#I do miss the days of cake and swords and dragons

[angstywaifu]

Means to an End - Garrick Tavis x Reader

Propt by @fw-gt - “You can do anything you want to me, beat me, torture me, skin me alive. But I’ll never let you take her from me.” A/N: This fic is from Garrick's POV, so I hope you like it. This one is just pure angry protective Garrick. Enjoy.

It was meant to be simple. Well as simple as you could get for rescuing Violet from Varrish. Who from what we knew had her locked in one of the interrogation cells under the college. Varrish who was now dead. Good riddance I say. I had never had much to do with him, but he had a reputation for handling things in an unconventional way. And the way Violet had been when Xaden had led her up those stairs was proof. But she wasn’t his only victim.

As General Sorrengail turned to me, sadness in her eyes…. I knew. Every part of me knew. Chradh in my head confirming after speaking to her dragon. She was missing. And no one knew where due to this, concoction they had made up with to dull the connection between rider and dragon. She had been missing since the day Violet had been taken. No one had seen her after she had gone to bed. But with Varrish dead, we had no way to figure out where she had been taken. She could be anywhere. Xaden looks concerned as I pace back and forth trying to rack my brain as to where he could have taken her. We had searched the other cells top to bottom trying to find her. But there was no sign or even trace of her. And Violet was adamant that she had never heard or even seen her while down there. Varrish not mentioning her once

Xaden reaches out and grasps my shoulder. I go to shrug it off but he clamps down and forces me to stop and look at him. “What about Melgren or Aetos? Would they have her somewhere?”

Dain clears his throat from where he stands next to Violet. “There might be somewhere they could have taken her.”

Xaden tries to hold me back as I storm over to Dain, grabbing the front of his uniform and pinning him to the wall. His eyes go wide with fear as I glare down at him. “Where. Is. She?” I sneer, emphasising each word

”T-there’s a tower, at the end of the administration building closest to the riders quadrant. Down the bottom, there’s a door that leads underground. There’s more interrogation cells down there.” He gulps nervously as he looks to Violet and Xaden for help. “That’s the only place I could think he would take her. He was working closely with my father.”

I shove him back against the wall, his head smacking against the brick before I storm off in the direction of the tower. No one tries to stop me. Xaden letting me go. He knows there’s no point in stopping me. If anything he will make sure Violet is safe and follow after me, or send someone else. Luck must by on my side, all the corridors are empty. Not a single cadet around as I make my way over to the tower Dain speaks of. I descend the stairs, each step echoing off the walls as I make my way further and further down. At the bottom I almost think Dain has lead me here as a joke, there's no door. But my eye catches the dim glow of a light around the edge of the brick. A secret door. I push on it and it opens with ease. Almost too easily.

Keep alert. I will send word to Xaden to send someone. Chradh says to me.

I send acknowledgment through the bond before continuing through the door and descending down another set of stairs. It is easy to tell that this has been used very recently. Fresh foot springs and drag marks can be seen in the dust coating the floor. They dragged someone down here. As I descend further down the stairs, the light gets brighter and brighter. I finally descend into an open room, much like the one the RSC interrogation chambers are in. 2 cells are on the far side of the room, both are completely empty. Empty bar the blood caking the floor of one of them. I can see from here the blood isn’t old, the torches reflecting the slight glean of fresh blood. I go to reach for my sword when a voice from the doorway on the other side of the room stops me.

”Had a feeling I’d be seeing you Tavis.” Drawls Colonel Aetos as he leans against the doorway, his eyes focused on me.

”Where is she? What do you want with her?” I demand.

He merely chuckles as he steps into the room as he starts to pace towards me. It’s then I notice the blood on his hands. Fresh blood. Very fresh.

He stops, leaning against the table. ”Oh you naive boy. It’s not her I want. I don’t need anything from her. She’s just a means to an end. It’s you we want, and you’ve come right to us.”

My blood runs cold. They’d used her to get to me. To get me here, right where they wanted me. They’d taken her and done gods knows what to her to get to me. I look over to the cell with the blood and pray its just a set up. She’s fine. If they knew she knew nothing then there was no point in hurting her. Not yet anyway.

They’re on their way. Keep him distracted. Chradh tells me.

“What do you want from me?”

”Information of course. We know what you and that Riorson boy are up to.”

"I will never tell you anything.”

He smiles at me, a smile that sends a shiver down my spine. “Oh I know. You are a hard one to crack. But luckily in the brief moment Varrish met you, he saw all he needed to see. And now I have my way to make you tell me everything.”

As if on queue two guards walk through the door, a limp figure hanging between them that they throw to the ground in a kneeling position. They rip the bag from their head, and I swear my heart stops beating. My eyes go wide.

“So what’s it going to be Tavis?”

I can feel the muscles in my face twitching as I look up and glare at him. “You can do anything you want to me, beat me, torture me, skin me alive. But I’ll never let you lay another hand on her.”

“That’s the thing though Tavis. No matter how much I beat you or torture you. You won’t tell me anything.” I gulp as he smiles at me. A smile that would send anyone else cowering. “But if I do any of those things to her. You’ll tell me whatever I need to know.”

The two guards either side of her march forward. I quickly grab the sword from my back, swiftly blocking their strikes. The sounds of our swords clashing echo off the walls of the chamber. One of the guards lunges to grab me, but I side step them and grab on of the daggers on my belt, stabbing it into the side of their neck. They rip it out, spraying me in their blood as they fall to the floor. The other turns and looks at me in horror as their friend dies on the floor next to me. As I do this I notice Aetos is no longer leaning against the table. He must have snuck out while I was fighting. I go to lunge for him as shadows swarm the room, blinding the last guard. I turn around to see Xaden run into the room.

“Grab her and go. I’ll take care of the rest.” He tells me as he walks towards them.

I nod before I rush over to her and scoop her up in my arms. She goes to protest but one look from me and she merely nods in agreement as I stand and carry her up the stairs. No one would lay another hand on her if I had anything to say about it. As we get to the top of the stairs I hear the vague sounds of screaming down below.

