence we’ve got going on here from the show!! so here you go. here's some angst

title from vampire by olivia rodrigo

wc: 2.8k

warning(s): fem!child of demeter reader. luke is his own warning lmao. pushy and manipulative behavior, not the healthiest relationship! and no happy ending

“You know I love the forest,” you mused, “but you have to have a reason for bringing me out here.”

He gave you a wry smile as he squeezed your hand. “Do I have to have a reason? You said you love it—that’s gotta be reason enough.”

“I love it, but there are monsters here.” You twisted your free hand and flowers sprouted up a few feet away. “It does give me a chance to show off, though.”

You were in your cabin helping Katie clean up everything—it was the last day of summer and most of the Demeter kids had already left—when Luke knocked on the door and asked you to accompany him on “a little adventure”. Despite the teasing of your siblings, you bashfully accepted.

It wasn’t the smartest thing, admittedly, to find yourself in the forest with your boyfriend with a couple hours ‘til curfew when you still weren’t even sure if you were leaving or not, but you had your dagger. Luke didn’t have his sword, but you had been practicing.

It wasn’t like it really mattered, anyways—he probably just wanted to make out with you. It was far from the first time, and for all he knew you were leaving for the school year in a few hours.

He chuckled but didn’t say anything. You looked up at him, a slight frown creasing your brows, and nudged him with your shoulder.

“Is everything okay, Luke?” you asked. “You’ve been… oddly quiet.”

Again, it took him a moment to respond before he just shrugged. “I’ve been thinking, I guess.”

“About what?”

“Life,” he said. “Our lives.”

“Very philosophical for the hour,” you said dryly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Luke nodded, “yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

“Have you ever thought about leaving?”

“I’m still deciding whether I want to go back home for school or not, but—”

“Not after the summer,” Luke interrupted. “Leaving camp. For good.”

You frowned, a chill running down your spine. “Of course not. Camp Halfblood saved my life, Luke. I could never leave.”

“Says who?” Luke stopped and your intertwined hands pulled you back, stopping you as well.

“Says all the monsters that tried to kill me last time I went home,” you said slowly. “Don’t tell me you forgot the dracaena that nearly got me on that field trip.”

“‘Course I didn’t forget,” he said, inclining his head. “I just think you’re good enough now to make it without this place.”

“Luke,” you said with a strained laugh, “you— you can’t be serious.”

He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because if we leave, we’ll die,” you said slowly. “I barely made it on my own out there.”

“You’re more powerful now. And you won’t be on your own,” he said, tugging you closer. Despite it all, warmth bloomed in your chest. “I can protect you.”

“Luke…” You trailed off as he cupped your cheek with his other hand, bringing your gaze back to his.

“What’s the point of staying here?” Luke murmured, an unmistakable softness in his eyes. “Just so we can sit around at summer camp for the rest of our lives? I mean, it’s not like that’s gonna be much longer, the way Chiron tells it.”

“I ha— we have friends here,” you said, huffing another laugh as you took a step back from him. It was easier to think when he wasn’t touching you, when you were still able to sever the string connecting the two of you. “We have a life here. A safe life, Luke, where we don’t have to look over our shoulders constantly.”

“Not me.” Luke shook his head as he moved a step forward in tandem, and he took your hand again, his grip tighter this time. “You’re the only thing I’ve got keeping me here.”

“Please,” you said in disbelief. “You’ve got a whole cabin of siblings that adore you. You’re the best swordfighter here. I’m pretty sure even Mr. D has a soft spot for you.”

“Please,” he mocked, “you can’t seriously believe that.”

You shrugged. “All I know is that when you finally asked me out, I gained a whole lot of enemies.”

“Like that means anything,” Luke said.

“The kids love you too!” you exclaimed. “Their eyes light up with stars whenever you help them with their sparring. You’re a beacon of light to this place— where is all of this coming from?”

“I’m tired,” Luke said roughly. “Tired of the gods ignoring us when all they’ve caused is pain.”

You frowned, but he continued on.

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed it?” he asked. “When’s the last time you ever saw my dad give me any kind of attention besides some fun-colored smoke? He ruined my mother’s life— he ruined my life! And our cabin is damn near overflowing with unclaimed kids. Where are their parents?

“Luke—”

He shook his head as he forged on. “And you can’t say that Demeter is any good either. I bet she makes your cereal tastes real good in the morning, but she’s abandoned you for your whole life.”

“Luke, where is this coming from?” you asked, your frown deepening further and further as you let go of his hand and took a step back. “You— you know I’m not a fan of them, but you can’t just go around saying things like this. The last thing I need is for my mother to— to smite me, or strangle me with vines or something because I’m not appreciating her enough.”

Luke huffed a laugh. “That would be the most attention she’s paid to you since she claimed you.”

“She’s a goddess,” you said. “She’s got more important things to do than send me emails asking how my day is going.”

“Really?” Luke asked, his eyebrows rising.

“Yes, really,” you enunciated. “I expect it. I consider myself lucky she claimed me at all.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” he marveled as he said your name. “Your mother has never been there for you, and you think you’re lucky?”

“Luke—” you started, but you couldn’t even finish as he continued on.

“Demeter wasn’t there for the year you spent feeling like the scum of the Earth because you hadn’t been claimed yet. Demeter wasn’t there for the childhood she gifted to you then abandoned you for.” He pushed forward still. “Demeter wasn’t there for all those sleepless nights you spent in the Hermes cabin wondering if you were ever going to know who got you into this mess.”

“Luke, stop,” you finally managed to get out, moving back in turn.

“You know who was?” He continued to forge on, capturing your wrist when you tried to take another step back, eliciting a shaky exhale as you flinched. “Me.”

You ripped your arm away from him, fire in your eyes and blazing in your blood. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

“I’ve been here for you since the moment you stepped foot into Cabin Eleven!” Luke’s voice rose, and you’d never been more aware of the dagger hanging off your belt. “Through every tear, every tirade, every godsdamned rant about the gods—”

You stumbled back, and your heart stuttered in your chest as your back hit a tree. Your jaw was clenched, attempting to stop your tremors trying to wrack your body.

“And you’re telling me,” his voice suddenly lowered until it was scarily soft, little more than a whisper as he leaned over you, noses nearly touching, “that you would still choose them over me?”

“If you do not get away from me right now,” you said, quiet and even, “what we have, and anything we could have, will be over.”

Luke didn’t move. “Answer me.”

For a moment, it was just that—you and Luke staring at each other. His chest rising and falling just so from the effort of yelling, his beautiful eyes devoid of any previous softness. You thought your teeth might crack with the pressure in your jaw.

“No,” you said. “I wouldn’t choose them over you.”

And for an even shorter moment, his eyes do soften.

“But I won’t leave my family,” you whispered. “Not for whatever cause you think you’re fighting for.”

And just like that, the armor went up again.

“So that’s the way this ends,” Luke said evenly, and when he moved a few steps back, you felt like you could finally breathe again.

“You know who I am,” you argued, though you couldn’t make yourself move. “My siblings are my family— my friends are my family. I’d never leave them.”

“Oh, I should have expected it,” he said offhandedly. His laughter was a cruel thing. “I always knew you were a coward.”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me,” you spat. “Why do you even want to leave in the first place?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of all the bullshit that goes on here!” Luke yelled. “We’ve been here for years, and what the hell do we have to show for it? A couple scars? A lot of near death experiences? Some deadbeat parents that ruined our damned lives?”

“I have a family that I never could’ve dreamed of!” you exclaimed. “I have sisters and brothers that love me, friends that understand me, and—”

Your voice broke for a moment and you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the tears back. Some of the fire burning through your veins had been extinguished as you continued.

“And I thought I had a boyfriend that was there for me.”

It was there again—his eyes softening ever so slightly when he looked at you. But then he clenched his jaw. “And I thought I had a girlfriend that was there for me.”

“I won’t leave,” you enunciated. “I’m not going to help you with whatever crusade you think you’re meant to lead against the gods!”

“You don’t understand,” he insisted.

“You don’t understand!” you exclaimed. “You’re ready to leave all of this behind, and for what?”

“I don’t want to leave it all behind,” he said. “I want you by my side. We could be something truly great together— can’t you see?”

Luke took your hand again and pulled you away from the tree, gesturing with his hand around you. “You can control all of this. The whole world is your domain—we’d be untouchable.”

“Luke, you sound crazy,” you said roughly. “Where is all of this coming from, seriously?”

“I just know that we can live a better life,” he said. “Together, without the gods.”

“Witho—” You couldn’t even manage to finish the word, shaking your head at the pure absurdity of it. You hardly recognized your boyfriend purely because of the insanity he was spouting. “Luke, we don’t need to leave! We don’t need to stand against the gods, or— or whatever this is!”

This time, you took his hand as you tried to smile. “We can make this work, Luke, and we can make it work here,” you begged. “I promise.”

“Things need to change,” he said, voice steely, pulling his hand away. “And they’re clearly not going to change here.”

“Yes, they can,” you insisted, your hands clenching into fists at your side. “I want things to change too, believe me! But going off on your own isn’t going to do anything for it. We can start it here—together.”

His eyes were colder than ever as he looked down on you, and you truly didn’t recognize him. The glint in his eye and edges you would cut yourself on and the insanity he was spouting for no damn reason. You didn’t know what in Hades’ name had gotten into him.

“All we do is sit around and wait for that hag in the attic to spout prophecies, and then Chiron sends some kids off to die, and then we sit around and wait to do it again,” Luke said. “The gods keep making kids and the kids keep dying because they leave them in the world alone— we’re practically grandparents here because we’re lucky to make it past sixteen! The gods don’t do a damn thing about it, and neither does Chiron.”

He shook his head as he stared right into your eyes. “You’re not as smart as I thought if you think you can change anything here.”

“So— so what?” you asked brazenly. “You’re just gonna leave?”

Luke shrugged. “I was always gonna leave. It just depended whether you were with me or not.”

He turned around and started walking, and for a moment you were fully dumbstruck, unable to move. Then something snapped inside of you, and you moved your hands straight up through the air. Vines sprouted from the ground and tangled around Luke’s legs, stopping him and nearly causing him to fall.

“You don’t just get to walk away from me after spouting this bullshit,” you fumed as you ran to catch up with him. “What in Demeter’s name has gotten into you, Luke? Gods— this isn’t you!”

“See?” Luke smiled, ignoring your question. “You are powerful.”

“Answer me,” you seethed.

He shrugged, that small smile still on his lips. “It’s always been me. Maybe you’ve just been too stupid to realize.”

“Where are you going to go?” you asked, ignoring his jab. “Not home, clearly.”

It was a deep cut, something you never would have said under normal circumstances, but his expression didn’t change.

“I’ve got plans,” he said, ignoring your jab, and he huffed a laugh. “And I guess they don’t involve you anymore.”

All you could do was stand there, stunned as you stared at him. It was cliche, but it really wasn’t him, because you loved Luke and he loved you.

He’d always been a bit spitfire, always a little sharp around the edges, but you loved that about him—and he softened those edges for you. He was strong-willed and caring and passionate about everything, and you didn’t want to lose him. Not like this.

You knew what he’d been through. You knew what happened to his mother, what happened to Thalia, everyone he’d lost and every reason for every scar. But you never thought—

Gods. You never thought he’d actually do… this.

“Let me go, will ya?” Luke asked, tilting his head. “Or else what we have will be over— or whatever it was you said back there.”

The vines receded against your will, like his words just connected to your subconscious. You stayed rooted in place as he continued walking away.

But then he stopped. Turned around, looked right at you.

And for a moment you were fourteen again, feeling alone and forgotten going into your third month in the Hermes cabin. Grumbling your way through sword practice because the excited camp counselor who just happened to be your age refused to let you sulk for another day.

It was days after your fifteenth birthday, and the golden sickle with sheaths of wheat had finally appeared over your head at lunch. Luke had lunged at you, wrapping you in the tightest hug possible, and looked at you with all the stars in your eyes as he congratulated you. He helped you move your meager belongings into the Demeter cabin the very next day.

It was the first time you decided to go home since arriving at camp, and Luke was sidled outside your door, making wry comments every so often as he kept you company while you packed.

It was him kissing you right before you went over the hill because he said he couldn’t keep his feelings in any longer. It was you kissing him right back wondering why he waited so damn long.

It was three years of the best thing you’d ever experienced, of the most steadfast companion you could’ve had by your side—three years of Luke Castellan’s love.

Then you blinked, and you were back in the woods. Luke’s expression had softened, but the brimming tears in your eyes blurred your vision.

“I really did love you, y’know,” Luke finally murmured. “But you should know that love isn’t ever enough.”

He was out of your view before you could even muster the strength to move again, and then you were running through the forest faster than ever before.

But when you reached Cabin Eleven, there was no sign of him. And when you checked the pavilion and the forge and the amphitheater and the training arena and every other godsdamned place, you were just as disappointed.

But by the time you got to Chiron and found out the chaos that had spouted in his wake, that he had wanted you to be a part of, it was much, much too late.

Percy Jackson was fighting for his life. Camp had been left in complete disarray. Luke was working for Kronos.

And the man you loved was truly gone.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Pride ! PJO or Time Travel drarry if you please ? Thank you !!

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5

Poseidon hadn’t known what to expect, when he’d found Sally near hysterical and their son’s empty room, when he’d gone to the armory and found a sword missing from the armory with comical IOU scratched in it’s place. He had thought Sally’s mortal mind simply did not have an appreciation for scale, that a teenage demigod was far enough from a seven year old one as to appear closer to a god than a mortal.

He'd underestimated Sally. Not the first time. Hopefully the last.

Percy, nearly fully grown, tips his head back and meets his gaze evenly. He understands why Sally mistook them at first glance.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever had a demigod child take after him quite this starkly before.

“Your mother is beside herself.”

Percy winces, pulling a knee to his chest. “Yeah. The Mist is taking care of the mortal stuff, right? No one’s blaming her for anything.”

Poseidon’s lips thin. “No. Your lack of presence is simply being – ignored.”

Demigod children die young all the time. It wouldn’t do for mortal law enforcement to look into it to closely.

“That’s good,” Percy says. “I should call her. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Why did you call me?” he asks, instead of any of the other questions he’s burning to know the answers to. Just meeting him has been enough to answer some of them.

Persephone’s influence lingers around him so powerfully that if he didn’t know better, he’d be questioning if Percy was his son rather than hers.

He resists the urge to ask after the child version of his son. Sally has already said that Percy doesn’t know, and besides, the difference is not as jarring for him as it was for Sally. He has very little to compare him to.

Percy shrugs. It’s insolent and leaves Poseidon wondering what type of relationship they have in the future that Percy is both this easy in his presence and that Poseidon allowed his son to do something this monumentally stupid in the first place.

Then again, with Persephone’s hand in this, it’s likely he had very little say in it.

“You and Mom are the only ones who know who I am,” he says. Percy couldn’t have known that he’d spoken to his mother before calling him, but he supposes that’s irrelevant. He knows his blood. Barring that, he knows his own eyes. “I guess I just – will you look out for them? If something happens to me?”

Poseidon looks over at the cliff’s edge, at the three sleeping children huddled around a dying flame. Athena, his enemy. Hermes, who he’s never called a friend. Zeus, who’s child shouldn’t even exist, although he acknowledges the irony there. “Is she the child of prophecy, then? Is that what all this is about?”

“She’s a child,” Percy says, voice suddenly hard. “They all are. Isn’t that enough?”

Ah. There’s Sally in him.

“Are you not also a child?” he asks gently.

He snorts. “No. Technically, barely, but not really. This isn’t about me.”

Poseidon thinks it is. He doesn’t see how Percy can be this impossible and this powerful and have this not be about him.

He thinks he knows exactly why Percy has traveled to the past. He doubts it was Persephone’s intention, because she knows better than to believe this is a plan that could work, but maybe it doesn’t have to. She’s clever enough to account for Percy’s choices.

Instead of saying any of that, he rests his hand on Percy’s shoulder. He’s gratified when he leans into it. He must not have been too terrible a father. “You are my child.”

“Dad,” he sighs.

Poseidon squeezes before letting go. “Alright. If something happens to you, I’ll look out for your strays.”

“They’re my friends,” he corrects, but Poseidon is already leaving.

Athena’s child is stirring. It would be just like her get to see something she shouldn’t and wreck his son’s plans, foolish as they may be.

[lady-ashfade]

Blood And Pressure

Part one

Yandere!Pjo x Fem!Grisha!reader. (Platonic Yandere gods) (romantic!various characters)

-♡ Chapters: Previous // Next

-♡ characters: Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan, Clarisse La Rue, Grover Underwood, Annabeth Chase.

-♡ this is a shadow & bone slight crossover. Reader is a heartrender and that’s all really (maybe more in the future!)

-♡ Please note that all characters are aged appropriately, so all characters are older versions of the book characters. So 17-19 characters for these, you can choose any of them really. Just that they are older teens.

-♡ warnings: short, yandere behaviors, obsession, stalking, slightly sick love, possessive, manipulative, gaslighting, platonic yandere too, blood powers, powerful powers but not godly, and future warnings when more chapters come out.

No one knew the power you held when you entered camp. You stayed in The Big House at camp with Mr.D and many of the campers knew nothing but a few things when you walked by. You were a person of few words but spoke in glances, or at least to them you were.

You spent your days talking to Mr. D and Chiron since they didn’t like you to leave the house or their side.

“It’s just too dangerous to be around the little kids,” Chiron talks ever so soft to you.

“I mean, I don’t care if you hurt them or not but they know nothing of you— we barely know anything of your kind. So you stay with us.” He was a bit harsher when it came to you but he was also fun to be around.

No one noticed when you’d glance into a room while a patient was sick and in bed. And no one knew you visited Percy too.

You heard whispers when he arrived and wanted to check him out for yourself. His heart was beating fine and healthy but a little to high for your liking. He was having a nightmare and you could calm him down.

When you placed your hands together and calmed his heart, then his eyes open just a bit. He remembers seeing annabeth but you were new. You wore dark red and silver clothes making him wonder about you, you almost looked like royalty to him…and your beautiful.

“Sleep percy,” As soon as you spoke he was out like a light as you controlled his body and decreased the anxiety he felt. You wanted to stay there and help him but you knew you could get caught at anytime so you left. He wasn’t the only one you helped, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Another day you found yourself playing cards with Mr. D, he got too angry at you beating him that he took a break. He rests his eyes while you read a book, a very old and run down book but you refused to let it go. And that’s when the boy you helped walked in with confusion on his faces.

It was your favorite part to see someone new get welcomed.

Percy seemed to not notice you at first when his announce stayed on the god you knew, obviously he wasn’t aware of who he was talking to…and when he did he didn’t seem to care either. After a few minutes of them talking, he finally noticed you as you flip the page of your book.

“What are you looking at her for?” Mr. D tried to pull his attention away from you but he just kept staring.

“You…you were in my room that night.”

You shake your head and sit back under the gods suspicious glare. “No, no. Must have me mistaken.”

“I recognize that pin on your jacket, it was definitely you.”

“Okay kid, that’s enough now got get me that wine.” He snaps his fingers and Percy finally turns his gaze. Thankfully Chiron got there in time before Percy fell for his trick.

Percy was getting to explore the camp, train and fight and win glory. You hated how tight your at stomach got in jealousy of him. You’ve been here for two years and yet you haven’t stepped off the porch of the big house.

You stood up from your chair causing them all to turn to you. You slammed your hands on the table and started to demand that you would be going with them. You’ve had enough.

“I wanna see things too. Just for once let me see the camp, it’s cruel to keep me here.”

“You know the rules, you stay here!” Mr. D was always the one to fight with you when you threw your fits.

“Your rules suck! Let me go on the tour!” Your voice was so loud percy thought that the whole camp could hear you. Your final hope was to look at Chiron with begging eyes since he was so easy to guilt.

And like every time. He caves.

“Maybe we should. They have shown no signs of hurting anyone and it would be good to get a bit of fresh air, stretch their legs.” He tried to reason with him. You begged and prayed in your mind for it to work.

“Fine— whatever. But if anyone so mush as touc-” he was cut off by you squealing and hugging him. He was caught of guard since you’ve never do that before. He felt pride, the other gods wanted you to come to Olympus or the underworld but he got you. No one could take the smirk on his face.

Percy was happy to see you smile. It caused his mood to lighten greatly and he didn’t really know why but you seemed so familiar to him. Like he’d do anything to keep you smiling, to hold your hand…

“Come along, we have a lot to explore.” You both trail behind the centaur to take on the new adventure. Maybe this was fate.

You didn’t know it but many eyes would begin to follow you everywhere.

Next chapter

-No Taglist because idk of people want this to be tagged in (I will add you if you ask! Just my normal ones I don’t wanna spam them with notifications if they don’t want this)

[cece693]

PLEASE PART TWO OF THAT NICO DI ANGELO FIC

I'm not even a fan nor do I know anything about the PJO series but that.. THAT fic makes me wanna start reading it

Sword Fighting Pt. 2 (Nico Di Angelo x Son of Aphrodite)

Part 1 can be found here, however, you don't need to read it to understand this.

tags: love confessions, Nico being overprotective, near-death experience, takes place during The Blood of Olympus, reader is injured (badly)

Time was something demigods rarely had, and Nico di Angelo had lived long enough to know that it always slipped through their fingers. He never planned to reveal his feelings for you, the son of Aphrodite, but as Gaea rose from her slumber and the earth itself raged in the final battle, regret gnawed at him.

He should’ve told you.

The battlefield was a maelstrom of chaos—monsters falling, demigods fighting with every last bit of strength they had left. The air was thick with dust and the stench of death, but through it all, Nico’s eyes sought you. You moved like a whirlwind, graceful and deadly, wielding your twin blades with a skill that defied your heritage.

Even now, in the heart of war, there was a terrible beauty to how you fought—fluid, precise, unstoppable. Nico's breath hitched as he watched you, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the battle around him. He had seen many things in his life—gods, monsters, and the depths of the Underworld—but he'd never seen anything as beautiful as you.

For a moment, it seemed like the battle was turning in their favor. The monsters were thinning, their numbers dwindling under the combined might of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter. Nico’s heart pounded with a glimmer of hope. Maybe—just maybe—they had a chance.

Then it happened.

As the demigods paused to catch their breath, thinking they had won, a final foe—enormous, armored, and ancient—rose from the shadows, roaring with fury. The beast lunged, aiming straight for Hazel, its jagged weapon raised for a killing blow.

You didn’t hesitate. Without a second thought, you threw yourself between the beast and Hazel. Nico saw it as if in slow motion—how your eyes flashed with determination and your blade shone in the sun as you swung to kill the beast before a sickening crunch echoed across the battlefield. You had saved Hazel, but you had also been stuck, crumpling to the ground, your blood spilling across the earth.

“No!” Nico’s voice tore through the chaos, a raw cry filled with panic and horror. He barely felt his feet moving as he sprinted toward you. He reached your side in what felt like an eternity, falling to his knees beside you. Blood stained through your armor, dark and thick, pooling beneath your body. Your face was pale, lips quivering as you struggled to draw breath.

“Nico…” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, eyes fluttering.

“No, no, no stay with me.” Nico pleaded, his hands trembling as he pressed them against your wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. Around him, the other demigods rushed to your side—they moved quickly, but it felt agonizingly slow to Nico. The son of Aphrodite was barely conscious as Percy and Jason lifted him gently, careful not to jostle his broken form too much.

Hazel, pale with guilt and worry, led the way back to the makeshift camp they had set up behind the front lines. It was a patch of relative calm amidst the chaos of war, but Nico’s heart hammered in his chest like a storm.

“Will!” Nico screamed, his voice tight with fear. The blond healer turned around and paled upon seeing your state—ushering Percy and Jason to lay you in an empty bed.

“This is bad,” Will muttered, his voice hushed, trying to keep his composure as he assessed your chest. He pressed a glowing hand to your wound, his brow furrowed in concentration, but he shook his head slightly. “The weapon must’ve been enchanted—it’s deeper than it looks, and it’s not healing like it should.”

Nico’s throat tightened. “You can heal it though, right? You have to.”

Will glanced at Nico, his expression shadowed with doubt. “I don’t know, Nico. This kind of wound…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I’ll do everything I can.” His grip on your hand tightened as Will began his work, the faint golden glow of healing energy surrounding your body, but Nico could tell it wasn’t enough.

Hours passed, and Will pushed himself to the limit, alternating between ambrosia, nectar, and healing magic, trying everything he knew. But still, your breathing was shallow, and the wound stubbornly refused to fully close. Nico stayed by your side the entire time, refusing to move, barely blinking as he watched every flicker of your face for a sign of improvement.

The others came and went—between the battle's cleanup and burning of shrouds—they all offered words of comfort, but Nico barely registered them. His world had narrowed to the cot where you lay, your face pale and peaceful as if already slipping into the void.

Days blurred together. Each dawn brought a renewed wave of dread, as Nico feared you wouldn’t wake up. Every breath you took seemed a miracle, but it wasn’t enough. Ambrosia was fed to you sparingly, Will careful not to overuse it. Every time you twitched or murmured in your sleep, Nico’s heart leapt, only to sink again when you didn’t stir beyond that.

He never left your side.

“Nico you need to rest,” Will urged gently, exhaustion lining his own features. “You’ve been here for days. You can’t keep going like this.”

Nico shook his head. “I’m not leaving him.”

Will opened his mouth to argue but stopped. He knew better than to push Nico. The look in his eyes—dark, haunted—was enough to silence any protest. He had seen that look before, in the faces of those who had lost too much already, those who were on the edge of breaking. “Okay.” Will said softly, placing a reassuring hand on Nico’s shoulder before stepping out of the tent. His footsteps faded, leaving the ghost king alone in the dimly lit space.

Nico leaned forward, resting his forehead on the back of your hand. His body was heavy with exhaustion, every muscle aching from his own battle wounds and malnutrition, not having eaten anything in days, but he couldn't leave. Nico wouldn't. The thought of walking away, even for a moment, felt like abandonment—like if he left your side, you might slip away for good. And that…that was something Nico couldn’t bear.

“I convinced myself there was time to tell you how I felt,” Nico said, his voice cracking, each word feeling like it was pulled from a wound too deep to close. “But now…now it might be too late.”

His breath hitched, and he squeezed your hand tighter, as if holding onto you physically would stop you from slipping away. He could feel the faint warmth of your skin, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel real—none of this did. You were so still, your chest rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths. The strong, brilliant demigod he admired—no, loved—reduced to this fragile, fading presence in the cot before him.

Nico swallowed hard, the ache in his chest nearly unbearable. "I should’ve told you the moment I realized. I should’ve been braver. But I was scared. Scared that you wouldn’t feel the same, or worse—that if I let you in, you’d leave me. Like Bianca did."

The name hung heavy in the air, thick with old grief. His sister. His rock. The one person who had ever made him feel less alone—until you came along. Losing her had shattered him in ways he’d never fully recovered from, and the thought of losing you now? It was a nightmare he couldn’t endure.

“I couldn’t handle it,” Nico whispered, his voice trembling as the confession spilled out. “If you leave me, I don’t know if I’ll survive it. Not again. I’m not strong enough to go through that again.”

The dam broke, and the words came faster, more desperate. “I swear, if you die on me, I’ll follow you. I don’t care what Will or anyone says. I’ll follow you to Elysium if I have to." He pressed his forehead against the back of your hand, his body shaking with the effort of holding back tears. "I love you. I should’ve said it before. I love you, and I’m not ready to let you go."

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Nico stayed perfectly still, the weight of his confession hanging between you, the silence around him thick and unbearable. Then, faintly, a shift—a movement so small Nico almost didn’t notice it. Your fingers twitched beneath his.

His eyes snapped open, and he lifted his head in disbelief. A soft, rasping sound reached his ears. “Nico…” His heart lurched. Your eyes fluttered open, bleary and filled with pain, but undeniably alive. You coughed weakly, wincing at the movement, but your lips curled into a faint smile. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Nico froze, staring at you as if you were a ghost. The relief hit him so suddenly that he couldn’t breathe. “You’re awake…” His voice was barely a whisper, disbelief coloring every word.

Your smile widened just a fraction, though it was strained with effort. “You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?”

Nico’s relief was overwhelming, but it didn’t come without an edge of something sharper. Anger, bitter and cold, began to surface as he stared at you, still fragile but alive. The thought of how close you came to dying—how close he came to losing you—made his chest tighten painfully.

He pulled back, his expression hardening, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “What the hell were you thinking!? You nearly died out there!”

You blinked, still groggy but more aware now, and gave a weak smile. “Someone had to, right?” you rasped, trying to lighten the tension, but Nico wasn’t having it.

“That’s not the point!” Nico’s voice was louder than he intended, eyes burning with something between fury and heartbreak. “You could’ve died. You almost did."

Your smile widened, even as you winced at the effort. “You would’ve done the same thing,” you said, your voice hoarse but filled with that infuriating calmness. “If it had been you, and Hazel was in danger, you wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Nico froze, his jaw clenching as the truth of your words settled over him. He wanted to argue, to shout at you for being reckless and careless with your life, but he couldn’t. You were right, and that only made it worse. If the roles were reversed, Nico knew, deep down, that he would’ve done exactly the same thing.

You smirked at his silence, clearly pleased with yourself. “See?” you said softly, your voice still weak but playful. “I know you, di Angelo.”

Nico scowled, but his anger was already slipping away, replaced by something warmer, something he couldn’t quite name but felt deep in his bones. He didn’t reply to your teasing, didn’t trust himself to say anything without his emotions spilling over again. Instead, he just shook his head and muttered, “You’re impossible.”

You laughed, though it quickly turned into a pained cough. Nico’s heart clenched again, his worry returning in full force. “I don’t care what you think,” He said after a moment, his voice quieter now, but still laced with intensity. “Next time, don’t throw your life away for anyone. Not Hazel. Not even me.”

You met his gaze, your smile softening. “I won’t.” you said, though the glint in your eyes told him you were lying. Nico didn’t reply to that. He knew you too well—knew that your words were empty promises. But for now, you were alive, and that was all that mattered.

[cy6err]

Whoops — W.S.

Pairings: Walker Scobell x Actress!Reader

Warnings: kissing ? (On the cheek)

Summary: Your boyfriend Walker made a mistake whilst you were on live…

A/N: I kind of don’t like this one 🥸 but this is a part 2 of first look! (check that one out first if you want, but it’s not required to.) also, this is awfully short and I apologise for it 🙏🏻

. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

It had been a few months since you and Walker have been together for, but you two kept it on the down low. The people who knew were Aryan and Leah (of course), and they too kept it a secret. The only reason was because you and Walker didn’t want to try and start a whole bunch of chaos within the fandom about your guys’ relationship.

Knowing how the fans are, you both decided to not reveal anything between you two— Other than the light flirting and glances you give each other during small videos uploaded by your friends. It was nice having him as your boyfriend… texting and calling each other every day, unless he’s busy with work or school obviously.

He would also call you during his live streams with Brady Noon— but you stayed in mute because you didn’t want others to hear you talking, you just wanted to be in each other’s presence.

Due to him being busy with work, you barely had time to call or even text him anymore. Yes, he did text you, but they were mostly dry responses. However, he made sure to put an emoji at the end of them so you knew he wasn’t being dry on purpose.

The calls were brief as well, only getting around 10-15 minutes of talking before the, “I’m being called to set and retouch my makeup, I’ll call you later.” Only to find yourself waiting until the moment you fall asleep with no call from him.

He would send an apology text and tell you how much he still cared about you to ease your overthinking. You understood that he was gonna be busy a lot more than usual now that he was filming for PJO season 2.

Sure, keeping the relationship a secret wasn’t all that bad, but it was somewhat hard to take pictures together without making anything obvious (Leah was so kind enough to help you two); So, you posted the ones you found most ‘friendly’ looking.

It had been a normal Saturday when you were home, laying in your bed and rotting in your room. You didn’t need to film until the next month or so, giving you some time to relax after filming for 2 and a half months straight. Your mom was out for the day doing some errands, leaving you home alone for some time.

Walker was also busy today, needing to film for season 2, so he was going to be very distant with you until further notice— which you hated. After contemplating on what to do, you decide to go live for a bit on Instagram and interact with a few fans.

You got up from your bed and set your phone up on your desk next to your window, making sure there was enough light to show yourself clearly. You tap the ‘live’ button and waited a bit for some people to join (which was really quick). You had over 1,009 viewers already and you were pretty shocked at how many people joined the live in under two minutes.

“Hi guys! How are you all doing today?” You greet, smiling widely as you laugh at the flooding comments. Each one being: “are you and Walker dating?” “Where’s Walker?” “Do you and Walker have a thing going on??”

Shaking your head, you deny the comments. “No, we’re just close friends. And he’s doing well, just busy at the moment.” You sat there as you played with a few objects sitting on your desk, answering other questions from them.

You were getting really engrossed with the conversation that you didn’t even realise your mom calling your name until you heard your bedroom door open. “Y/n, you in here?” She asked, peeking her head in your room.

“Oh, hey mom. Sorry, I didn’t hear you because I’m live right now.” You give an apologetic smile, “did you need something?”