[waterfire1848]

Can you expand on the brave au?

Hello, anon!!! @stardust948 feel free to add anything you want!

1. Ozai grew up in Iroh’s shadow. He was constantly overlooked by Azulon in favor of his older son for being the better firebender and fighter. Ozai thought that wouldn’t matter to him when he got older but he was wrong. His son, Zuko, who, although he is a very sweet boy, isn’t a warrior. He’s not a stronger firebender or fighter. The only saving grace is that he’s good with swords but Ozai knows that isn’t enough for Azulon. Instead, all his attention is focused on Iroh’s better son: Lu Ten. Lu Ten is the spitting imagine of a warrior and Ozai is constantly angered that Azulon is giving his attention to him and Iroh and ignoring him and Zuko. When Azula and Kiyi are born, Azulon does little more than raise an eyebrow before walking away. The two are stronger benders but Azulon doesn’t care for second and third borns. Despite his kids and Ursa being an amazing family, Ozai still feels like something is missing.

2. When Azulon dies, Iroh is made Fire Lord and holds a great festival and celebration for his coronation. After the crowning, Iroh asks Zuko to perform some firebending moves which gets Ozai mad. When Zuko can’t perform as well as Lu Ten (this isn’t a malicious thing. Lu Ten thinks he’s helping his cousin and Iroh is kinda drunk/wanted to see what Zuko could do. Neither of them meant to embarrass Zuko) Ozai confronts Iroh and yells at him for humiliating his son. Iroh ignores Ozai, saying that Zuko is a good son just not as good as Lu Ten. Zuko then gets angry and yells at his father. A fight that ends with Zuko burning their family portraits and cutting himself out (Zuko: You’d be happier right?!? With me out there!?). With that, Ozai leaves the party in anger, partly because he believes Iroh is right and because he knows Iroh is wrong. Zuko isn’t a great warrior but he’s an amazing son. While wondering alone through the jungle close to the palace, Ozai is greeted by a spirit that offers a way to help. She gifts him with a small cake and says it will change Zuko. Ozai returns to the palace and offers a piece to Zuko (as an apology), who instantly grows sick after having a piece. Ozai gets Zuko back to his room but quickly realizes something isn’t right. Ozai leaves to get a wet cloth for Zuko’s head but when he returns, there’s a medium sized disoriented red dragon in Zuko’s room, looking at him with the same eyes his son has. (Ozai: Zuko? Zuko: *Roar?*)

3. Ozai sneaks Zuko out of the palace and into the jungle for his own protection (Ozai: Iroh boasts about his dragon killing abilities and Lu Ten has never killed one. If they knew one was in the palace, they… Zuko: *Growl* *Whine* Ozai: I’m not going to let them hurt you, Zuko. I promise. We’ll figure this out). Ozai can’t find the spirit that did this to Zuko but he does remember the spirit telling him that if he was unsatisfied with the results then he had to fix the bond he broke. Ozai just doesn’t know what that means. In the time of looking for some kind of cure, he and Zuko do start to bond more and more. They go fishing, Zuko gets the hand of flying, and Ozai tells him stories of things his mother used to tell him. It’s only a few days (and Zuko can’t even talk) but it’s nice. Then it all comes crashing down then when Ozai wakes up and can’t find Zuko. He later finds him, having killed and eating a hippo cow. (Ozai: Zuko! You can’t kill livestock! What are you- Zuko, with slit dragon eyes: *Growl* Ozai: Zuko? Zuko, what’s wrong? Zuko: *Roar!* Ozai: Zuko! Zuko: *Breaths fire at him and runs after him. He easily pins him down and raises his claws* Ozai: Zuko, stop! It’s me! It’s your father! Zuko: *Roar!* *eyes change back* *Growling in confusion* *whimper* Ozai: We really need to fix this). Ozai and Zuko discover that the cure might be back in the palace, in the picture Zuko broke, so Ozai agrees to return while Zuko remains in the jungle.

4. Things go from bad to worse very quickly. When Ozai returns, Zuko completely turns again but this time flies around and Iroh spots him. Ozai tries to stop Iroh but the man refuses, getting everyone together to kill the dragon. Even worse is that, while looking for the portrait, Ozai has to pass through the kitchen and sees Ursa, Azula and Kiyi eating pieces of the cursed cake. (Ursa: What? Ozai: You have to promise not to leave me. Ursa: What? Ozai: Just promise you won’t get mad at least. Ursa: I promise I won’t get mad. What’s wrong? *Ozai explains everything* Ursa: WHAT?!? Ozai: You said you wouldn’t get mad! Ursa: That was before I knew you poisoned our son! Ozai: I did not poison him!! I-…Kiyi… Kiyi, now fully a dragon: *Chirp* Ursa: We’ll talk more about this when I get the ability to talk again. Ozai: I’m dead, aren’t I? Ursa: Very much so.) Thankfully, most of the palace residents are gone because of Zuko’s flight so it’s easier to sneak three dragons through the palace. (Ozai has to hold Kiyi to keep her from running off). They find the painting and Ursa tears it down while Azula grabs needle and thread from her parent’s room. Ozai, having learned from his mother, starts working on fixing the cut when the family hears a dragon roar from the jungle. (Ozai: All of you, stay- *Everyone is gone* Ozai: No, no, no, no).

5 (part 1). Ozai rushed out to the jungle, trying to find everyone, and ends up coming across Ursa, Azula and Kiyi….with dragon minds. For a moment, Ozai is positive he’s about to die and that’s when Zuko shows up and fights them to protect Ozai. Ozai’s conflict really comes into play here because he did want Zuko to be a great warrior and taking on two dragons (he can’t count Kiyi) at a time is very impressive but in the other hand Zuko is fighting his mother and sister and they all might be stuck like this forever. Ozai notices when Ursa and Azula come back and runs in front of Zuko, telling him to stop. (Ozai: Zuko! Not that I don’t appreciate the help but you can’t hurt your mother or sister. Zuko, looking at Ursa and Azula: *GROWL?!?!*) Ozai apologizes to Zuko for what happened and how he tried to change him, saying that he has a way to change him back now and is about to put the portrait over him when Iroh arrives.