Your mom waved to the camera as the comments spammed “hi mrs. L/n!!”

“Just checking up on you, what do you want for dinner?” Your mom asked, moving a strand of hair out of your face.

“Uhh, I’m not sure. Surprise me?”

“Sure,” she laughs, “I’ll call you down in a bit. I invited some friends over and they might spend the night, clean your room please.”

“Okay, are they gonna sleep in here?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhm! I’ll let you know when food’s ready.” Your mom then left the room leaving you back to your live.

You turn back to your camera and sigh, “well, unexpected guests I guess… and my room is not that messy!”

“Yeah it is.” A familiar voice said from behind, your head snapping toward the direction. Your eyes lit up with joy when you saw your boyfriend leaning against your doorframe, making you jump up from your seat to hug him.

“Walker! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” You exclaim, embracing him tightly to which he returned with a chuckle.

“Yeah, got some time off for a bit and decided to surprise you. I thought it was obvious when your mom said she was inviting friends over?” Walker said, looking at you with wonder.

“I thought she meant the neighbourhood friends and their children.” You shrug, pulling away but not quite letting go of him.

It was a moment of silence when he finally spoke up in a soft, sweet tone. “I missed you.”

You felt your face get warm and your smile grew, “I missed you too.”

With that, he leaned in for a quick a quick kiss, making you mirror the action until you stopped and looked away, making him kiss your cheek instead. He looked at you confused and a little disappointed, “Why’d you do that?”

“Walker, I’m live. I completely forgot.” You quickly run to your phone, grabbing it as Walker immediately became red from embarrassment. The chat was filled with spamming: “OMG” “THEY’RE DATING!!” “WALKER X Y/N CONFIRMEDD” “MY SHIP HAS SAILED.”

“Im so so sorry, oh my god.” Walker groaned, throwing himself onto the bed as you laugh lightly. “It’s okay, Walker. I guess it’s one way of telling the fandom about our relationship.”

He buried his face into the pillows and ignored you, despite his big smile on his face. You quickly said your goodbyes to the fans and ended the live, joining him in the bed. “We were gonna tell them eventually, right?”

Walker took a peek at you and nods, “yeah. I guess so, I just hope it doesn’t ruin anything.”

You lie down and mess with his curls a bit, “Just ignore them. Being with you is all that matters, you’re my ray of sunshine”

He laughed at your comment, “you’re so corny.” Laughing with him, you got closer until your mom came in the room.

“Foods ready— don’t get too close to each other now.” She says, giving a pointed look making you roll your eyes playfully as she left the room.

“Come on, let’s go eat. Im starving.” You pull at his arm and drag him out of the bed, making him get up.

“Okay, okay!” He grins, kissing your cheek and following you downstairs to eat dinner.

—

(He surprised you with flowers 🤍)

—

HII IM SO SORRY IT WAS SHORT 😔 BUT NONETHELESS, I HOPE YOU LIKED IT :)) it was lowk hard to finish this. feel free to send requests !!

Tag list: @defnot-bri

[m1ckeyb3rry]

MY DEAREST MIRA HAPPY 1K 💯🤍 wowow your blog grew sm so quick i literally blinked and boom ur at 1k !?!?!!? congratulations i have and always will be in love with your writing i seriously need to catch up on ur works eheh..

i know the bare minimum about pokemon but google was indeed my friend so… may i request a team consisting of kaiser and arctibax (dragon + ice) 🫡 you know me and angst, plus the fact that i’ve been wanting to read fantasy as of late 🙂‍↕️

── SWORD OF THE SAINT

Synopsis: Shortly after the death of your mother, you meet a mysterious man in your family’s chapel, and as the days grow colder, you find that he is the closest thing to a savior you might ever know.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Word Count: 18.1k

Content Warnings: pseudo-christianity written by someone who is NOT christian, fantasy au with nonexistent worldbuilding #deal with it, death, angst, no happy ending, sickness, killing, reader is kinda delicate but it IS for a reason beyond just “omg women weak” HAHA, kaiser is an angel, kaiser is also kind of a jerk, kaiser is probably ooc idfk at this point, kaiser pisses me off, i don’t like kaiser, this is based on an actual myth but in the way pjo is based on greek mythology (so basically not at all)

A/N: ANGELLLL HI MY DEAR!! omg hehe i know i feel like i was just at 500 it’s crazy that i already managed to hit 1k 😩 you were an og though fr my seventh follower or smth like that LMAOAO we’ve been through it all together!! anyways sorry this actually rlly sucks but uh…kaiser’s in it ig…and it’s a fantasy au…and it’s kinda sad…and it has an angel…because you’re an angel…😭

The winter before the plague broke out, the river spilled over its banks, stealing your stores of grain and leaving serpents to litter your streets. They were vipers of the diamond-scaled variety, with blue tongues and slit eyes and thin teeth, white with venom and red at the tips. Their killing was random and indiscriminate — the trails of blood they left behind them dried on the cobblestones, and no one dared to wash the dark smears away for fear of their retribution, for fear that they would be the next victim.

It was an omen, that much was clear, though no matter how many stars the king turned to, he could never quite understand what it portended. Anyways, before he could divine the significance, the snakes vanished, leaving the city devoid of life, bar the bronze-footed horses and those individuals who had had the sense to remain inside and away from the dark-mouthed beasts.

The harshness of the winter never abated any; you were never given anything resembling reprieve from terrors after terrors, which came in quick succession. The departure of the serpents was followed by a fortnight of storms, raging winds lashing at your tightly-shuttered windows, shards of ice like daggers driving from the sky into the hard, barren ground, and after the storms there was, for a brief week, a time of eerie stillness where nothing grew nor prospered. 

That week, your every word turned to fog in the air — at least, when you deigned to speak, which was rare — and even the ermine-trimmed cloak your youngest uncle had gifted you two birthdays ago did little to ward away the cold. Your mother, who was of a delicate constitution, shivered near-constantly, wasting away by the fire which burned at all hours with a forlorn expression on her wan face.

It grew warm again, in time, but your mother’s trembling never did cease. You added your cloak to the pile of furs she was buried in, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could seem to warm her, to breathe life into the husk of a being that she had become — she was hollow like a rattling cicada shell, her cheeks sunken and her eyes blank. 

Right about when your father was at his wits’ end, there was news of the first death: a peasant, one of the farmers in the king’s employ, who had grown unbearably cold and subsequently wilted into a corpse, spending his last few days alive in the same manner a skeleton might.

Your father, the eldest of the king’s younger brothers, had enough power still that he could command every physician in the kingdom to search for a cure. It was obvious that this was the affliction poisoning your mother, who grew worse and worse daily anew. Yet no matter how hard they searched, they could not find any herb nor method of soothing her.

In the meantime, the black-cloaked disease visited homes with even less discernment than the vipers had. There was nary a family who did not have at least one member with the sickness; eventually, the physicians came before your father and the elder of your uncles, the king himself, bowing their cowardly necks and saying there was nothing to be done about it. It was doom. Anyone who had the illness would surely die, and the best thing that could be done for your mother now was to leave her be so that you, too, did not fall victim to her plight.

You stood abruptly at the announcement, which ordinarily would have earned you glares from the surrounding noblemen but today only entitled you to their pity. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you ran towards your mother’s quarters as fast as you could, ignoring your father’s shouts for the guards to stop you.

She was where she always was, and even the slamming of the door did not cause her to flinch. The firelight reflected in her eyes, which shone like mirrors, and when you knelt by the armchair she rarely moved from, she exhaled slightly.

“Mother,” you whispered, drawing her hand out of the blankets and holding it to your cheek. It was bony and thin; already, she was more skeleton than woman, but something in her must’ve prevailed, must’ve rallied and clung to existence, for her heart still beat in her chest, however shallowly. “Mother, don’t — please don’t —”

She sighed softly. You wondered if she could even hear you, or if she was too fascinated with something beyond your vision to know that you were there. You clutched her hand tighter, her knuckles digging into your palm, her fingers like snow on your face.

“Y/N!” It was your father, bursting into the room, guards flanking him as they raced towards you. You pressed closer to your mother’s chair, gazing up at her. To your surprise, her eyes had widened, reflecting a radiance that made even the hearth seem pale. Her lips, once lush and painted, now dry and cracked from dehydration, parted in wonder, and then for the first time since she had grown sick, she spoke.

“Michael,” she breathed out.

“Michael?” you repeated. Even your father paused, tremulous hope brimming in his irises as your mother smiled slightly. Her hand on your face balled into a fist against the bone of your jaw, and then abruptly it loosened. “Mother? Mother, what do you mean, Michael?”

She laughed. It was a wheezing sound, brittle and reedy, breaking off at the end into something painful. For the first time, she tilted her head towards you, and it was as if she were met with a stranger, though eventually recognition did flash across her face.

“Ah, daughter,” she said, her voice hoarse as she smoothed her hand over your hair. “He is here. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings.”

“There is no one,” you said, your throat thick with tears, your voice barely able to escape it. “No one is here but us.”

The soft motions of her fingers stilled, and she settled back in her chair, suddenly content. You gripped her wrist, willing her to come back, but she was no longer awake, her eyelids sealed shut, a faint smile still lingering on her face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” your father said gruffly, as if waking from a dream. Before you knew it, one of the guards, a handsome boy with hair like marigolds and eyes like autumn, was lifting you from the ground, carrying you out of the room despite your half-hearted protests and depositing you on the ground in the corridor with a bow.

“My father is still in there. You ought to retrieve him, as well,” you said. The guard looked towards the door and shook his head.

“If your father wishes to stay, then it is not my place to stop him,” he said.

“I see,” you said, for there was no point in further argument. Leaning against the stone wall, you wrapped your arms around your torso; compared to the sweltering heart of your mother’s chambers, the corridor was all but frigid. “Do you think this plague is some sort of a punishment?”

“For what, your highness?” the guard said. He was humoring you only because your father, to whom he was sworn, remained in the room even now, so you only shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” you said. “Perhaps the people have committed some wrong, or perhaps it was my uncle, his majesty the king.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I am not so well-versed in the matters of theology.”

“Only of the sword, I’d reckon,” you said. 

“That’s right,” he said.

“My mother mentioned Michael,” you said. “Right before you dragged me out.”

“My apologies for that, your highness, but it was your father’s command,” he said.

“It’s alright,” you said, finding some diversion in the conversation, which at any rate was a welcome distraction. “I do not blame you. Do you know who Michael is?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said. “Though I suppose you might know more than I do.”

“Likely it is the case,” you agreed. “He’s the emperor of angels, or so they claim. Perhaps we are biased because he is our kingdom’s guardian; well, anyways, according to the stories and the songs, he is the one who enacts divine will unto us. Supposedly he amongst his peers is the most merciful by far, but there are as many or more poems of his rage as there are of his kindness, so who can say?”

“I didn’t know the last part,” the guard said. You patted his armored shoulder, motioning for him to follow you — he did so hesitantly, with a backwards glance at his broad-backed counterpart, who stayed behind to watch over your still-absent father.

“It’s true, though I doubt rage and kindness are things he can really understand,” you said, weaving through the hallways of the palace until you reached a familiar wooden door. 

“What does that mean?” the guard said.

“It’s a personal theory,” you said. “But how can we expect angels to understand the turmoils of humanity when they are so removed from it?”

“I confess I’m lost, your highness,” he said, ducking his head. “I shall continue to pursue the ways of the sword and leave such philosophical questions to you and your ilk.”

“Maybe it is for the best,” you said. “I don’t know that my uncle would be so pleased to learn I am becoming a preacher to the common folk. It’s not the kind of role best-suited to a princess.”

“Certainly not,” the guard said.

“Have you ever been here?” you said as you strode past the tapestry-lined walls of the gallery without pause. The guard shook his head.

“I’ve never had cause to,” he said. Arriving upon the painting you wished to show him, you stopped abruptly, pointing at the gilt-framed portrait, reveling in the shock which twisted his features. 

“It’s him,” you said. “The one my mother spoke of. Naturally, the painter has been lost to time, but the subject can never be forgotten.”

The background was plain — a muddy field, gray clouds brewing on the horizon and threatening rain, sunlight breaking through in a halo over his brow. He was tall and regal, a sword in his right hand, pointed at the neck of the viper upon which his left foot was planted. Gold hair cascaded down his shoulders, the shade of the sun at midday, and in his right hand was a rose, the same impossible color of blue as his eyes. The vines of it crept up his arm and curled around his neck, and from his back sprouted a pair of wings, the feathers silver-brown like an eagle’s, unfurled like banners in the air behind him.

“Michael,” the guard said.

“Yes,” you said. “He reveals himself to us very rarely, and only if there is some message which he wishes to impart. I wonder…I wonder what it means that he appeared to my mother.”

“He’s a healer, isn’t he?” he said. “Perhaps with this blessing, she will be the first to recover from this plague.”

“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “Well, I suppose I ought to return to the court and apologize for my misconduct.”

“Nobody blames you, your highness,” he said. “Nor do they think poorly of the reaction.”

“Regardless, it was unruly and childish,” you said. “I do not wish for my father to fall from my uncle’s favor because of my behavior. It’ll be better if I show that I am remorseful. Come, then, let us go. Unless my father has banned that as well?”

“He has made no such demands,” the guard. “After you, your highness.”

“Very well,” you said, and with one final glance at the painting of the severe angel, you led the guard out of the gallery, back towards the throne room you had fled from earlier.

Your father spent the night in your mother’s chambers, though his advisors begged him not to; perhaps it was a form of precognition or intuition, for he ignored their advice and lay at her feet until the next morning, whereupon he exited the room and informed you all, his countenance faded and dull and lifeless, that she was dead.

The carriage ride to your family’s summer estate was silent and awkward. As soon as your mother had been buried in the royal cemetery, your father had insisted you escape to your riverside manor, which had remained mercifully untouched from the winter’s floods. And so, although it was still barely spring and more people fell to the plague by the day, you packed your things and took leave from the castle, at nighttime when there would be no one to see you go. So quickly was it all done that the earth over your mother’s grave was still freshly turned, and you didn’t even have the time to wish her farewell before your father was ushering you into the carriage and whispering to the coachman to hasten his preparations.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again and again. It was such a hollow refrain that he kept repeating, clinging to it like it was sanity, but it didn’t become any more believable the more times he said it.

Yet regardless, you responded with the same thing every time: “Yes, father.”

“Perhaps this plague is a curse on the castle, in which case we are justified in fleeing,” your father said. “And I have already told my brother.”

You pulled your cloak tighter around you to ward away the nip of the nighttime air. “Yes, father.”

“Besides, who can blame us? Not when — not when your mother—” he broke off.

“Yes,” you said miserably. “Father.”

He might’ve ordinarily snapped at you, but today he only sighed and nodded slightly. You supposed you should’ve been grateful that he had enough of a handle on his grief that he could refrain from spitting poison at you, but gratitude was one emotion you could not bring yourself to muster just then, so all you could give him was an exhausted upturn of your mouth which resembled a smile in its barest form.

In the sprawling grounds of the summer estate, it was easy to pretend that nothing wrong had ever happened. There was no sign of serpents amongst the prickly evergreens, for the needly undergrowth was hostile to their pale, soft bellies, and so few servants remained there year round that, of their small number, the majority weren’t even aware a plague had broken out in the first place.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again, this time with finality, helping you down from the carriage and brushing himself off. “This was the right decision.”

You wanted to tell him that there was no world in which you earnestly agreed with that, because you had left your mother behind, and how could that be right? Yet he was so determined that you did not have the heart to, so you only exhaled and shuffled after him, the thought of staying outside for even another moment all but unbearable.

There was much less to do in the lonely manor, where you sat by yourself at all hours of the day, so eventually, despite your reluctance, your thoughts turned to the last time you had seen your mother, replaying that final conversation over and over in your mind until it was all you could see.

On the third day of this self-imposed torture, you dragged yourself out of your bed, trudging to the chapel which your father had commissioned — not for himself, for he was never religious, but for your mother, who often found solace in the marble of its walls and the gold of its altar.

The door, heavy and wooden and large enough to admit a pair of horses at once, opened with a groan and a plume of dust, revealing the inside of the chapel, which was as ornate as you remembered. Your father had spared no expense in its construction, and the floors and walls alike were covered in intricate, patterned mosaic, the high windows rimmed with marble and the ceiling painted with delicate, jewel-colored pigment.

In the middle of the room was a figure, and at first you thought he must be a statue, but then he moved slightly to face you and you realized he was a man; at least, if one could consider someone like that a man, for he bore all the resemblance to the cheerful guards of the palace that a dove did to a common sparrow. His hair was choppy and short and gold, though the ends faded into a blue shade as they trailed down his back, and his bright eyes were lined with something the color of blood that only threw the azure of his irises into greater relief. There was a sort of perfection to the slope of his nose and the curve of his neck, his shoulders held straight and true, his chin high and proud — strangest of all, however, stranger than any of these things by far, was that there was a rusted sword clenched in his fist, the sheath of which sat empty on his hip.