5 (part 2). Once again, the three fight but Iroh has more men who capture them. Ozai tries to reason with Iroh, telling him the truth and that they’re not really dragons. Iroh, of course, doesn’t believe him and tells Lu Ten to kill one to officially get his title. (Ozai is currently being held back by guards). Lu Ten picks Ursa but before he can kill her, Kiyi jumps on his face and starts clawing at him, giving Zuko enough to break free and wack Lu Ten with his tail into the tree and roaring at Iroh. (Again, really big thing Ozai wanted to happen. His son has enough power to take on Lu Ten and Iroh but this isn’t how he wanted it to happen.) Ozai frees Ursa and Azula who join in the effort with their firebreathing. While they do that, Ozai puts the portrait over Zuko but nothing works. Tearfully, Ozai apologizes to Zuko and admits that he was wrong. (Ozai, feeling Kiyi tap his back: Not now, Kiyi. Go with your mom and sister. Kiyi: Daddy? Ozai: Kiyi, I said- Zuko: Dad? Ozai, opening his eyes and seeing everyone is back: You’re back! Zuko: We’re back. Ursa: Ozai. Ozai: I’m dead).

[vsnyarbll]

the wound on his hand

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

summary: Prince Aemond got hard as Y/N checked the wound on his hand.

warnings: NSFW (not smut, just sexual thoughts), targcest.

words: 1.260

a/n: Sorry for any mistakes. English is not my native language. MDNI

People in King’s Landing woke up to a warm day after several cold and overcast days. Queen Alicent wanted to take full advantage of the sunny day, so she organized a tea party in the garden.

The ladies divided themselves into their usual group of friends and settled down at the tables. The Queen was sitting with her daughter Princess Helaena. Since she became queen, she had lost her friends one by one.

Unlike the Queen, Princess Rhaenyra's table was quite crowded. Her return from Dragon Stone after a long absence had brought her into the limelight.

Princess Y/N, the daughter of Princess Rhaenyra, tried to ignore her mother's glare as she entered the garden. She was late again, but this time it wasn't out of absent-mindedness. She was particularly late to avoid the ladies and their endless questions.

While looking for a table to sit at, she immediately skipped the table where her mother was sitting. She wanted to sit next to her cousins Baela and Rhaena, but the ladies' daughters had already occupied their table. Jacaerys and Lucerys were seated at another table with their father, the king, and Daemon.

She was about to head for the exit when someone waved at him. She walked towards his uncle. The table he sat at was in the far corner of the garden. There was a single chair and a loveseat right across from it. Y/N stood at the end of the table and looked at Aegon. “What do you want, uncle?”

Aegon put what he thought was a sweet smile on his face. "The idea of you leaving while we suffer here disturbed me."

Y/N studied the faces of her childhood friends. They had both changed a lot. But Aemond seemed like a completely different person. “Don't you have any friends other than me?”

Aegon laughed nervously. “We have lots of friends. We just wanted to sit alone today.”

“Name one of your friends.”

“Well, Aemond has Criston.”

“I hope you’re not talking about Ser Criston Cole.”

He fixed his fainting gaze on her face and said, “I don't know why I'm trying to prove myself to you. I don't care if I have friends or not.”

She was happy to have her friend back.

“Have fun, uncles.” She turned around and heard Aegon say "fuck" under his breath.

“Would you like to join us?”

Y/N nodded her head and took the only empty seat at the table. Aemond was sitting in the single chair. Aegon was on the far side of the loveseat from Aemond. So, Y/N was sitting between them. Aegon had probably done something to piss Aemond off again. She thought to herself. That's why he was sitting far away.

By order of the queen, servants served tea to all the tables. There were also a variety of cakes on the table. Aegon and Y/N started chatting after their tea arrived. They were talking fast as if they wanted to close the time they had been away for years.

Aemond listened to their conversation, if watching Y/N's facial expressions counts as listening. He missed her more than he could admit or imagine.

After a short time for Aemond, Aegon showed Y/N a ring he had found in one of the rooms in the castle. Of course, the ring had dragon wings on it. And a red stone in the center.

“Whose ring do you think it could be?”

“It's definitely Aegon the Conqueror’s ring.”

“Only in your dreams.”

“Take a closer look, it says 'Aegon' on it.”

“It's a shame that your hands are so soft.” Y/N said as she held Aegon's hand to get a better look at the ring.

Aegon quickly withdrew his hand. “Why is that?”

“How many times in your life have you held a sword? You don't even ride your dragon?”

“We didn't all grow up savage like you. I grew up in a castle. As a prince.” He said with a fake offense.

Y/N smiled. Aegon was Aegon.

“And would you prefer my hands to be like Aemond's anyway?”

Aemond took his last sip of tea and put his cup down on the table. “It's better than being useless.”

“Aha!” Aegon seemed prouder to be offended.

“Show us your hand.” said Aegon.

Aemond held out his hand, sighing. Aegon just watched as Y/N held his brother’s hand from below. His hands were rough from years of sword practice.

“It would hurt if he grabbed your tit.”

“Aegon.” Aemond said in a warning tone.

Y/N blushed at the thought of him doing it. Aemond looked at the princess out of the corner of his eye.

The topic of conversation at the table was the same image that had occupied the prince's mind for several nights, or rather, several years. She is in his bed. Her long silver hair is messy on his pillows. Y/N tired of his teasing. She is too stubborn to say the words herself, but her eyes beg him to give her more. Her naked figure.

He didn't dare to think more in front of so many people. He wanted to shake his head to clear his thoughts. Instead, he locked eyes with his brother. He was looking at him with a knowing smile. Aegon was drunk but not stupid. He knew what was going on between them. Maybe love was not his specialty, but the desire was.

Then they both saw the princess squeeze her thighs when they looked at her. Apparently, Y/N’s mind was in the same place as Aemond’s. Aegon smirked at his niece's action.

When she realized Aemond was looking at her, she turned the back of his hand to change the subject to prince’s hand. There was a fresh wound.

“Aemond! What happened to your hand? Why didn't you get help?”

Y/N ran her fingers gently around the wound. He clenched his jaw at her action.

“It happened at the practice. It's nothing important.”

“It seemed important to me. You should see a maester.”

Y/N started stroking Aemond's wrist with her thumb without realizing it. Aemond felt himself melting into Y/N’s touch. But at the same time he was getting harder.

Y/N reached for the ribbon in her hair and untied it. She carefully wrapped it around Aemond’s hand. She covered the wound completely. Y/N had never bandaged before and didn't know if what's she had just done would help. But she couldn't stand by and do nothing because she knew Aemond would get no help.

"Thank you.” he said quietly. He liked that she was trying to help him, but he was also surprised. Aemond was not used to people paying attention to him.

"You're welcome, my prince."

Then the queen called Y/N to her side. She said, "Excuse me" and got up.

“Come back to us.” said Aegon.

“I will.” She said with a smile.

When Y/N walked away, Aemond carefully adjusted his pants.

Aegon burst into laughter. “You're pathetic. She just touched your hand and you got hard.”

"I wondered what would happen if she touched any other part of your body," he said as he reached for the bottle of wine on the table.

Aemond felt embarrassed for the first time in a long time. He felt like he was becoming like his brother. Getting hard in public was not something that could happen to Prince Aemond. But then he reminded himself that he was in love with Y/N. So, what happened to him was not because of lust but because of his love for the princess. Wait. He… he was in love with Y/N?

[deadmenandthedivine]

DEAD MEN § the DIVINE

chapter five: the maids that bloom in spring

Maetilda Targaryen, First of her Name, was supposed to be many things. What she became was entirely different.

table of contents

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

word count: 3748

“Helaena,” it cut through the cousins’ moment like a sword through cake, “My love, the children need you in your chambers.”

The voice had been recognizable anywhere. The last time she had heard it had been when it wielded a Valyrian dagger and was headed straight toward her brothers. Maetilda’s hackles raised as her body went rigid. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run as fast as her legs would carry her, but it was the Queen — she had to curtsy. When the Rogue Prince’s daughter mustered up the courage to face her aunt, she froze again at the sight of not only the Queen but her second son too. Aemond’s lilac eye had already been watching her. Maetilda felt as if her mind went completely blank. She felt completely exposed in front of them. Her knight had not announced their presence. Or if he had, she had not heard him. She did not know how long they had been standing there.

“Princess Maetilda, it is good to see you. Welcome back to the Red Keep.” Queen Alicent greeted.

At the sound of the stiff voice, the princess-by-title felt as if she had suddenly returned to her body. She flashed her best smile and dipped into a low curtsy. The skirts of her dress had been perfect for the occasion as it was one of her prettier gowns to curtsy in. Her Septa would have been proud, but she was more focused on her father’s pride. “Good morning, your Grace. I thank you for the extensive loving attention you have given my mother and us all. It has really been too much.”

“Do let me know if there is anything else I can do for you, princess.” The Queen retorted back tightly smug before turning her attention back to her daughter, “Helaena, my love, come.”

It was a command that the King’s second daughter immediately obeyed. Tearing herself away from their embrace, Helaena muttered under her breath, “We shall see each other tomorrow.”

The Queen and her only daughter bid the Rogue Prince’s daughter ‘good day.’ The two turned to leave and took a few tense steps away. Their feet crunching in the leaves and grass was the loudest sound in the Godswood. Alicent had clearly expected her second son to follow, but hesitated when he did not. Aemond remained where he stood, eye fixed on Maetilda. A soft smile graced his lips. A cold shiver ran down Maetilda’s spine.

“I shall make sure Princess Maetilda finds where she is going safely, and see you both soon.” Aemond told the woman behind him without even turning his head.

His mother nodded slowly at first before it grew in confidence, “Very well. Be safe.”

Princess Helaena was led away by the arm. The Queen’s grip on her unyielding. Her cousin could see the dents in the girl’s arm as she was ordered out of the Godswood. The two passed by the fresh sworn knight on their way. Ser Eddrin had relieved Ser Wyllam for the next two shifts somewhere between the castle doors and the Godswood. He stood a respectful distance from both the Prince and Princess. Aemond waited until his mother and sister were gone before he moved to step closer to his cousin, the knight creeping closer in turn. The prince flashed the slightest smile at the sound of squeaking bronze armor. He was dressed in a black coat and trousers with silver detailing. Little tiny dragons in nooks and crannies all around him. His silk tunic underneath was a very dark green. The top section of his long silver blonde hair was pulled out of his face. His leather eye patch was tucked through his hair, secured somewhere behind his head. He grew much more handsome with his age. He did not look like his father or his mother. Perhaps an older relative of theirs. His hair looked as soft as silk and his skin as smooth as marble. His features were strong and statuesque.He stood with his hands behind his back, shoulders straight in a confident posture. He was built tall and sturdy like a Hightower, yet retained the toned, agile, and slender physique of a Valyrian. If he could best Ser Criston, could he best her knight? She feared so. As her hands grew clammy, she hid them behind her back. She grabbed fistfuls of her gown to dry her hands off. All the while, Aemond watched her.

“I am pleased to see you again, princess. How did you sleep?”

The princess froze. His intense stare never faltered. Did he know she was walking about the castle the night before? Did he know that she had been to the library? She had not seen anyone, but perhaps she had missed him. Maetilda attempted to keep her face even so as not to give anything away, but she could tell by the look on his face that she had already failed. His soft smile turned smug and he crept a bit closer. So too did the knight.

“I found myself restless after all the events of yesterday.” She replied evenly, “It is hard being away from the bed I am used to.”