You were quite certain that he did not belong there, but you did not have the wherewithal to question him, so you only shut the door behind you and sat in the entrance, leaning against the walnut frame and closing your eyes, clasping your hands together in front of you and wishing you had something to pray for.

“What have you come here in search of?”

The voice was unfamiliar and keen, like a dagger in your heart or a fang in your calf. You knew without knowing that it must be the man speaking; opening your eyes, you were unsurprised to find him peering at you with no small amount of disdain.

“Whatever do you mean?” you said. He stared at you with a discomfiting intensity, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword, his eyes wide and endless like the sky, his brows furrowed.

“People don’t come here unless they want something,” he said. “So what is it that you pray for?”

“The things I want are impossible to obtain, so I do not pray for them at all,” you said. 

“Hardly anything is impossible. What a limiting way to think,” he said. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“At least it is not an arrogant one,” you said. “Unless you believe that resurrecting my mother is truly something which can be done?”

“Arrogant?” the man said. “Certainly, your mother could be brought back, so for you to accuse me of arrogance is unfounded. The question is whether she should be revived.”

“What a pointless differentiation,” you said. “I doubt you believe she should be.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “Though I don’t believe anyone should, so you ought not to take it personally.”

You swallowed, hugging your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them and averting your eyes from the strange man. Likely you should’ve felt angry at his callousness, but in the moment, the only feeling you could summon was resignation.

“Perhaps that is the truth,” you said. “Then it is the same regardless. She won’t ever come back. This is her chapel, you know. I thought I might find some reprieve by encasing myself in this place, but I suppose it isn’t so. There is no reprieve. I think of her always.”

The man made no move to offer you any words of reassurance, nor did he drop his sword. He just stood there and watched you with the sort of wary caginess that one might expect from a half-tamed animal, shifting and unsettled and pacing. You found it almost comforting that he did not offer you any platitudes nor condolences, for you had heard enough of those that you were sick of them.

“Who are you, anyways?” you said. “A servant? I don’t recognize you, but then it has been some time since I last came to this estate, so it isn’t a surprise.”

“I am something along those lines,” he said. 

“And what business do you have in this chapel?” you said. “As far as I know, only members of my family are permitted entry.”

“Nobody has ever stopped me,” he said. “So why shouldn’t I be allowed? Do you mean to cast me from here?”

He was already shifting from foot to foot, as if he expected you to strike him or throw him from the chapel; it wasn’t an incorrect sentiment, exactly, for certainly if you were your father you would’ve, especially for his earlier impudence. What cause did a mere servant have to talk to the king’s family in such a way? But you could not summon that same indignation, so you only shook your head, standing on legs which had grown sleepy and electric from inactivity.

“No, I have no great desire to,” you said. “If you do not disturb me, then I won’t disturb you. Might we coexist in that manner?”

His eyebrows raised almost involuntarily, and then he shrugged. It was an odd way of doing it, though you couldn’t exactly point out what was odd about it, and then he tapped his sword against his leg.

“I suppose it isn’t a tall order,” he said.

“You should leave your sword at the door, however,” you said. “Aren’t weapons forbidden in places like this?”

“It stays,” he said with finality. You peered at it; it was a comely instrument despite its age, the hilt gold and embellished with roses, dark corrosion creeping up the blue-white blade like vines, the tip as sharp as a thorn. His fingers were wrapped around it like a vice, and you tilted your head when you realized that there was something black drawn on his hand, resembling an emperor’s crown, though you were too far to ascertain if that was what it truly was.

“As you wish,” you said. “It’s not me who you’ll have to answer to, anyways. At least I tried.”

“Your efforts will be appreciated by someone or another, I’m sure,” he said.

“I’m sure they will be,” you said with a scoff. “Ah, wait, sir. Before you leave — can I ask for your name?”

“My name? Why, so you may curse it?” he said.

“So that I may call you by it,” you said. “If we happen to meet again, here or elsewhere.”

“Is it important to you?” he said.

“It’s a courtesy,” you said.

“Since when has the king’s family ever known courtesy?” he said. You thought he might shirk away after the brazen statement, but he only gazed at you levelly, as if challenging you to respond.

“We are trained in it from birth, and must practice it from then on,” you said.

“Courtesy and etiquette are not the same thing,” he shot back.

“Will you tell me your name or not? This exchange is tiresome,” you said. “I shall assign you a name of my own if you do not give it. I doubt it will be to your tastes.”

“Kaiser,” he said. “You can call me that, if you are so insistent.”

“Kaiser,” you repeated, tasting it in your mouth. There was a familiarity and a power to the word, but you could not place your finger on what it meant; deciding it was unimportant, you nodded. “I am Y/N.”

“Yes, I knew that already,” he said.

“It would’ve been rude if I did not introduce myself to you as well,” you said.

“And there is the difference between courtesy and etiquette,” he said.

“Hm?” you said. He did not even look at you, lifting his chin so that he could admire the ceiling.

“What a beautiful scene,” he said. 

“Beautiful?” you said, frowning. You had never taken the time to understand it, but now you saw that it was a depiction of Michael killing the hellish viper that was his bane. The roughness of the strokes, however, lended a gruesome quality to it that the painting in the king’s gallery did not have — Michael’s face was twisted into a grotesque leer instead of a gentle smile, and his sword was stabbed through the serpent’s throat instead of pointed at it in warning. Red-glazed pebbles wept like tears along the snake’s body, and the sword in Michael’s hand was made of cruel ivory, his eyes chips of blue glass that twinkled with delight instead of solemnity. 

“Isn’t it?” he said, smiling for the first time, not at you but at the mosaic. 

“Well, there’s a quality to the workmanship,” you said. “But it’s too gory for my tastes.”

“The truth of things can never be too gory,” he instructed you, and though he had no qualifications in the way of priesthood, you were somehow inclined to listen. “The truth is the truth. If that is how it happened, then you must accept it.”

“Who are we to know how it happened?” you said.

“Who indeed?” he said.

“You speak in riddles,” you said. “It is distracting. I do not mind it, though, because there is much I wish to be distracted from at present, so I am not chiding you, necessarily, but I hope that you know.”

“I know,” he said, amusement in his tone. “It’s something I’ve been accused of many times before, and by men several orders of magnitude more important than you as well.”

“I see,” you said. “Regardless, I believe my father might search for me soon, and as I have found some merriment in you, I do not wish for him to find you here quite yet, so I shall take my leave. But I will return! Please be here when I do.”

“I will be here,” he said, despite the fact that you hadn’t mentioned when you would next visit the chapel. You didn’t question it; he felt like the kind of person that was better left a mystery, or at least figured out slowly, so that no layers were missed.

The next morning, you entered the chapel as the bell rang upon the hour, peering in through the door and smiling slightly when you saw him perched upon a bench made of the same rich walnut as the entryway. He was perfectly still, his back straight, his sword laid across his lap, and he did not turn to greet you, staring straight at the flickering candles of the altar. Your footsteps echoed as you crossed the room, sitting on the bench directly opposite him, facing the candles as well.

“Did you light them?” you said.

“They were already lit,” he said.

“Hm,” you said. “It wasn’t me.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“I suppose someone else visits this place, too,” you said. 

“What will you do about it?” he said.

“Nothing,” you said. “If it brings them solace, then who am I to deny them that? The nearest church is a long walk; even this is not so close to the manor. I am weary already.”

At this he did glance at you, his eyes lowering for a moment before he returned his attention to the front of the room.

“You are frail, then,” he said. “The walk is not that long.”

“My mother was the frail one,” you said. “I have inherited my father’s good health, or so I am told.”

“Ah,” he said. 

“I will have to come on my horse next time,” you said, only half-joking. Perhaps the distance was not quite long enough to warrant riding, but you really had been winded, and the constriction of your chest was more than a little unpleasant, like there was a stone pressing into your heart.

“If that is what you require,” he said, clearly disinterested in the conversation. You wondered what he saw in the candles, if there was something he could divine from the small, captive flames.

“Was your mother a moth?” you said.

“What?” he said, blinking at you in alarm. “Are you an idiot?”

He said it so genuinely that it felt more like concern than anything. You suppressed a smile, pointing at the beeswax dripping into the golden bowl set there to collect it.

“I’ve only ever seen moths be so enamored by candles before,” you said. 

“So you are an idiot,” he said, clicking his tongue. “What a foolish thing to say.”

“It was in jest,” you said. “My apologies. I shall remain serious in your company henceforth.”

“See to it that you are silent as well,” he said, and so you were, sitting across the aisle from him and watching the candles until they burnt out. Even then, he stayed facing the wisps of smoke, tracking them with his eyes as they fluttered into the air with the briskness of a wasp, so eventually you left him behind, him and those blackened stumps marring the air and the altar alike with their crumbling, papery ash.

“There is news that the plague is worsening,” your father said one day at dinner. The news of the plague brought to the forefront of your mind your mother, who you had done so well at ignoring until then. It was easy to pretend that the sickness had never existed, that those days of flooding rivers and viper-lined streets and shivering women had been nothing more than horrible dreams in quick succession. 

“I suppose it shouldn’t come as a shock,” you said. “Winter has come early this year.”

“Do you think so?” your father said. You gulped, pushing at your food with your fork.

“Already, there is a chill in the air,” you said. 

“What horrible luck,” he said. “We’ve hardly had time to recover and replenish our stores of grain. If frost comes to the fields early, then we are doomed.”

“I am surprised it has not yet bitten the earth,” you admitted. Your father, who had always trusted you more than most men would trust their daughters, groaned, dragging his hand over his face.

“There is still time?” he said.

“We can hope,” you said.

“I will order the fiefs to begin their harvesting at once,” he said. “By all rights, summer is still yet to fade into autumn, but even if it is premature, the crops should be serviceable, and the fields can be replanted at once. If it goes well, then our yields may nearly double.”

“A sensible decision, father,” you said. “That should be more than enough to last us all until the next spring.”

“Thank you for your counsel, my girl,” your father said, and if you were not seated at the table, he would’ve patted your shoulder or kissed your cheek or shown his pride in some other such affectionate manner. “I will be lost without you.”

“I am not going anywhere,” you said. “Am I?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But one day you will leave this manor for your husband’s home, and then I shall be on my own.”

“That is still some years away,” you said. 

“As many years as possible,” your father said. “There are no suitors in this kingdom worthy of you, anyways.”

“I will trust you when you say that, father,” you said. The lines around his eyes deepened from the force of his grin, and it heartened you to see, for he hadn’t smiled much since your mother had died. Setting your cutlery down, crossing them over your plate as was neat and expected, you placed your hand over his, the skin of his hunt-worn palms rough against yours. “For now, I am content here.”

“And here you shall stay,” he said, firm and sure in the way that only the brother of a king could be. What he said was what happened. He commanded things into existence and so they did occur; it was the kind of power that very few were afforded, and hardly ever in a greater quantity than him, so when he spoke, it was always with the weight of expectation behind it.

You really did ride your horse to the chapel after that dinner with your father. Now that you had mentioned it to him, you could not help feeling the signs of the impending ice of the dead season, and only hugging the warm neck of your little bay palfrey as she trotted along could ward it away. She was gentle and game enough to not mind it, nuzzling you when you got off and dropping her head to graze where you tied her. You pulled your gloves off and tucked them in your pocket, rubbing the whorl of a white star on her forehead before ducking into the chapel.

It was later than you had been the other times you had come, but Kaiser was there anyways, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his forehead pressed against the altar. Never had you seen such misconduct, but you thought he must be sleeping, so you did what you could to be as silent as possible, tiptoeing over to stand behind him, reaching out your hand to jostle him.

“Don’t,” he said, flinching back and glaring at you over his shoulder.

“You were awake?” you said.

“Yes,” he said. 

“I thought you were not,” you said. He squinted at you.

“Your powers of discernment are frightening,” he said.

“Because of their uncanny strength?” you tried.

“The opposite,” he said. “You are fumbling and blind. I do not know how you have made it so far in life.”

“Maybe it’s a miracle,” you said, sitting beside him, mirroring the arrangement of his legs, your elbows digging into your thighs so that you could rest your chin in your hands. “My birth was one. Why not the rest of my life?”

“I assume you want me to ask what you mean by that,” he said.

“It’s not that I want it,” you said, swiveling eagerly so that you could face him. He snorted, not offering you the same dignity, the gold of the altar reflecting on his cheekbones. “But I’ll tell you if you’d like!”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. You waited, but he did not budge. The sword was at his side, his one hand placed over it, so instead of telling him any stories, you bent so that you could inspect the weapon.

“Where did you get this, anyways?” you said. “It’s of a make I don’t recognize.”

“And you are well-acquainted with every blacksmith in the entire kingdom, I expect?” he said.

“The ones of note, yes,” you said. “The ones with the talent to make something so fine. Don’t you remember whose daughter I am? I was loved by knights long before my father laid eyes upon me. They taught me a little.”

“What use does a princess have for smithing?” he said, though he did not make any moves to pull the sword away, allowing you to inspect it. You dared not touch it, lest he yank it back, but it seemed the lingering of your eyes was permissible, so you were unabashed in allowing them to rest upon the gleaming metal.

“Not much,” you said. “But a knight has very many uses for the matter.”

“You are no knight,” he said with a sneer. 

“Of course not,” you said. Now that you were closer, you saw that the centers of the roses blooming on the hilt were sapphire, and what you had thought was rust had a different shade to it, something dried and burgundy that you could not identify. “But they were. The ways of the sword were all that they knew, so I was raised on such tales instead of the more typical stories.”

A gust of wind blew through the windows, and you shuddered, tucking your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Kaiser gripped his sword tighter, the veins of his hand standing out blue and angry, but otherwise he did not react.

“One blacksmith brands his work with a bull,” you said. “Another with a dog, and a third with laurels. Many and many things, yet the rose has no place on the list. It’s too sacred. Nobody would dare carve Michael’s symbol into a mere mortal weapon. Who are we, anyways? To compare ourselves to someone who does such grand things?”

“You said grand,” he noted. “Not great.”

“Great implies an antonym,” you said. “But I don’t think such concept really exist to him and those of that kind — good and bad and all. There are different scales, different evils, but the ways in which the angels impact our lives can only be grand or minute. It’s unfair to assign morality to it.”

“Yet if these acts, whether grand or minute, change your life for the better, or alternately for the worse, then can you not judge them to be either good or bad?” he said.

“I can, and indeed many do, but they are not my concern. I speak only of Michael, and I maintain that it is impossible for him to turn that judgment unto himself,” you said. “You know, my mother saw him right before she died. Everyone thought it was a stroke of good fortune. He’s a healer, so he must’ve been there to heal her — yet they forgot, in their desperate hope, that he also comes to escort us to our final resting places. As he had come for my mother.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

“Well,” you said. “That’s it, then. Is he evil for taking my mother? Can I liken him to a villain for what he did? I would like to. It would be easier…if there was someone to blame, then it would be easier. I wish I could hate someone for it, but I cannot. There is no one. Michael did not take her to hurt me; that is just what he does. I can point my finger at that ceiling and curse him, but what good will it do? It won’t change his nature.”

Kaiser was silent. You must’ve bored him, and you wished you could disappear into the floor, melt into a mosaic, and freeze in place before he could mock you.

“Angels are above humans,” he said after a while.

“Everyone knows that,” you said.

“So how can humans do something that an angel cannot?” he said. “How is it possible?”

“I suppose it’s not unique to them,” you said. “Asking an angel to understand a person is like asking you or I to empathize with a dormouse. The best we can do is impartiality; it’s the same for them, I’d say.”

“Dormice?” he said. “I don’t think it’s the same at all.”

“No?” you said. “I’m not that learned. I don’t take offense. There’s as many theories about these obscurities as there are stars in the sky; I pass the time by coming up with more by the day, for I have little else to do when I am not here, but of course they would not hold under examination. I’m hardly a priest.”

There was another gale, this one howling and accompanied by your horse huffing anxiously outside. You doubted it was anything more than an oncoming squall, and ordinarily you’d wait for it to pass, but you did not want to leave the mare alone in the rain, so reluctantly you stood, dipping your head at Kaiser in the politest farewell you could muster.

“Wait,” he said when you reached the door, his voice still a dull, quiet monotone that you had to strain to properly listen to. “Next time.”

“Next time?” you said.

“Tell me the story of your birth,” he said, and then he was glowering at you again, demanding and haughty and piercing all in turn. “I will understand you.”

“Who said you won’t?” you said rhetorically. “Farewell for now. Please be safe in returning to your quarters.”

Your mare pranced the entire way back to the stables, her ears pricked towards the sky, her tail held high and the whites of her eyes showing. You tangled your fingers in her mane, the coming storm seeping through the fabric of your cloak as you urged her forward, hardly making it to the stable before it began to pour, ducking under the stone lip of the roof and holding onto her reins with sweat-slicked hands, trembling from the relief of the near-miss and leaning against her muscular neck to regain your bearings.

At the end of that week, you were met with a visitor — the youngest and dearest of your uncles, who loved you as if you were his own eldest daughter. He had set out from his own manor as soon as he had heard the news, and such was his haste that even now, the grit of his travels lined his clothes and features, but that did not dampen his jovial spirit any.

“You must rest, uncle!” you said, wincing as he regaled you with a story about the strange twins he had met while riding to the manor, with faces like crocodiles and mouths that only spoke lies, right up until he cut their tongues out, after which they could no longer speak at all.

“My, my, how you fret! Lovely niece, you are more and more like your mother every day,” your uncle said. “You must be so proud of her.”

This was accompanied by a good-natured punch to your father’s arm; anyone else would’ve been reprimanded, but at his brother’s antics, your father could only roll his eyes and cuff him on the ear, just as good-natured and half-heartedly.

“I don’t think it’s possible for a man to be prouder,” he said.

“Thank you, father,” you said, curtseying before brandishing an irreverent finger at your uncle. “But really, I insist! Let me take you to your chambers. You have come so far — surely you are weary.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it…” he said.

“There will be plenty of time for your stories tomorrow over breakfast,” you assured him, taking the stairs slowly, so that he did not overexert himself. “I am sure you have many more.”

“Of course,” he said. “Though not all of them are as lively.”

“Is there cause for alarm?” you said. Your uncle turned away guiltily. Slipping the key to his chambers into the lock and rotating it, you waited. “You must tell me if there is.”

“I don’t want to cause undue stress,” he said. “Especially after everything with your mother.”

“You have already said it. Better to be done with the affair and tell me the whole of things; it’ll only stress me further if you leave me to conjure scenarios of my own in my mind, so there is no avoiding it now,” you said.

“Come in with me, then,” he said, following after you into the chambers where his luggage was already waiting. You sat on the edge of the bed, allowing him to collapse into the desk chair, his head in his hands. “The queen.”

“No,” you said, praying it was paranoia that forced your thoughts down the ugliest of paths. “No, you don’t mean—”

“She has taken ill,” he said. “Her condition is deteriorating at the same rate your mother’s did. My brother the king is…not optimistic. She has been secluded in an attempt to contain the affliction, though of course we do not know how long she has been sick and how much longer she has been contagious. The entire royal family, barring you, your father, and I — if we stay away from the palace, that is — could succumb before the flowers next bloom.”

“Only the three of us will be left?” you said. Your uncle nodded.

“It seems that even in death, your mother is looking out for you,” he said. Something scratched at the back of your throat, and despite how you tried to swallow it back, it only clawed its way up, coalescing into a small whimper. Your uncle’s face softened, returning ten years of youth to it. “Don’t be afraid. We are safe here. As safe as can be.”

“How does it matter?” you said. “If everyone else is gone, how does it matter?”

To this, your uncle had no response, so he only gave you a pitying look and bade you to return to your room, promising you both would meet again and discuss it in the morning, when your father could join you. Whether he would’ve held true to that oath or not, you didn’t know, because as soon as you heard the murmuring of the servants awakening, you threw on a pair of house-slippers and fled the manor, running as fast as you could to the chapel where you knew Kaiser would be waiting.

In the watery light of dawn, he was almost ghostly, ephemeral like smoke or a wraith, the blue of his hair iridescent, the gold closer to a soft cream. Today he was far from the candles, sitting on one of the benches again, his back to you. You panted from the exertion of your earlier pace, but he did not move, did not try to assist you or even greet you.

“There was a prophecy,” you coughed out, flopping onto the closest bench, lying on it with your feet hanging off of the ends. “About my mother. It said that my father’s blood would spell her death.”

Kaiser did not say anything, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t listening, or at least that was what you assured yourself with. He must’ve heard you. He must’ve known.

“My uncles commanded him to take a second wife. The prophecy must’ve referred to their progeny, and indeed every heir they attempted to conceive died in her womb before it could kill her in turn, further proving the point. My father refused, however. He wouldn’t do that to her. If he could not have a child with her, then he would not have one at all,” you said. “I’m sure you know where this is going.”

“They prayed,” he said. “In turn, they were gifted with a child.”

“And my mother did not die,” you said. “That’s why people say I’ve been agreeable for my entire life. I did not fuss, either. I was good, or so I’ve been told. The best of my cousins by far. At the time of my birth, my father was away on some campaign for my uncle the king, so he did not even hear of it for many months, and he could not return for many more. It’s why I was raised by knights and nuns.”

“And why you spout theories and smithing as if you were born to them,” he said.

“That as well. Anyways, the nuns always praised me for defying that prophecy,” you said. “For saving my mother from a certain death. Do you understand?”

“Prophecies are hardly ever so straightforward,” he said. “You can divine one million meanings from them, but it is the million-and-first which will come true. It’s foolhardy and presumptuous for one to claim they understand the truth behind the future. You can only know it once it has come to pass.”

“Yes,” you said. “I don’t disagree.”

“Perhaps it was still your father’s blood that led to your mother’s demise,” he said.

“How? She fell to the plague,” you said.

“It ended with the plague,” he said. “What did it begin with?”

“Snakes,” you said. “No, before that. A flood.”

“And before that?” he said, condescending as anything. It would’ve been infuriating if it was not so at home with his severe countenance.

“There was nothing before that,” you said. 

“If that’s what you think,” he said. “Anyways, is that what you came to tell me?”

“The queen is ill,” you said, gripping the back of the bench and using it to push yourself to a sitting position, swinging your legs down so that your feet were planted on the ground again. “They think it is the same disease which ruined my mother. It’s likely that the entire royal family will be lost — except my youngest uncle, my father, and myself, for all of us fled before the outbreak could reach the castle and have not yet shown any symptoms of the plague.”

“Maybe they deserve it,” he said, with no small amount of contempt. You trained your eyes on the ground, unsure of how you could even fathom saying something, and in your mother’s own chapel, as well. Surely you would be judged for it, but for some reason you thought that you owed honesty to Kaiser.

“Maybe they do,” you said. “Likely they do. But they are — they are still my family. I don’t want them to die.”

His sword caught the sun, and for a moment the maroon on the blade seemed to writhe and drip, coming alive in the light and only stilling when clouds passed across the windows once more. Kaiser’s shoulders still did not face you, but he tilted his head so that he could regard you as he spoke.

“You think they deserve it,” he said, phrasing it as a statement of fact instead of a question.

“I don’t know,” you said. “They must. We all must. These disasters are likely a form of punishment, though I know not what we are being punished for.”

“There is cruelty in this kingdom,” Kaiser said, his voice so cold that it caused a nervous tremor to shoot through you. “And it takes its purest shape in the L/Ns. That must be why they are facing the worst of it.”

You wished you could disagree with him. You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that your father and your uncles and your ten cousins were kind and good, but neither could you lie. Neither could you reassure him of a falsehood, when the both of you knew that had it been anyone else in your family who had found him in the chapel, he would’ve lost his head by now.

“They are cruel,” you said. “I know it. But I cannot bring myself to hate them, not when they love me.”

“It does not absolve them,” he said.

“It does not,” you said heavily. “And I suppose it does not absolve me, either.”

This time, he stood, hefting his sword and pacing in the same frantic way that a leashed dog might. He did not try to brandish the sword, allowing it to drag along at his side, but neither did he let it go. You watched him until you were dizzy from the repetitive nature of his path, and then you covered your eyes and listened to the thud of his boots against the ground.

“You are more like your mother and the queen,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you said. “Is it because I am a woman? I have cousin-sisters as well, however, and they are as L/N as me.”

“No, it is not that,” he said. “You have been dragged into the sins of the L/Ns against your will, and now you must reap their consequences alongside them. Whether or not you have earned them is irrelevant at this point; you will receive them.”

“It’s already begun,” you said. “My mother — my mother — and who else? They will all be gone, and my father and uncle aren’t so young, which means I shall soon be alone. What will I do then?”

Kaiser was a servant, so by all rights such things were beyond him, but never once had he spoken to you with the deference that his station implied. You didn’t think he knew what it meant to bow his head and comply blindly, so you waited for him to respond, to bestow some small wisdom hidden in the biting jaws of his blasé attitude.

“You won’t be alone,” he said.

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I do,” he said, as if it were an undeniable truth, written in the foundations of the world. You had never been the type to feel comforted by platitudes, but something about the way it sounded coming from him made your heart swell. “Y/N L/N, you will never be alone. That I am sure of.”

“Do you guarantee it?” you said. “Even though it’s impossible, do you swear?”

“I do,” he said. It was the kindest thing he had ever said to you, so you smiled slightly, although there was no amiability in his tone.

“Then I will believe you,” you said. 

“Believe me or don’t,” he said. “Your feelings will not affect that outcome.”

“Hm,” you said. “Well, thank you for reassuring me.”

“That isn’t why I said that,” he said. 

“But you managed it anyways,” you said. “I need to go, though. I did not dress to be outside, and it’s a bit cool today, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, a peculiar lilt to his voice. “No, Y/N. I don’t think that it is.”

With your uncle there, it was harder to find time to visit the chapel. Where once Kaiser had been the only one to occupy your time and thus your thoughts, the only one with enough of a mystery to his being that even the bleakest of your grief could be warded off by it, now your uncle was there to distract you, with his stories and his tricks and his gifts. Never one for religion, just like your father, he laughed when you suggested visiting the chapel, and often by the time you were freed of his company, you were far too exhausted to even think about leaving your chambers, let alone the manor.

He was a whirlwind of a man, your youngest uncle, a tempestuous person whose sword was as ready as his smile. Quick to anger and slow to forgive, he had been the spear of your father’s campaign, slicing through the villages they conquered in the name of the king with brutal, clinical efficiency. You were the only person who had never been subject to his wrath, for you were the youngest and mildest of your ten cousins, and thus cherished by the rest of your family in a way that the others were not.

“Have you finished enough of those to go in the woods with me? There’s a place I’m thinking of going hunting, but I’d like your guidance before I do so,” your uncle said one morning, when the sun shone and the sky was as blue as if it were made of ceramic. You were sitting across from him in the parlor, embroidering handkerchiefs with your family’s sigil, folding them and placing them on the table for your father’s use. Your father himself was out for the day, checking on one of his vassal’s progress in the early harvest, which was likely why your uncle was asking you for assistance instead of him.

“It’s only something to while away the hours,” you said, tying off the end of the thin thread in a perfect, imperceptible knot, shaking out the newly completed handkerchief and then setting it with the rest. “I can go whenever you’d like.”

“I’ll send word to the stablehands to tack our horses, then,” your uncle said. “Have you gone to the river’s shore before?”

“Once or twice,” you said.

“If there’s anywhere to find deer, it’ll be there. What do you say about venison for supper by the weekend?” he said.

“Father will be pleased,” you said. The youngest of his brothers and yet the most talented when it came to hunting, your uncle was known in your family for his aptitude at picking out the rarest of game. Your father always told you that if there was anything resembling an afterlife, he would spend it all eating whatever your uncle brought home, and you had no doubt that he would be delighted to return from his trip and find a freshly-slain stag waiting for him.

In order to reach the river, you had to ride through endless swathes of green — some were tilled and tended, but the majority of those fields were wild, home to nothing but rabbits and robins, both of whom fled upon hearing the clip of your horses’ hoofbeats. At first the cleared paths were wide enough for you and your uncle to ride side by side, but eventually they grew narrower, the tall grass scratching at your legs, pollen leaving yellow streaks on your horses’ haunches, and so you were forced to ride in front, for your mare was as sure-footed as your uncle’s charger was flighty and spooky.

“Be careful,” your uncle said as you pushed her forward, kicking her when she pinned her ears at your uncle’s stallion. “The grounds in these fields are always treacherous. Snakes make their homes amongst the grasses and hide the entrances; even one misplaced footfall can be disastrous.”

“Ah, she is good,” you said. “I trust her to know where her feet are better than I would.”

“Smart girl,” your uncle said. “You must get it from your uncle.”

You swatted away a horsefly before it could land on your leg. It was gray and fat and lazy, but you knew that its bite burnt like a bee-sting, so you steered your horse away from it the slightest bit, in the hopes that it would dissuade any further pursuit.

“Of course,” you said. “Though more than smart, I trust that my father’s men have trained her well, in these very fields.”

“Do they come here often, then?” he said. “We won’t be able to find anything if there are many people passing by.”

“Not that I know of. This section of the riverbank is reserved for our family’s use. Nobody would dare come up this way unless they were on my father’s orders, and my father rarely issues such commands,” you said.

“Good,” your uncle said, relaxing in his saddle, taking his bow off of his shoulder and holding an arrow in his right hand. “If we are very quiet, then we may find something today.”

“So soon?” you said.

“Why not?” he said. “We must be silent, however, lest we frighten everything in a few leagues’ radius away.”

Soon, the only thing that could be heard was the whine of the crickets in the grass that your horses disturbed. It was a high sound, shrill and thin like a flute, insistent in the way of begging, and if your uncle had not been there, you would’ve covered your ears to muffle it.

You couldn’t tell how long you wandered along the riverbanks for, but eventually, there was a faint rustling in the brush. You and your uncle locked eyes, and then you reined your mare to a stop, allowing him to trot forwards, eyes locked on the place where the noise had arisen from, his bow held at the ready, a single arrow in place — because a single arrow was all he would need. Your uncle had never once let fly an arrow which did not then make a home in its target, and you doubted he would begin to do so any time soon.

Another minute passed before the rustling grew louder and something burst from the copse of saplings, crashing through the tightly interwoven branches. You gasped when you saw that it was not a deer or any other such game but a boy, his hair dark and long over his eyes, his shoulders narrow and bony, more like perfect, sickening corners with skin draped over them than anything.

“Please,” he said, dropping to his knees, gazing up at you, his pupils like black pinpricks in the expanse of his blank eyes. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t — I got lost, but I didn’t mean to end up here! I was only waiting for you to pass through so that I could return home.”

“So you knew that what you were doing was wrong. Expressly forbidden by the prince,” your uncle said. 

“Uncle, it was clearly a mistake,” you said uneasily. 

“Mistakes are made when one does not have knowledge,” your uncle said. “This was not a mistake, nor was it an accident.”

“I was looking for rabbits,” the boy pleaded. “My sister likes them.”

“So you were hunting on the prince’s land?” your uncle said.

“No!” the boy said. “No, she — we don’t eat them, she likes to pet them, she’s still young and our mother is sick so I thought I would find one for her but there aren’t any near our house, so I began to wander, and I don’t know how but I ended up here — please, I didn’t mean to! I didn’t!”

“It’s alright,” you said, loosening your foot from your right stirrup and preparing to dismount. “Where is your home? We can escort you—”

“Stay on your horse,” your uncle said to you. You froze, unaccustomed to hearing him speak in such a way. “You. Boy. You admit your guilt? You have trespassed?”

“Yes — no — I don’t—” the boy stammered. His lips were bluing at the edges, you saw, and you realized he, and likely his mother who he had spoken of, was cursed with the plague, which choked his mind and judgment as well as it did his throat and heart.

“He is unwell, uncle,” you said quietly. “Let him go home.”

The boy was not long for this world, and wasting the precious time he had remaining with this pointless interrogation caused a pit to form in your stomach and a glacial feeling to crawl down your back and shoulders, the kind which could not be chased away even by the strongest of fires.

“Crimes cannot go unpunished,” your uncle said. “If we let him go, then we will have to let the next go, and the next after that. Where do you draw the line?”

“Here,” you said. “That is where I draw it. We both know that he is closer to my mother than to us at this point. Forgive him this time. He will not return, I am sure of it.”

“I won’t,” the boy said, voice cracking. “Your royal highnesses, I won’t.”

“Tell me where you live,” you said. “Not far, surely?”

“Just over the hill,” the boy said, staggering to his feet. “The house with the hyacinths in front of it.”

“I will take you there,” you promised him.

“You will do no such thing,” your uncle said. “Y/N L/N. If you ever wish to be the lady of an estate, then you must learn how to punish those who disobey your rule.”

“Don’t!” you said, but you were too late, far too late. Already, the arrow was cutting through the air and piercing through the boy’s heart. He fell in the way a leaf might, silent and crumpling and brittle, a motionless heap staining the earth with his blood. You screamed, or at least you tried to, but there was not enough air in your lungs, and you could not inhale or exhale without the ringing in your ears climbing into a pounding sensation.