He paused before opening his mouth with intense sincerity, “I am… deeply sorry for my brother’s remarks to you yesterday, his behavior too. From what I understand, he was quite crass.”

“Yes, thank you. I do hope he will learn his manners soon.”

“I fear he will not.” Aemond allowed a sigh before changing the subject, “My sister has missed you.”

“I have missed her greatly. Letters simply do not compare.”

He paused again before he inquired, “Did my mother and I interrupt something?”

Maetilda paused as she remembered their brief time together as kids. Before Aemond had lost his eye, he was a very doting brother. He was among the few that had not treated her oddly for the things she said and did. He was her friend, listened to her attentively, and pieced together things when he could. In her gut, she knew she could tell him the truth of it. Yet, her mind did not know how much she could truly divulge, “The Princess was upset because I was not understanding her.”

“I see,” He nodded.

“Has she been alright?” She inquired.

“It has been getting worse as of late.” He nodded sadly.

“I wish to visit her again. She needs company other than your mother and her children.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“I think she would love that,” He smiled before it quickly dropped, “Although tomorrow will be busy with the Hearing.”

“Yes, the Hearing.” She nodded, “Tomorrow will be quite hectic. Although I sense a decision has already been brokered. Perhaps all the pageantry is unnecessary.”

His head pulled to the side as he blinked at her. She internally cursed her loud mouth. Sometimes her words came out of her mouth before she had the ability to stop them. Again, he stepped closer. The knight followed suit. Aemond was quite close to Maetilda now. She could better see the rise and fall of his chest, the small flexings of the different muscles in his arms and shoulders, the details of his face. He was intimidating. His beautiful presence loomed like that of a mountain cat waiting to strike. But he completely disarmed her of all defenses when an unreadable smile spread across his face.

“That’s quite the accusation.” His tone was taunting.

“Merely a humorous observation.” She corrected.

“Hmm.”

The princess’s crossed arms tightened against her. She couldn’t entirely tell whether their conversation was hostile or not. The uncertainty set her on edge.

“You are not one to hold your tongue, are you princess?”

“I do when I want to.”

“Of course,” He smirked, “I would expect nothing else from the Dragon of the Vale.”

The princess guffawed, “Is that what I am known as?”

“There is still plenty of time to be known by other names if that one does not please you,” He chuckled at her.

“Well, it is not a bad name. Though I fear what the people will come up with next,” She admitted, “They can be dreadfully uncreative.”

“Atrocious.” Aemond agreed with a knowing groan.

The pair briefly slipped off into thought. They each grew silent as their eyes glazed over. They stared at each other without actually looking at one another. They were in their own worlds. Maetilda thought of the names her brothers called him, although they were not yet her brothers back then. Even Baela and Rhaena would keep their distance. For a moment, it was almost as if she could still hear the echoes of Jace and Luke chanting lude things about the Rider of the Pink Dread around the gardens and courtyards. Such words had not once been uttered after Aemond had taken Vhagar as his mount. The Last Dragon of the Conquest. The princess had ridden the dragon many times in her youth. The she-dragon had been the mount of her late step-mother before she had bonded with Aemond. In many aspects, Maetilda felt as if she knew his dragon better than her own. She had certainly known her for longer. The princess had not claimed her own mount until after her father’s third marriage.

“May I ask you a question, princess?” Aemond’s voice broke their silence.

“You may ask one, but I may not answer,” She teased.

“Good, smart,” He smiled, “You do not have to answer if you do not wish to — I have merely been curious.”

“What is your question, Prince Aemond?” Her crossed arms shifted to hands suspiciously on her hips.

“Why have you not wed?”

“Why are you concerned?” She swallowed, narrowing her eyes.

“I know it is not for lack of interested suitors. Has your father given you the choice only for you to refuse them all? Like your stepmother tried to do?”

“My father hasn’t told me of a single one.” She crossed her arms again.

“As long as you are unwed, Runestone is his.” Aemond stated.

“He has always hated the damned thing. Never misses an opportunity to remind me.”

“Your castle used to be the home of kings, you know.”

“Yes, before your dragon and two others came along.”

“And you have blood from both Kings.”

“Lucky me.”

“Do you not see the honor in that?”

“No matter how much King’s blood I have, I still cannot so much as purchase a book without my father’s permission. I do not see the difference.”

“I do not remember you being such an avid bookworm in our youth.” He pointed out.

“Yes, well,” She searched for words, “I’ve had some time to change my mind.”

“That you have.”

“With your time, I see you have left books behind to play with swords.”

“Yes, well,” He mimicked, “The words do not look the same on the page as they used to.”

Once again, the princess’s frame went rigid. He was referring to the loss of his eye. The one he lost at the hands of her stepbrother. They had been small children, but he had been old enough to remember his life before. More than old enough to remember the recovery. It had to have been hard. All those years of relearning how to go about his day-to-day. Her mind raced with questions. So many questions. Many that she would never dare ask. Did it still hurt? Did he have any feeling there at all? Was it truly so scary that he must wear an eye patch? How long had he been wearing one? Did the sight of his scar make him think of what happened every time he looked? Did he even remember the night? What of Lucerys?

“Do you blame him for it?” It was not the first question she should have asked him. It was not a very sensitive one, but it came out as soon as it crossed her mind, “Lucerys? Do you hate him?”

He did not answer. And so came the end to their mutual honesty. Just as she said she would not answer the questions she did not want to, so too did he. She took his silence as a yes. He did not need to answer for her to see the look that crossed his face. His gaze had finally dropped away from her. His single eye darted back and forth in thought. He looked as if he were etched in stone. His skin was already pale like marble, even in the daylight that seeped through the leaves of the trees. She wondered what she should ask him next, or if she should ask him anything at all. Had she overstepped? Just as he had feared he would. It was her turn to ask uncomfortable questions.

“We were children,” Aemond finally spoke, “Yet he knew the damage a dagger would inflict.”

“That is fair.” She nodded, seeing the logic in his thinking. They had seen the damage of daggers, swords, and lances all their life. They had been lectured at length for as long as they could remember. They were not toys. She had known that. But the animosity between the boys was a seed that had been planted since they were babes in the cradle. They knew no differently. What a question she had asked him, indeed. “I am sorry. That was not a fair question to ask you.”

“Asking about your lack of a husband was unfair of me. It was merely revenge.” He smiled.

“Yes, precisely.” She smirked slightly.

“Do you ever wish for a husband, Maetilda?”

“I guess. But only a good one. One that is kind and honorable.” She replied honestly, “Do you ever wish for… amiability with your nephews?”

“I have only ever wished for their laughter to stop.” Honesty.

She nodded in full understanding. Perhaps appreciation too. It had been so long since they had last seen each other, over half a decade ago, yet they had not changed. They always saw each other for the people they were. He had never belittled her or Helaena for being girls or their appreciation for ladylike things. He listened to them talk about flowers and fashion and feelings and jewelry and other people’s affairs. He would even give his input. The memories brought a smile to her face. The prince took a single step closer.

“I have missed you too,” He muttered softly, “Not just Helaena.”

The soft, reminiscent smile turned into a wider coy one. She looked away from his face as she felt his eye bore into hers. Her face reddened with heat. Her voice was hardly above a whisper when she replied, “I missed you too.”

Aemond had opened his mouth to answer before the sound of dragons calling out to each other in greeting rang across the sky. The smile on the princess’s face turned upward in delight.

“I believe your sisters have arrived.”

“It has been long since I have seen them too.”

“We best not keep them waiting.”

The princess froze at the sight of the Prince’s arm offered out to her. To escort her out of the Godswood and to the correct courtyard, “Like you kept my family and myself waiting just yesterday?”

“I was following an order.” He looked down guiltily. His proffered arm wavered, “It was never anything against you.”

“Well, I certainly felt the disrespect.”

“You are right to be upset with me. You do not deserve such treatment. I hope I may make it up to you.”

“I would like that,” She nodded.

“I shall start by escorting you to the proper courtyard.” He tried again.

“That you will.”

The One-Eyed Prince and the Rogue Prince’s daughter left the Godswood arm-in-arm. The princess’s knight followed behind them. The prince smelled of oud, sandalwood, saffron, rosemary, and red clay. The fragrance graced her nose, tempting it to drink in more. The sounds of dragons chirping continued to echo about the skies around them. It filled her chest with a happy warmth while simultaneously pulling at her heartstrings for the absence of Shrykos’s chatter in the mix. She gazed up at the skies as they walked, waiting for a glimpse of one of the three. She could feel Aemond’s stare drift back and forth between her and what she was looking at. She could not remember him watching her so intensely in their youth, but perhaps she had not noticed it then. Servants eyed them as they passed through the various outer courtyards and gardens. She could feel their eyes too. All of them watching her every move. Waiting for her to give them something to whisper about later. Something that would undoubtedly end up in the ears of her father and the Queen. She did her best to ignore them. Aemond and Maetilda easy fell in silent step with each other. She cradled the prince’s muscular arm, as was honorable. It flexed and unflexed as they moved. She would be lying if she said she did not enjoy the feeling of walking so closely with the man grown. His tall presence at her side, she felt like Helaena’s beetles were crawling around her insides. She wished deep down that her father would eventually wed her to a good and kind man who was as tall as Aemond.

“May I join you,” He spoke suddenly, “when you visit Helaena again?”

“I think we would both enjoy that. Just like our few times as children,” She smiled.

“I would enjoy it too. Has been some time since I have been able to vent about Aegon’s horrendous taste in jewelry.” The prince grinned beside her.

She snorted with a small bout of laughter, “He wears very large emeralds and rubies around his neck for a man who will undoubtedly get bile on them.”

“They act as his bib.” Aemond barked with laughter.

The pair giggled together as they made their way back into the training yards. Apparently it served as a direct route to both the High Council’s chambers as well as the Dragon Pit. A small crowd had already gathered down below, the Queen among them. The princess felt her aunt’s eyes watch her as she descended the staircase next to her second son. The princess scanned the crowd for the cousin she saw just earlier, only to come up empty. Disappointment fluttered in her heart with the lack of wisteria, but soon her eyes landed upon her family. They stood together making idle conversation. Joffrey was there, but not Aegon or Viserys. Jacaerys and Lucerys were breathing hard as if they had just ran in. She watched her stepmother follow the Queen’s gaze, followed by her father. Upon catching his glare, her step faltered. Her foot missed the step and crashed onto the one below it. Her ankles wobbled and her balance left her. She lightly crashed into the prince next to her who was reflexively already prepared to catch her. Luckily, she only lost her footing and did not completely fall. That would have only caused more embarrassment. The prince caught her with a light hand on her back and a solid grip beneath her elbow. She breathed a sigh of relief against his steady resolve. He gently straightened her and helped her fix her gowns before they resumed their climb down the steps. Aemond’s grip was firmer the rest of the way down. Her heart continued to pound with the unexpelled energy from her fright. His hold loosened as soon as they reached even ground. Her heart continued to pound at the thought of what to do next amongst the crowd.

The prince gave her arm a reassuring squeeze before he led her through the crowd. The collection of lords and ladies parted like sections of hair as they slowly made their way closer and closer to the Queen, the King’s heir, and the Rogue Prince. All three sets of eyes watched them like snakes watching rats. She couldn’t help but tense with every step. Princess Rhaenyra was the only one who had attempted to smile at them. Even Luke and Jace shut up to turn and gawk. She had never felt so small and scandalous than she did under their close inspection. She painted a smile on her face as she met their eyes with her own. Her father’s were the worst of them. His normally indigo violet eyes seemed practically black. He fumed from his place behind his wife. Smoke practically poured out of his ears from the fire that stirred within. Upon reaching them. Aemond bowed before allowing Maetilda to dip into her low practiced curtsy. The Queen opened her mouth to speak before the sound of gates opening echoed across the mostly quiet training yard.