“Where are you going?” your uncle said as you tugged on your mare’s left rein, turning her around, away from the still body and your uncle’s stark figure. “Y/N! Wait!”

Tightening your calves, you cued her into a gallop, taking off along the riverbank, water spraying into the air wherever her feet fell. Dimly you were aware of your uncle shouting after you, and then he, too, was galloping in your pursuit, but his stallion was recalcitrant, rearing and gnashing at the bit with every step, slowing their progress immensely and allowing you to fly out of their sight.

Turning into the fields that swept towards the manor, you paid no heed to your uncle’s earlier warnings, pushing the horse faster instead of slowing as you should’ve, your surroundings blurring into nothing more than smears of viridian and mustard in your peripheral vision. You had to reach him before your uncle did. You had to, you had to, you had to —

Abruptly, your horse skidded to a stop, scrambling for purchase in the ground and snorting nervously. You were thrown up her neck but did not fall, sitting back and scanning the area for what might’ve spooked her. In the beginning you did not see it, but then there was a soft hiss from the ground that caused her to dance backwards uncertainly, and you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You are meant to be gone,” you said to the viper, which was baring its fangs at you, its dark tongue flicking out periodically to taste the air before it. Your words bordered on hysterical as you shifted in your saddle, eyeing its coiling body with equal parts fear and disdain. “Your kind vanished! Why are you back? Do you mean to torment me?” 

The serpent did not move to strike, but neither did it shift out of the way, its slit-pupil eyes never blinking, its white teeth like pearls against the roof of its black mouth. You looked around, but there was no other path as clearly demarcated as the one you were on, and you dared not risk going into the grasses where thousands more of the snake’s brethren could be lying in wait.

Behind you, you could once more hear your uncle calling your name, and you knew that the precious few seconds you had gained on him would come to naught if you continued to dither about. When all was said and done, there was only one thing you could do, so apologizing to your horse, you squeezed her onwards. She lurched forwards with a start, her tail swishing, her movements jerky as she inched towards the snake, which grew eerily still at your approach.

Death was supposed to be a mystery or a surprise, but for some reason, as your horse took that final step forwards, you were excruciatingly aware that the next few moments would likely be your last. The snake would dart up, as quick as a whip, and it would latch onto your leg, slaying you instantaneously. What a swift revenge it would be, that your uncle had killed that boy and now he would be met with your own body, pierced through with snake venom as that child had been skewered upon his arrow!

You could’ve done a great number of things in those final seconds, but your mother’s final words came to you, and you found yourself mulling them over. He is here, she had said. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings. Michael himself had appeared for her, but then who was by your side? Who would accompany you after your death? 

There was a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, something azure and fluttering — a butterfly, surely, or some small bird frightened by the commotion. It was unimportant in the end; what mattered most was the color, which was so reminiscent of the person you had set out for that it broke you from your daze, heartening you enough to sit up and raise your chin, facing the snake with enough courage that even your horse ceased to shy away from it. Instead, she let out a squeal which sounded like a trumpet, and then she leapt into the air, bucking upon the landing and galloping away from the viper at such a speed that white lather frothed on her neck and streaked down her shoulders.

You reached the chapel in a time that should not have been possible, and even before you had pulled the mare to a stop, you were leaping off, your fingers clumsy as you tied her to the first fence post you saw. Your legs protested as you took the stairs two at a time, but you paid them no heed. You could not allow them to fail you, not when your uncle’s strides were twice the length of yours.

“Kaiser!” you called out when you entered the chapel. He was standing by the altar, a shower of sparks falling from the flint in his hands onto the charred cloth placed on the table, and instead of greeting you, he blew on the smoldering edge. A flame blossomed to life, and he used it to light a new candle, smothering the cloth under his boot once the fire had been transferred. “Kaiser, you must leave at once.”

“Why should I do that?” he said. “Who are you to dismiss in such a way?”

“It’s not me,” you said. “My uncle is furious, and if he finds you — if he finds you here, then he’ll cut you down, and not even that sword of yours will be enough to stop him.”

“Your uncle and his moods have little to do with me,” Kaiser said. “His tantrums are meaningless.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” you said. 

“Don’t I?” he said.

“He just killed a boy for trespassing,” you said. “I couldn’t even stop him. It was the most I could do to return in time to warn you before he came here to pray for that child’s life.”

“You disobeyed your uncle and ran from him for the sole purpose of…warning me?” he said.

“Yes, but it will be meaningless if you don’t hearken to my words,” you said. 

“Why is that?” he said.

“Enough with your riddles and your questions!” you snapped. “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously? You will die!”

“Answer this one and I’ll oblige your inane demands,” he said.

“Being with you is the only time I do not fear or mourn,” you said, your nails carving crescents into your palms as your gaze switched rapidly between him and the door. “My mother…my family…the plague and the vipers and the floods…I can forget about them all when I speak to you. If you are gone, then I will have no one. So please, please run. I cannot bear the thought of your blood being shed as well.”

Kaiser looked at you, and then, inexplicably, he laughed. It was a sound so lovely that it grated on your nerves, like a bell ringing too close to your ears. “Your uncle is not a man who could ever shed my blood, and he’d have to have an inordinately high opinion of himself to think he could.”

“You said you would oblige me,” you said, having half-expected such an arrogant response from him but finding that you were vexed by it anyways. “It doesn’t matter what you think of him. You must go, and only return once he has left this place.”

The door slammed open. You spun, drawing your cloak tighter around your shoulders and standing as straight as you could, dismay spiking in your stomach when your uncle walked in. The two of you had spent too long discussing, your explanation had been too lengthy, you had remained frightened of the snake for more time than you should’ve — at the end of the day, the reason didn’t matter as much as the result, which was that your uncle was here and Kaiser was still standing behind you.

“Y/N,” your uncle said, coming down the aisle, his stride light and elegant, the picture of a gentleman. You took a step back, reaching your hand out behind you to prevent Kaiser from saying something callous and damning, as he was wont to do.

“It’s not what you think,” you said. “Uncle, it’s not — please don’t —”

Yet when your uncle reached the altar, he did not draw his sword, nor did he command Kaiser to kneel before him. He only gave you a puzzled look, directing his attention to the candles burning behind your back.

“You played with your life just to come and light the candles a little earlier?” he said.

“What?” you said. 

“I know it must’ve been upsetting to see, but rules need to be upheld, or else they cease to be rules and turn into mere suggestions,” your uncle said, patting you on the head. 

“Aren’t you angry?” you said in trepidation.

“With you? No, of course not,” he said. “It was the same way for me, the first time I witnessed my father performing an execution. You’ll grow out of it.”

“Er, okay,” you said, too bewildered now to even comprehend his words. What was Kaiser’s magic, that he had escaped your uncle’s stern reproach and careless sword, which had felled countless men?

“Will you stay with me while I pray?” your uncle said. It was the only time he ever changed his mind about religion — after every life he took, he pleaded for forgiveness, as if that could be enough to exonerate him. You weren’t sure if it would be or not, but it didn’t really matter what you thought — it was the only way he had, you were quite sure, to go on. To continue living despite everything he had done.

“No,” you said. “Come — ah, what?”

You had turned to beckon Kaiser, but when you did, you realized that he was gone, vanished without a trace, though you had not heard or seen him leave. Your uncle gave you another strange look before returning to one of the benches and bowing his head, leaving you to wonder if Kaiser had ever even been there in the first place.

The stablehands were confused when you brought your drained mare back to them and demanded they ready another horse for you, and it was only worsened when you commanded them to also bring you one of the rabbits that were raised for their meat. Yet they could not argue with the princess, so they did as you said, bringing you the smallest of your father’s mounts and placing a young rabbit in your arms once you were in the saddle.

You could not tell whether you or the rabbit quivered more — the rabbit from confusion and fear, you from fatigue and the temperature, which had dropped rapidly since you and your uncle had set out in the mid-morning.

Taking a longer route so that you avoided the fields where you had seen the serpent, you trotted towards the riverbank, cradling the rabbit to your heart in the hopes that its warmth would transfer to you. Halting by where the boy’s body still lay, undisturbed and almost peaceful, you set the rabbit atop a tree branch so that it could not escape, and then you jumped off of your horse and crouched so that you could lift the boy onto your saddle. Draping him over it with every bit of strength you could summon, you took the rabbit back in one arm and used the other to lead the horse after you as you trudged towards the direction of the village, mud soaking into your boots and flecking the hems of your clothing.

You crossed the hill at a snail’s pace until you reached a small stone house with purple hyacinths littering the courtyard and a brown goat grazing on the scrubby grass, and then you knocked on the door and stood there until a man opened it. He was tall, his face lined and burnt from the sun, trenches like crow-feet digging into the corner of his eyes, his clothes patched and mended by inexperienced hands many times over. He squinted at you, like he was trying to recognize you, but eventually he gave up and cocked his head at you instead.

“On what business have you come knocking, miss?” he said.

“Your son,” you said. He rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Ah, that rascal. I hope he was not bothering you?” he said. You tried to swallow back the lump in your throat and found that it was impossible, so you stroked the ears of the rabbit and squeezed out a response anyways.

“He’s dead,” you said. “No. He was killed.”

“Pardon?” the man said. “Killed? On what — on what account?”

“On a whim,” you said, a tear splashing onto the rabbit’s back, turning the gray of its fur into a color like tar. “If there were a better explanation, I’d give it to you, sir, but the truth is there isn’t one.”

The man stared at you in disbelief, and you tightened your grip on the horse’s reins, waiting for him to say something. Yet he was silent, staring and staring as if by doing so he could turn your words to lies.

“I brought him back for you,” you whispered, the words digging into your windpipe as they went. “I brought him back.”

The man made a small nose which seemed to come from deep within him, guttural and low and keening, and then he fell to the floor.

“Please say it isn’t so,” he wept, pressing his forehead to your feet. “Lady, lady, say this is some cruel prank and go. His mother is sick already; you cannot say I will lose them both in such short succession. Say you are lying to me.”

“I can’t,” you said, your lower lip wobbling and your vision blurring. “Sir, I cannot do that.”

He wrapped his arms around your ankles and bawled like a child, folded over your boots as he cried and cried. You were motionless, wishing that there was something you could do but knowing that it would all be meaningless — just like Kaiser could not bring your mother back, so, too, were you incapable of resurrecting this man’s son, who had been put down at the hands of your own uncle.

“Thank you,” he said after some time had passed, standing and wiping his face, taking your horse’s reins from you. “I will see to it that he is taken care of. Might I have your name? So that I can repay you?”

“No repayment is necessary,” you said. “Please refrain; I’ve done nothing worthy of repayment. I only ask that you tell me if you have a daughter.”

“Yes,” the man sniffed. “Yes, she’s inside, sitting with her mother. Do you require her?”

“Only to give her a gift,” you said. “And then I shall take your leave.”

The man nodded at you, and you swept inside, brushing past him before he could exit the house and relive his grief anew upon seeing his son’s body in the flesh. You had been there the first time; the second time, you thought, should be something private, belonging to him and him alone.

Sitting by a fire and covered in straw was the wretched woman that could only be the boy’s mother. She appeared worse than your own mother ever had, even in the hours before her death, and her chest rattled with every breath. Squatted by her side was a girl, likely half your age and hardly even a third of your weight, her hair lank and heavy around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed a pink that promised the plague had not clawed into her body yet.

“Hello,” you said. The mother did not move, but the girl looked up at you in a manner reminiscent of a puppy or a foal, a certain naïveté to her features, which resembled her brother’s so much that for a moment you were breathless.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was a brittle murmur, and her lips barely moved when she spoke, but her eyes shimmered with a slight curiosity, widening when you knelt before her. “Who are you?”

“Your brother sent this for you,” you said, avoiding her question and handing the rabbit to her. She inhaled in delight, taking it from you swiftly and burying her nose in the fur around its neck before beaming at you.

“Really, he did? He always called me foolish when I told him I wanted a rabbit! Said that rabbits are wild creatures and only fairies can catch them,” she said, kissing the rabbit atop its ears. “Are you a fairy, miss? You have to be, right?”

“Certainly, I am not,” you said, kneeling on the stone of the floor and placing your hand against her cheek, which burned with the heat of the fire she was tending. “Dear girl, please remember that it was not a fairy who brought this rabbit to you — it was your brother, who loves you more than anything.”

She still did not know about any of it. She did not know that her brother was dead and her mother was all but. She only saw the object of her desires encircled in her arms, so she was, at least for now, happy, and you could not bear to steal that happiness from her, not when you knew that you how fleeting it was.

“Okay,” she said gravely. “I’ll remember it well. Mama, look! It’s a rabbit. You like rabbits, Mama, so please wake up and look at it.”

“Your mother is resting,” you said when she bent to shake her mother awake. “You should not bother her.”

“She’s always resting,” the girl said. “And if she speaks, it’s only to say that she’s cold.”

“Is that what the straw is for?” you said. Even if she wasn’t sick, you’d have agreed with the woman; you, too, found it to be growing colder out than it ever had in the past, but she had been cursed with the plague, and so it must have been tenfold worse for her than it ever could be for you. 

“Yes, it’s the best we have,” she said. “My brother, father, and I share the blanket because we don’t sleep near the fire, and so we only have straw left to warm her. I think I’m going to start working soon as well, and hopefully then I’ll be able to buy the best blanket in the world for her.”

There would be nowhere that would hire her in time for her to give her mother a blanket, except as a burial shroud, so you undid the clasp of your cloak and draped it over the woman’s body. She did not acknowledge you, but you saw her shoulders fall into an exhale, and you knew it was her form of thanks. The girl gazed at you in wonder, her eyes settling on the gooseflesh which pimpled your upper arms without the protection of the cloak, and then she returned her attention to her mother, whose expression was a degree less distraught with the added shield you had provided.

“Not now, and not for some years to come, but when you are old enough, come to the L/N manor,” you said. “You will find work there.”

Outside of the house, her father was digging, and on the ground beside him was a heap of canvas that no doubt disguised her brother. The girl followed you towards your horse, lips pursuing as you used a nearby tree stump to remount.

“How? It’s impossible to be employed there. All my family’s tried, but they’re ever-full,” she said.

“They will admit you, as long as you bring that cloak with you,” you said. “And if you tell them that Princess Y/N sent you.”

Her lips parted in awe, and the rabbit’s nose twitched as you smiled at her, as kindly as you could. In a few hours, she might despise you — after all, you had been the one to bring her brother back, and even if she never learnt of the role you had played in his death, she might resent you for that fact alone — but for now, you were someone she admired, the princess who had come from the manor and left her with a cloak and a rabbit and a promise.

Without your cloak, it was brutally cold, and you soon grew more preoccupied with trying to warm yourself in some way than with guiding the horse home. And although it was tamer than the rest, your current mount still belonged to your father in the end — it was not of the same reliable temperament as your own mare, who would’ve doggedly brought you back to the stables. As you slumped further and further into the saddle, your vision swimming, the horse only halted in the middle of the field you had somehow ended up in, unsure of what to do without a rider’s direction.

“You are a surprising person, Y/N L/N,” a soft voice said, and then someone was prying the reins out of your hands and taking them over your horse’s head. You would’ve been frightened, but though your eyesight was blurred, you knew who it was as soon as he spoke. “Foolish and surprising in turn.”

“Kaiser,” you said. “How are you here? Where did you go earlier? I thought my uncle might find you, but you weren’t there…”

“Don’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. They are beyond your understanding,” he said, clicking his tongue to encourage the horse forward. “I came here for you because earlier, you came for me, no matter how unnecessary it may have been. That’s all that matters.”

“Aren’t you cold?” you said, leaning forwards, collapsing against the horse’s crest, too tired to hold yourself up properly. “I’m cold.”

“I know,” he said. “You’ve been cold for a while, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so,” you said. For a moment, there was silence, and when he finally spoke again, his tone was tinged with melancholy.

“I wish that you were more like your father,” he said.

“Hm,” you said drowsily. “Why?”

“I want to condemn you,” he said. “Curse you. Rebuke you. Damn you.”

“And you cannot?” you said.

“I can,” he said. “All too easily.”

“Then?” you said.

“Then nothing,” he said. “It’s only that it makes me feel strange when it shouldn’t.”

“Strange,” you said. “What a vague word.”

“I cannot explain it further,” he said. “So don’t ask me to.”

“I see,” you said, though really you didn’t — you only did not want to upset him when he was the only savior you had. “Wait, Kaiser, you must know — there is a viper, one of the ones from the flood, it’s in the fields and it might yet strike. I am not sure if it is the only one of its kind, as well.”

“No vipers will dare cross my path,” he said, a laugh trickling into the cadence of his speech. “Not while I have this sword at my side.”

“Even now, you have it?” you said, your eyes closed against the light. 

“Yes,” he said. “I cannot sheathe it yet.”

“What does that mean?” you said.

“It is meaningless,” he said. “You ought to be silent, lest you waste what meager amounts of energy your body has managed to retain thus far.”

You weren’t sure how much longer the two of you walked for, but suddenly you were by the stables and there was a clamor and you were falling off the horse’s shoulder, into the arms of one of the stablehands. He was speaking in a panicked rush, commanding someone to fetch your uncle and another to send word to your father before asking you something, his voice harsh and breathy, nothing at all like Kaiser’s needle-precise words. You would’ve answered, but the slight rocking motions of his gait were enough to lull you into a sleep before you could even understand what his question was in the first place.

The stablehand must’ve carried you to your room, for when you awoke, you were in your bed and the sun had set. Your father sat at your desk, a lamp lighting the letters he was writing. Wrinkling your nose and then wiggling your fingers and toes to regain some feeling in them, you yawned, sitting up with a rustle of the sheets.

“Father,” you said, your mouth cottony from sleep. “You’ve returned?”

“Y/N?” your father said, dropping his quill and jumping to his feet, racing over to your side and catching your hand in between his own, holding it to his forehead. “Oh, Y/N, you must swear never to do something so idiotic again. I was so frightened — I thought — I thought you might never wake again.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Why would you go riding without dressing for the weather?” he said. “And without at least asking for someone to accompany you?”

“I’m sorry, father. I wasn’t thinking,” you said again, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you could not tell him the truth behind your escapade, or he might find some way to penalize the family who had not been at fault and had already lost so much.

“You’re lucky that that horse was so intelligent,” he said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“It managed to find its way back to the stables even with you all but unconscious on its back,” he said.

“No, someone led me home,” you said. “A servant.”

Your father furrowed his brow. “Ah, what do you mean? There was no one.”

“There was, I’m sure of it!” you said.

“Nobody saw anyone leading you back, daughter,” he said. “You must’ve been having visions from delirium. It’s not uncommon for those who have been so compromised.”

“Visions,” you said. “I suppose there is that explanation.”

“Setting that aside, how do you feel now?” he said.

“Much improved,” you said.

“A night’s rest will do you well,” he said. “We can speak again in the morning, yes?”

“Yes, that sounds appealing,” you said. “Goodnight, father.”

Oftentimes he, like the rest of his siblings, had a somber and unyielding expression upon his angular face, but never when he looked at you — because when he laid eyes upon you, he was no longer the prince of the kingdom. He was only your father, the man who had half-created you and loved you more than he had ever loved anything or anyone, excepting, of course, your mother.

Maybe it was because you had slept half of the day away, but the next morning, you were awake even before the sun. You lay in your bed for a moment, willing sleep to take you once more, but when it became evident that it had fled from your grasp for good, you pushed your blankets to the side and stood on shaky legs, finding comfort in the consistency of readying yourself for the day.

You had none of your usual composure when you entered the chapel. The moment you saw Kaiser standing with his hands laced together and his face tilted towards the sun, your heart skipped an irrational beat, and then you picked your way towards where he stood, careful not to slip on the precious stones of the floor, which today seemed to be more treacherous than usual.

When you reached his side, you were not sure of what to say, so you opted for the truth, however blunt. “I dreamt of you yesterday.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, in that same amused way he said everything, his every word a private joke you could never be in on. 

“You saved me,” you continued. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve died.”

“You wouldn’t have died regardless,” he said dismissively. At first, you raised your eyebrows, because how was it that he always said such things with such conviction that you could not help but believe in them? Who was he to inspire such faith in you? Then, before you could lose your nerve, you embraced him, your arms around his neck and fingers dangling in the space between his shoulder blades, his thrumming heartbeat reverberating through your bones like a hymn.

Many seconds passed wherein he was motionless, a being made from stone, before, slowly, hesitantly, he pulled you even closer to him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other arm wrapping around your waist so that you did not crumble. He was hot like a hearth, his skin blazing with the kind of warmth you had not felt in so long that tears sprang to your eyes.

“You saved me,” you insisted, weeping in earnest, wishing that there was some way you could stay by his side forever and then wondering where such a desire could even have sprung from. “Even if you were only a vision conjured by my mind, I know that I would never have made it home were it anyone else I saw. Had it been anyone but you, I would’ve been lost until the end.”

“Enough wailing,” he said, but it was devoid of the typical thorniness. “Y/N L/N. Stop it.”

“I cannot,” you said. 

“Pathetic girl,” he said; however, for the first time, you detected a hint of wavering in his voice. “Pathetic, idiotic girl. If only there were a way I could un-know you. If only it were possible for me to forget you entirely.”

“Don’t,” you said. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” he said. “If I were capable of it, I would’ve done so long ago, but as I haven’t, it can only mean that I never will.”

Somehow, you returned to the manor before anyone could raise an alarm at your second disappearance. Joining your father and uncle at the table for breakfast, avoiding your uncle’s greeting and sitting next to your father, you realized that it was not a miracle that you had escaped notice; rather, it was that everyone was supremely concerned with the letter your father was scanning, storms swirling in his eyes as he read it over.

“They’re summoning us,” he said, a second later. “Oh, Y/N, you’re here. Good.”

“Who is?” you said.

“My brother the king,” he said. “There’s been a prophecy. Very soon — in two weeks or even less — the queen will be dead.”

All of you set off at once, your father and uncle riding ahead, leaving you to cocoon yourself in a nest of furs atop the cushioned bench of the carriage. The guard from before, the handsome one with the hair like fox-hide, was requisitioned to accompany you, and so he sat across from you instead of riding in the company of your father and his retainers. You were the one who had asked for him specifically; he was kind and familiar to you, so in such a terrifying moment, you preferred his stalwart nature to any other’s.

“Tell me again,” you said, your voice muffled by the squirrel pelt wrapped around your neck and chin. “What did that prophet see?”

The guard did not know any more than you did, but in the monotony of the carriage ride, there were few other things you could occupy yourself with besides the obsessive question-and-answer game that you played with him. He was happy to follow along, or, if he was not happy, then at least he did as you asked without much complaint.

“Three things,” the guard said, holding up his right hand, the white calluses standing out against the pink of his palms. “Firstly, an eagle fell from its nest and broke its wings.”

“A clear omen against the L/Ns,” you said. “Eagles represent royalty, so for one to fall and lose its ability to fly in such a way…”

“Yes,” the guard agreed. “Secondly, upon reading the entrails of a sow, it was determined that the eagle was referencing a woman in particular.”

“And if it is a woman, then it could only be the queen,” you said.

“Correct, your highness,” he said. He could not see it, but you smiled at him — just barely, for you had not had enough to drink during your journey, so your lips were cracking from dehydration, and you did not rest well anymore, so you were constantly weary. “And finally, they consulted the mirrors, whereupon they saw death from disease tarnishing the pureness of the silver.”

“So they combined the symbols and divined that she would perish from the illness which has plagued her, as it once did my mother,” you said. “I wonder if it is worse or better to be aware that your death is approaching.”

“I suppose she must have known already, don’t you think?” he said. “In the moments before her death, your mother saw the angel Michael. I am sure the queen has had such a visitor as well.”

“Perhaps,” you said. “Though then again, I doubt that he would make appearances so frequently.”

“If he came to escort your mother, then would he not come for the queen? Forgive me for being candid, but it’s true that the queen’s station is far loftier than mother’s was,” he said.

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong, but even then,” you said, and then you sighed, sinking deeper into the plushness of your blankets. “Well, I don’t know. The affairs of angels are beyond you and I.”

“That’s true,” he said. You screwed your eyes shut, colorful spots painting the blackness behind your eyelids, the world spinning peculiarly, in a manner which was unrelated to the swaying of the carriage wheels.

“I think I will sleep now, sir,” you said. “If you do not mind very much.”

“I am only here to do as you command, your highness,” he said. “If you wish to sleep, then by all means, please sleep. I will wake you if anything happens.”

The journey to the castle was longer for you than it was for the riders, who could take narrower paths and cut across fallen trees and flooded bridges that the carriage needed to circumvent. By the time you reached, there was already a procession underway, and as the guard helped you towards the church, holding onto your hand and shoulders so that you could walk, you had to be wary of the spectators to the parade, who were shoving one another so that they could have the best possible view.

“They’re praying. For the queen’s health, and for the end of the plague,” you said, coughing hard enough that your chest ached from it, covering your mouth with your hand in shame, for you had been coughing more and more frequently as of late.

When you removed your hand, you noticed that there was something wet and wine-colored speckling it, and right when you were about to reach an understanding you should’ve come to long ago, a man’s shoulder rammed into your side, knocking you off-balance. Only your guard’s quick reflexes were enough to catch you, and he picked you up before such an accident could be repeated, taking care to push the man away rougher than he really needed to when he passed.

“Are you alright?” he said.

“Yes,” you said, half in a daze, the image of your stained hand imprinted in your mind. “Can you hear what they are saying, sir? Are they begging for forgiveness?”

“They are,” he said. “They’re repenting in the hopes that there will be mercy.”

“It’s late for that,” you said. “For me, anyways. But maybe the rest of you can still be saved.”

“What do you mean by that?” he said. Without you to slow the guard down, the two of you covered ground at twice the earlier speed, and you reached the steps of the church before the throngs of worshippers could. You saw them coming, the gathered masses of people, with the king and your father and the queen at the forefront of it all, and then you coughed again, because until you had seen that blood you hadn’t comprehended it, but now you did. “Why don’t you include yourself amongst our ranks, princess?”

“What is your name, sir?” you said.

“Kunigami, your royal highness,” he said. “Are you quite alright?”

“Kunigami,” you said, clenching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. “Kunigami, it’s not cold out today, is it?”

“No,” he said. “No, princess, it’s not. It’s mild and lovely.”

“It hasn’t been,” you said, and then you were crying, because you were afraid. You were more afraid then you ever had been, and you only had this bewildered boy to comfort you — and what slim comfort he provided! He, who was meant to be your staunchest defender but could never defend you from this. “It hasn’t been cold in many months, has it?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, it’s been rather warm. This year marks the warmest summer we’ve had since the time of the last king, or so I’m told.”

“The warmest summer?” you said. “I see now. I see. Oh, oh, Kunigami, you must go and fetch my father at once.”

“You are confounding me, your highness,” he said. “What is the matter?”

“Please bring my father,” you said. “Please, I don’t — I don’t want to be alone when it happens.”

Your poor father — some higher power had decided he deserved this. Your father, who was cruel, who killed and conquered, who was the horrible prince of the kingdom. Your father, who had already lost your mother. Your father, who would soon lose you.

“I don’t understand even now what you mean,” Kunigami said, setting you on the steps and straightening his shirt. “But I will do as you say. Wait here.”

He charged down the stairs, cutting through the crowds effortlessly with his imposing presence. You watched him go before turning back to the church, marveling at the building, the white pillars and the silvery dome which shone in the sky like a daytime moon. Statues of angels and muses lined the roof, and across the facade, there were words engraved. You could hardly read them, but you knew by heart what was written: On this mountain, I shall build my home, and thereupon I will give you the keys with which to reach me.

You didn’t know when your legs buckled, but they must’ve, for suddenly you were lying prone on the stairs, the stone freezing against your face, and although it was hardly the place for it, you found your tucking your fists under your forehead, exhaling and thinking of how sublime it would be to drift off now, drift off and not wake up for many hours or days…

“Y/N L/N.” The voice was the same, but there was something else behind it. Never had he spoken with such strength and such sadness in combination; his typical apathy had been chased away entirely, replaced with a fond if not distant pity. “I told you that you would not be alone. Did I not?”

Hands like embers held your face carefully, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he tugged your jaw up so that you could look at him. You hardly had the strength to lift your head — how had you not known that it was coming? How had you ignored the symptoms of your own condition? Was it that you did not want to know it and so you refused to recognize the simple fact which had been looming over you for months now? But ignoring it did not make it go away. Ignoring it did not make it false. Ignoring it did not change the truth of the matter: that you were dying, that you had been dying for a long time now.

“Kaiser,” you said. He appeared different, though you could not place it; there was something hazy and golden about him, but regardless you were assured that it was him and no other. 

“Some know me by that name,” he said. “Most do not.”

“What do you mean?” you said.

“Michael!” It was your father who was screaming the name, and when you shifted, you realized he was doing his best to run towards you, though your uncles held him back, shock reflecting in their faces as your father bawled. “Michael, divine lord, don’t take her, too. Anybody else, be it the queen, my brothers — even me! Kill me, kill the entire kingdom if you must, but leave Y/N. Spare her, and I will repent! I will change my ways, and I will force the others to change as well. Spare her and I will do whatever you ask — but please, please spare her.”

“You should’ve come to this conclusion longer ago,” Kaiser said, and though he spoke at a regular volume, his voice rang through the square like he had shouted. “The time for begging is long gone. The plague will continue until all of you are dead. By my sword, I swear—”

“Michael,” you said. He was silent immediately, and you fought to keep your eyes open. Noticing your lowering your eyelashes against the sun, he reflexively spread his wings to cover you in shade, allowing you to admire him in full for the first time. “Has it been you all along?”

“Yes,” he said, a soft breeze running through his feathers and ruffling his hair. “Yes, it has been.”

“My mother was right,” you said. “You really are as beautiful as the paintings. Though, you were right as well. There is nothing resembling serenity in your expression.”

To your surprise, he chuckled, though there was a distinct tinge of sorrow behind it, so that it was as similar to a sob as it was to a laugh. Something moist splashed onto your face, and at first you thought he, too, was crying, but then you realized it came from his sword, which he brandished even now. Blood, that was what it was, the source of those sanguine stains which were now animated and lively, weeping down the length of the blade and dripping onto the white marble beneath his feet.

“Of course there is not,” he said. “When there is so much injustice in this world, how can I ever be serene?”

“You brought this plague upon us,” you said. “And the snakes, and the flood.”

“I did,” he said. “It was divine will. In the face of it, even I am powerless.”

“By your sword,” you said. “Is that why you hold it before you always?”

“How intelligent you are,” he said. “Oh, if only it were not you.”

“But you can stop it,” you said. “If you deem us worthy of being saved, you can prevent anyone else from dying.”

“Not you,” he said. “It’s too late. Even if I do that, I cannot save you. Not this time.”

“That’s alright,” you said. “You needn’t save me again. Once was enough. I’ve not done anything to be deserving of a second time.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You are the only one who I want to save. If you are lost, then there is nobody worthy of surviving. What have any of the rest ever proved to me? What goodness have they ever shown? What virtue or introspection? They are all brutes, and so they have earned it.”

“I cannot say whether that is true or not,” you said. “I don’t know about anyone else. But if even one other person like me exists and your inaction kills them, too, then will you ever be forgiven?”

“I am an angel,” he said. “I seek no forgiveness. I have not done anything to necessitate it.”

“I will not forgive you,” you said. 

“What does it mean?” he said. “What will any of it mean once you are gone?”

Your father had fallen to ground, repeating every prayer he had ever been taught, and even your uncle the king, who was typically stolid in the face of adversity, who had not placed a foot wrong the entire time he had thought his wife was the one prophesied to die, had tears shimmering in his eyes.

“Forgive them,” you said, and then, to your surprise, Michael, or Kaiser, or whichever name you called him, for it was irrelevant when they were all in reference to this singularly grand being — was dropping to his knees and tenderly taking your head so that it could rest on his lap. “As I will forgive you, forgive them. Please.”

Nobody even breathed. Every single body in the kingdom was stationary; the rabbits, the dormice, the people and the snakes, all of them waited to see what he would do. For a moment, it was nothing, and after that he merely hunched over and pressed his lips to your temple, his wings arcing to cover your body from any who might dare to glance at it.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I cannot save you, Y/N L/N, so this time, without riddles nor fuss, I will oblige you.”

A small smile graced his face, albeit an anguished one more characteristic of men than of angels, and as one blazing hand grew hotter and hotter against your rapidly-cooling cheek, he raised his sword in the air; then, for the first time since the plague had begun, he sheathed it.

[ma1dita]

🐥 a lil something for jason grace? just yk him meeting hephaestus!reader for the first time at camp half blood and she's this bubbly girl who befriends everyone cuz that's just how she is and like she offers everyone solutions to material problems like aphrodite kids with vanity mirrors that light up on their own, apollo kids with medical kits that look small outside but has TONS of storage, demeter kids with self watering pots, etc

reader gives him a welcome gift (leo and piper too), a compact watch sword thingy like percy's and jason's like new to this bcs all his life he's been treated like a prince in waiting, a leader most of the time and he hasn't had anyone do something for him cuz its usually him doing things

ooh and a lil bit of leo valdez teasing him bcs of him blushing when she's around cuz reader is his sister basically, same dad and all

Thank you and happy bday again!