“Make way! Make way! May I present the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, second of her name and Lady of Driftmark, wife to Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides. And her granddaughters Ladies Baela and Rhaena Targaryen, first of their name, daughters to Prince Daemon Targaryen and the late Lady Laena Velaryon.”

From the open gates entered three heads. They made a triangle formation with the matriarch at the head and the Lucerys-aged girls flanked her back. Their familial resemblance was uncanny. Down to the way the three gracefully sauntered forward. The raven haired Princess Rhaenys, daughter of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, and Maetilda’s silver headed twin sisters. Even fresh from dragonback, they looked put together and elegant. She wondered if they would smell better too. If they had found a way to mask the scent of dragon with something far prettier. Prince Aemond’s warm presence drew back and away from her, immediately gaining her attention. The princess felt her side grow cold and turned to find him joining his mother’s side. Following his lead, she assumed her place between Jacaerys and her father. The tension radiated off of both their bodies. Her stomach churned at the realization that she would have much explaining to do. Yet she had no explanations for them. It was nothing more than a conversation in the Godswood, supervised by her very own sworn knight. Regardless, the guilt consumed her as if she had disobeyed a command. And she very much had, a direct order from her father. Of which, she had disobeyed thrice times over in the span of one morning. If the Gods were good to her, they would hold the bombardments at bay.

A/N: can y’all smell that? it’s the plot thickening…

xoxo messy

[star-girl69]

I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: guess who sucks at action scenes? me! my apologies for this. but i hope you all enjoy anyways!!

warning: mentions of death, violence, gore, blood, fire, death, incest, swearing, tell me if i missed anything!!

Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Chapter Thirty Nine- The Meaning of Fire

—-

You only know the aftermath of war.

You know the marks on your stomach, the widening of your hips is evidence of your battle in the childbed.

You see the same in Rhaenyra. You also see the way she holds her herself- that reserved thing so unlike the princess you used to know- marred and changed by the war that was losing her mother, brother, and best friend.

You grace the scars on Daemon’s body with your hands, your mouth, your eyes. You pour over each arrow wound, each slash of a sword, demanding to know the story behind each one. He tells you of battle, of war, of death and pain. Before, you admit, it scared you a little.

But then you fought your own battles- your first marriage, child birth, your kidnapping- and you suddenly were not scared any longer. As you dive into battle, you think of your children.

—-

As Cannibal soars over the army of House Staunton, of Rook’s Rest, you feel fear for the first time.

You wonder what your children will do without you, what your husband and wife will do. You know you are not a queen, your brow is adorned with no crown, but you almost feel a possessiveness to the Realm, as well. A protectiveness. And while perhaps you will not do the most of the protecting, the simple fact is you hold Daemon and Rhaenyra’s heart in your hands.

It is simple, for them, to give you everything you want. (Except for permission to put yourself in danger, of course.) A million chocolate cakes will be made upon your word, a thousand men will die if you so choose, and you know you could spend your entire days wrapped up in blankets and pillows, entertained by books and songs, waiting until your dragons returned from their duties. (You think they would prefer the last option, but you are a dragon like them. There is fire in you, fire that they made, and they would do well not to forget it.)

The men below you cheer, the men in front of you cower. You are so close to them- only a few more seconds.

Aemond is most likely hiding, waiting until Cannibal and Meleys have tired themsleves, but he underestimates you.

He kidnapped you, isolated you, watched as a man died in your arms. He disrespected you, forced you to kill a man and feel the blood on your hands. He caused such strife for your family, and then men who serve him would do the same.

Your eyes narrow, your resolve hardens.

You are the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. You will have your revenge, just as your paramours do.

Legs bent, looking out over the enemy, the endless ranks of men, it only takes a second for you to say it.

“Dracarys.”

It is one of the first words you learned in High Valyrian. Everyone who hears it knows death will soon be upon them.

Rhaenyra once said that the realm would know the meaning of fire. Instead, you teach it now, uttering your lesson over the sound of men screaming and fire roaring. You ride a dragon, you are a dragon, and you fade into one with the beast below you.

Your fears fade, replaced by the freedom of flying. You feel powerful, drunk on blood, on fire, and you think that now, more than you ever have been, you are truly a Targaryen.

Barely giving the fire time to douse, the Black forces charge, through the fire, through the bloodshed, through to the disarrayed forces of the Greens.

They do not care about the Realm, about their soldiers. When the Blacks send men to their deaths, they do so with remorse and the promise that dragons will be there, so at least the place of their death will be remembered. The Greens let their men burn.

Some of the Green forces remain intact, the sections not burning or bombarded upon by the soldiers you fight with, and you see they ready your weapons as you and Rhaenys circle each other. It is almost foolish that weapons should be able to reach you. Now when you are this high, not when you are closer to gods than men. Not when you are Targaryens.

The arrows and spears come, but Cannibal and Meleys are too large for it to be more than pinpricks. You almost laugh, thinking this is too easy. You would fight everyday if it felt like this. Like freedom, like power.

Vhagar roars, and you can feel Cannibal tense.

“Gīda, Cannibal, gīda.” You coo, and the dragon huffs but heeds your command. (Calm, Cannibal, Calm.)

To him, it is simple. He lost you, and Vhagar was there when you were taken. To him, revenge is easy. Second nature.

It is starting to become like that to you as well.

You feel the heat of fire rise, growing by the second as Meleys breathes more- most likely annoyed by the arrows- you look out to the horizon.

Vhagar rides toward you, Aemond atop her, the sun to his back. If you were not a dragon yourself (with each passing moment, each pained scream, each roar of fire, you become more and more comfortable with that fact) you might be scared.

Instead, you huff, feel Cannibal reel beneath you, practically salivating for your command. You do not even have to say it- he is shooting forward through the sky, forward, forward, forward until you can clearly see Aemond.

You cannot see his expression- but you hope he is scared. You hope his Hightower blood is strong, and he remembers that while he is a dragon- at his core, it is only a lantern that burns. Your viens are practically overfilling with fire, and the red benewth your skin is no longer just blood. It is dragonblood. Your skin is dragonscales, your teeth are dragonteeth, you are fire, fire, fire.