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

jason grace x hephaestus!reader

a/n: this was so cute but pls lmk if i got his character right...i had to reference my irl pjo bestie for this i love this boy

wc: 766

Jason Grace thinks you talk too much.

And too fast. It’s one of the first things he noticed about Camp Half-Blood weirdly enough, besides the nagging feeling that he didn’t belong there. There wasn’t so much as a day where he wouldn’t see you whizzing past campers offering to tinker items to make their lives easier, and he could barely keep up—which says a lot for a boy raised to be a soldier.

It was like you set everything alight, and the flames you left in your midst could not be tamed; everyone was enamored by you, and admittedly, so was he. The son of Jupiter was sure his brain had short-circuited along with everything else going on but all of his worries were dashed when you presented him with a wristwatch shield.

Jason blinks slowly.

“Are you listening? Do you like it? I can change the finish on it or scrap it completely if you don’t think it’s cool, or maybe it's too big? Let me see your wrist—Jace?”

You wave your hand in his face before grabbing his arm, encircling his wrist with the metal links to make sure your creation fits him comfortably.

Too torn between the predicament of being raised by fucking wolves and training for a war that no one knows the start date of, Jason Grace has not had too much time to acquaint himself with the matters of the heart. So in his eyes, this poor sweetheart thought your welcome gift was the equivalent of a marriage proposal, or something like that…

Your half-sibling Leo thought this was hilarious of course, his teasing grin stoking the fire in the pit of Jason’s stomach when he asked to see it. The blond boy was gentle with your gift, shaking his head at the notion that it meant anything, that you were just kind to everyone, and nothing about it whatsoever makes him special.

Okay buddy…

So of course when you came to confront him about Leo’s taunting that had reached all of the inhabitants of cabin 9 (and the armory, and the counselors, and even Chiron and Mr. D—the biggest gossips of Camp Half-Blood), Jason Grace, a boy who usually has his shit together, was reduced to the phenomenon of being an embarrassed teenager with a crush.

You were standing a little too close for his liking and even if he towered over you, the blaze in your eyes could incite fear in the gods.

“Just because I'm nice and do things for you doesn’t mean that I like you, Jason Grace,” you say adamantly as you cross your arms over your chest. He notices the smudge of soot on your cheekbone, and thinks it looks quite pretty against your complexion.

“Of course.”

“I gave you the wristwatch shield as a welcome gift,” you say next, to which he nods since it’s a fact.

“Of course, I didn’t mea—”

“I mean you’re always protecting others, so I thought someone should protect you for a change,” you mutter, watching him scratch the nape of his neck as your smile spreads like gasoline touched by a lit match. He can’t help but embrace the burn (His serious demeanor is broken by the smile on his face, so big that it almost hurts).

“But you are right, I do like you. Suppose we’ll have to do something about that.”

Thinking hard about the confession that left your mouth, you look like you’re working through a methodical problem to solve— finding the missing piece to a puzzle instead of making the son of Jupiter's face heat up like a thousand suns. He reckons there’s an ambush inside of him as something starts to work harder than usual, not his brain overridden by battle tactics and that of survival— but his heart, beating fast like a well oiled machine (and more importantly like a normal teenage boy). 

Jason reaches out to rub the soot away from your cheek, but when you pull him in by the collar of his shirt to kiss him, he finds himself to be stained by you all the same.

[erinwantstowrite]

i feel like if you released a 24 hour + video of you talking about your plans for your original book i would sit and watch all of that with no breaks. so: would you be willing to share at least the bare bones of the plot you have now? or even some tropes that would be in it? or maybe random questions like how many main characters? how many povs? if it's sci-fi or fantasy? just stuff like that!

ahhhh!! i'd love to talk about them because they're constantly rotating in my brain!! i hope this doesn't get too long but we all know me, i can never stop yapping 😭

(okay this is present erin editing before posting and yeah this got long guess who called it. anyways there's art and stuff under the cut as well)

(Marked this as mature with violence only because there is an image below where I drew injuries/cuts on a character)

This book has been a thousand different books in all kinds of settings, plots, lessons, etc, and that's because I've had these characters since I was in middle school. At first I was so obsessed with them that I'd write and draw them all the time, to the point that my teachers were concerned I wasn't paying attention. I was seriously into magic and fantasy at the time because Harry Potter books were still the epitome of writing to my middle school brain. Ruby was a wizard with a bird theme that lived in the countryside and one day found out that her town was "alive" in a sense... But after I lost that sketchbook with all of the details (devastated to this day), and started venturing into other books series and shows, etc, I sort of forgot about the og story or what it was like. What remained was a love for the characters I had made over anything else about them, so I'd end up writing stories with a different theme each time, but the ocs being the same, just with their backgrounds shifted. (Around the time I was obsessed with VLD, Ruby was in a sci-fi plot set on a planet in another solar system.)

One of the most recent iterations was Ruby and the other characters essentially struggling to understand death, life, and everything in between. The story is called "Behind the Blue Glass" and I still really like that title lol. All of them had died on the same day, at the same time, just in various different ways, and then all of them came back to life in the same manner. They all developed different powers from the experience: Liam could float/manipulate gravity), August's body was essentially a phantom that could go through objects and disappear, Vin could possess people, Jean had an empathy link with the dead and could talk to and see them clearly, and Maya could figure out someone's cause of death/also tell when people were about to die. As for Ruby, she's the only one who can move freely between the land of the living and the land of the dead. It's different from Jean seeing the dead, as she's still in the land of the living.

The plot of that story was Ruby having dreams/visions of these other people she had never met before and knowing she needed to find them and set "something" right, but she didn't know what. She sets out to find them anyways, and they each join her on her quest to find everyone simply because they never got an answer to how they came back from the dead and find it weird that they all died on the same day and time. They solve deaths of ghosts they come across, meet people who are still grieving lost ones, have to lay some of the ghosts down to rest- all while figuring out why these shady people have started following them and trying to stop them from figuring out what happened to them. I even made some first draft titles (definitely, 10000% inspired by PJO because I was reading it at the time):

to top it all off, it's set in the 2010's I believe? Around that time. Just because I think more books should write about the time era

I have some (recentish) art of the characters:

first image: (Liam on the right, August on the left)

this is what Ruby looked like when I was first designing them for the story:

They're meant to look dead-ish but this art was SO long ago when I wasn't confident in my art so Ruby just looks like a wet rat or smth idk what is going on here

And here's Vin!! I don't hate this drawing of him that much, surprisingly, but this was also drawn a while ago

and this was some art i was planning at the time:

i think that's all of the art that i have for this story (at least on this computer. My old laptop might have more but it's been laid to rest)

to be honest, i'm still thinking about writing this story, but Ruby's name would be changed because at this point, this iteration of her character is VERY different from present day. She's two different characters at this point 💀 that's how you know I've had her for SO long because she looks so different from her original drawings.

The latest version of Ruby ended up in a story with completely different characters in the cast and a completely different setting (even if some of the characters were inspired by their og versions). It's called "The Clocktower's Chime"

It's very much inspired by those reincarnation manhwas. I like those stories but they all have the same plot over and over, and while I was more interested in the versions where the character is sent back in time to live their life again but with all the knowledge they had in the future, I always struggled with the aspect that the characters' mental age is far older than they are. It makes the dynamics a little weird, but they can be excused unless it's a romantic dynamic, I would think? I dunno, it was hard to get into the plots mostly because of that.

So I used Ruby as a placeholder OC and came up with a story where upon their death in the future, someone casts a spell or a god sends them back, and instead of having a mental older age, they get a journal with all of the details of their future. Ruby woke up one day and found a journal written by herself that detailed everything about her future up to the point of her death. It was more like a book, however, rather than a journal. It just looked like a journal because it was in her handwriting.

So Ruby gets this book, doesn't believe it at all, until she notices that there are way too many "coincidences" lining up with the events of the book. She starts believing it could be true, and then decides it must be when she finds out that a prominent family in the country she lives in is going to visit her hometown. In the book, they were there because they learned that Ruby was their daughter that had been kidnapped as a baby and believed dead. However, in the book, Ruby had spent her entire life living as a weapon instead of a daughter, and she died by their hands when she refused to kill a woman that is prophesized to end a war that would devastate both countries.

Ruby is, like, 12 at that point. So her kid brain is like "obviously I run away and go to school in a different country and tell everyone I have a different name and there's no way this could go wrong." Except before she can even do that, she runs into Julias Parlia, a Duke's son from the country that is supposed to be her enemy in the future. Ruby is like "shit this is THE worst adult to run into and I haven't even gotten to the running away part of my plan" and Julias ends up being the reason she doesn't even get to the train station. He's fucking hilarious by the way. He's got a well adjusted family with two loving parents and a bunch of little siblings and he basically picks Ruby up by the scruff of her neck and is like "I want this one she's insane."

This is Julias (kneeling on the ground to talk to Ruby) and Emelie (Julias' knight and childhood friend, she's so silly)

and this is the part where I share art from many months ago... when I posted my most recent art and said Ruby keeps getting buffer every time I draw her, I meant it 💀

Ruby and her love interest, Cecelia

This is Vekenti, a character that was also supposed to be a "villain" in the original timeline. Ruby goes looking for him to prevent his death as well, and Julias obviously is like "Omg another weird kid, how delightful!" Everyone thinks Vikenti and Ruby are related, but they are not. They're just raised as siblings in both timelines and have a lot of the same mannerisms

Julias' love interest (unnamed? I can't find her name anywhere) and him

REALLLY old drawings of what they looked like in the OG timeline (I desperately need to redesign these because I could do better now)

Julias and Ruby again

and that's all the art I have for this one (besides the other post of Ruby I posted today, this is the story that that version of Ruby belongs in. She's looks very different now!).

All of this has been in the back of my mind for a while, and I've been trying to figure out which story I would want to write first. Middle school Erin would love for me to finally write Behind the Blue Glass, but sometimes I find myself wanting to write a fantasy story like Clocktower's Chime a lot more

[mrsoftthoughts]

I always need more content of the Mortal parents of pjo, like, this people seriously have to raise childrens that depite their looks, we need to remember aren't human and a lot of them don't even know why their childrens are so "weird" and even if we know some gods that probably were there at least the first years, almost all of them are single parents trying to figure out how to raise this kid that they don't have a fuckin clue of where is their other mother/father.

And Then they need to discover that their kid is half god and probably had the mayor mental breakdown because it doesn't matter if they are atheist or believe in other religions, that goes against to almost anything that they believed

And that's just the surface, theres a lot of other things

I mean, we only ge a close up to Demigods born from concensual relationships in the saga, but looking back at some gods historial, i won't discard the possibility of some of them beig results of 🍇 and how the fuck some mortal parents would have to deal with have a child result of that kind of situation

And We have pretty interesting characters here and we barely know something about them, and all this potential is just wasted-?

I mean, just look at Marie Levesque and Beryl Grace, despite that they aren't the Best people on earth for what we know of them, you can't look me death in the eyes and tell me that they don't have potential for building them a past or Characters study

Or what about the parents of the kids that died?? The mortal parents of Lee Fletcher, Michael yew, Castor and all the diceaced characters must be around somewhere, dueling the lost of their child at the hands of a word that of their kids belonged but they didn't

And ofc whe have the ones of alive campers, i mean, just a few of the campers are year rounders, a lot of them come back with their mortal parents at the end of the summer, most of the campers actually live with their mortal parents and each one must had very different dynamics with their parent

And the parents of year rounders aren't least interesting, like, how they feel about having their kid away of them?? Some of them maybe are one of the reasons why their kid's don't come back at their houses after the summer

And also an Honorable mention to the Man that after dieing and being brought back to life as a mist form is the father of a traumatized 16yo war betteran condemned to ostracism: the Dr, Howard claymore, which remids the fact that there must be at least some other demigod has been adopted by a mortal who probably was even more clueless that the kid bio parent

As a summary: The mortal parents are a really interesting part of the world building of pjo and never get enough recognition

[ruegarding]

hi, quick question, how did you feel about Beryl Grace's character and how she was written?

hi! overall, beryl is another character that falls into the "interesting concept, not elaborated on in canon" category. in pjo, she's not particularly developed bc of her distance to the main character and narrative. in hoo, where she's directly related to a main character, she's flat, zeus is flat, hera is flat, thalia is barely relevant, and jason's entire character suffers from hoo being inconsistent and poorly written, which means anything that, arguably, should be done well doesn't hold up.

in pjo, beryl’s character isn’t very fleshed out, but she’s a side character to a side character, so it's understandable. she's also dead, but when she was introduced the majority of parents we knew abt were alive, so it wasn't too big a deal (this changes drastically w hoo, where there are more dead parents than living ones).

her existence answers a few questions: why doesn't every mortal parents know who their child's godly parent is? bc some of them cannot handle it. why did thalia run away? bc her mother coped w her mental instability by turning to alcoholism. why does thalia want to join the hunters? bc she wants stability. why can't thalia return home? bc her mother's dead. a lazy way out, maybe, but, again, beryl is a side character to a side character. the implied depth of beryl's character, that thalia cared enough to not only check on beryl's well-being after being revived but also feels enough guilt abt leaving that it's used against her soh, does a lot of the heavy lifting.

in hoo, we learn very little abt beryl's character, despite the fact that she is now connected to a main character. in fact, beryl's inclusion in hoo doesn't do much.

is beryl given depth now that she's closer to the narrative? not really. thalia had to raise jason bc beryl was always self-absorbed, so she and jason don't really have a relationship, therefore nothing to explore. and also the implied depth from pjo is removed bc actually thalia stayed bc of jason and doesn't care abt beryl. so, if zeus went back to beryl, had two children w beryl, that would imply that he loves her, right? no. bc why would we take this opportunity to imply that zeus cares abt other ppl and make him a multi-dimensional character. what does it mean that beryl unites two pantheons by having a greek child and a roman child? don't know. rick never explores it. why was jason sold to one direction? bc hera sucks and beryl's self-absorbed. how was jason able to recognize thalia's face despite last seeing her when he was two (or three??)? did hera tell jason abt thalia as he was growing up? was it all part of hera's big plan? don't know. probably. is jason and thalia's relationship an important focus of the series? no. do we explore the ramifications of beryl being a celebrity w children? no. where does jason's idea of what a mother should be ("caring, loving, selflessly protective") come from? not established. probably thalia...? was it necessary that jason's mother was beryl and not literally any other absent parent? no. was jason and hera's relationship explored in hoo, at least? if u settle for "kinda."

i can not overstate how little beryl shows up in hoo.

there's also a separate issue in how her disabilities are handled. like i say often, this is a series abt disability and therefore these things matter. she explicitly has an addiction and is coded w bpd and she and zeus are villainized for both of these things.

compare it w may. may can't give luke what he needs bc of her disability and it's approached w empathy and portrayed as a tragedy. similarly, hermes loves her and helps her how he thinks is best. and despite this, the audience can still empathize w luke's anger bc none of this changes the fact that he did not get what he needed as a child. that's how u write a complex relationship fitting for a main character of a series abt disability.

instead, beryl is written as incredibly shallow and repeatedly described as "unstable." she likes zeus bc he's powerful and he gives her attention. she caught his attention for shallow reasons and she wanted to keep it for shallow reasons. zeus is written like the villain for leaving, bc obviously he's also shallow and only there bc she gives him attention. this entire situation would be a tragedy if it were written w a modicum of care. it was a no-win scenario. he could have stayed forever, he could have made her immortal, and she would still be unstable, be unsatisfied. she put her entire well-being in his hands, and there is no way he can make her happy forever. it's sad! the love could've been there and it wouldn't've fixed anything!

boo sort of tries to add depth to her character and relationship w jason, but, again, it doesn't hold up bc jason doesn't have a relationship w her. for the two (or three??) years he lived w her, she doesn't even raise him. thalia does. jason doesn't see multiple sides of beryl. almost everything he (and the audience) knows abt beryl, he learned from thalia's crash course on why their mother sucked. the only exception is this promise beryl made, that she'd come back for him, except jason's already come to terms w the fact it's a broken promise, that beryl was never coming back for him, before the story begins. rick never establishes any redeeming quality of beryl's, or beryl's influence on jason, so jason's rejection of her doesn't pack any emotional punch bc...what exactly is there to reject? to let go of? why would the audience be attached to her? why would jason be afraid of becoming like her when there's nothing in the narrative to suggest they're similar?

it's not tragic. it's not triumphant. it's lackluster.