Cannibal stretches his wings, and you are so close to them now, and when you look up you see Aemond’s eye fixed on you.

Vhagar screeches as the tip of Cannibal’s spiked wing trails across her stomach.

You turn, sharply, quickly, facing them. You know better than to turn your back to a dragon. Vhagar does the same, and suddenly you are careening towards the old dragon, so fast you can feel the wind whistling in your ears. Vhagar breathes a puff of fire, but you are coming too fast, and it is a weak plume, a last ditch attempt, and you fleeting think that it will finally happen.

Cannibal will rip out Vhagar’s throat, and Aemond would fall to the ground with her. The Greens would lose their biggest advantage. Rhaenyra and Daemon would forgive you- would have to forgive you, because you are the Queen and it is not a crime to protect your realm, protect Rhaenyra’s crown.

Even as you willing fly towards Vhagar, you are still thinking of them. Still hoping they forgive you. Still hoping they see your side.

You can just make out Aemond’s face, but not the expression on it, when suddenly Cannibal roars and dives down, toward the ground, and you suddenly realize it is you who will die.

You are foolish, thinking you could win a battle, thinking you could do anything other than be a pretty face with a meaningless crown on your heard, anything more than a womb and something for them to take their frustrations out on.

But you don’t die.

Instead, Cannibal lifts up and turns, and you are met with Vhagar, lazy in her turn, and…

Sunfyre.

You gasp, look around anxiously for Rhaenys, knowing that in this fight, you stand no chance. But she is beside you, suddenly, and Meleys is hissing and clicking. Cannibal roars again, and you look over your shoulder to see a bite mark in his leg.

Suddenly, the fire inside is raging, swirling and roaring, and you are bracing yourself and looking at Rhaenys. You can barely make out her hand raising before you are urging Cannibal forward, cutting through the wind.

The two traitors wait for you, making you come for them, and it only makes your brow furrow and your bottom lip curl in pure anger. They will know the meaning of fire.

“Dracarys!” You scream just as you reach them, and they are both bathed in flame for one precious moment, before it falls and it is your opening. They are disoriented, blinded by the blast, and you slam into Vhagar so fast you cannot even blink.

Cannibal bites into the meat of her shoulder, and she howls, and you almost feel bad, but then you remember that if you do not kill her, she will kill you.

Vhagar throws her head back, just as the force of Meleys and Sunfyre collide into the two of you. And suddenly you are all falling, wings of dragons flapping wildly, the sound of screaming, of various shouts in High Valyrian, the wind whistling in your ears, when suddenly Cannibal manages to unfurl his wings, and the pure surface area of them slows your descent just that much.

The mess of dragons is falling below you know, only yards from the ground, when Meleys suddenly throws herself to the side and the two brothers are left to slam to the ground on their own.

Meleys slams to the ground next, and you follow on Cannibal, ash in your hair and your face, the slam of him under you causing your grip to slip, but you just manage to hang on.

You do not know if Aegon and Aemond are dead. Of Sunfyre and Vhagar are. You do not even know if Rhaenys and Meleys are alive.

You see a red dragon circle above you, but the neck is too long to be Meleys. Caraxes has come for you, and so has his rider.

—-

taglist:

@wondergal2001 @akiraquote @a-lil-bit-nuts @anginoguera @thatkinkylesgirl1 @stitchattacks @honeypillowsblog @kaloafd @blackhoodlea @softtina @wallace02sblog @tetgod @hotd-fanfic @rxscpctals @iramagnus

[dragonmasterhiccup]

“I’m… your daughter? A hundred percent? I, I’m your daughter and you’re my dad?” Blood relations completely cast aside, she needed that final ‘yes,’ that last bit of approval to seal the deal. “I… I promise that I’ll try to be a good kid, alright? I don’t want to, to ruin anything, okay?” Sniffling, she paused for a few moments, before eventually continuing. “I hope I change to be like you, ‘cause when I grow up, I wanna be just like you, because you’re brave, and smart, and you aren’t scared of anything…”

She gave him a shaky nod right back. “Okay, thank you, Dad… Can you, can you bring your fire sword with? Just… in case…” she muttered, not wanting anything bad to happen to her if Hiccup was there. He didn’t need to see that, not at all.

———

Danny didn’t even realize the daze that Astrid was seemingly stuck in, she was just so happy to see her again.

She’d miss Astrid when she left.

Gladly returning the hug, Danny smiled brightly before letting go, gesturing towards the meal that was plated in front of her.

“Thanks, Astrid! It was super scary at first, ‘cause I don’t really like water, but, it was okay! Dad was right there the whole time, I knew that he wouldn’t let me sink!”

Danny smiled at Zephyr as she clapped. Did this mean that she was her little sister? She already missed being a big sister, she missed Tove, but… she had Zephyr now, right?

———

The young girl had been quite the chatterbox during their meal, interjecting with as much as she could in as little time as possible. After all, that day had by far been her most exciting one yet! Aside from flying on Toothless for the first time, that definitely took the cake.

Truth be told, during all her conversing with her parents, she’d almost forgotten about the hot cocoa that was made up for her next to her plate, and at Hiccups reminder, her eyes widened in shock and she hastily picked up the cup, taking a hearty sip.

When she took the cup away from her mouth, there was a brown colored stain around her lips, though she didn’t seem to care, or even realize.

“I love it! It’s amazing! Now I see why people here like it so much! Y’know, I thought it would be a weird drink ‘cause it was warm, but, it’s super good!”

She finished her drink very quickly, almost as quick as the time when she’d downed her stew the first time she came here.

“Okay, I’m gonna go get ready for bed, I’m tired,” she stated, sliding off her chair and scurrying up the stairs, her feline companion not far behind.

———

A few minutes later, Danny returned back to the lower level of the home, still wearing Hiccups shirt, though she did change her trousers. She also had her favorite fur blanket wrapped around herself, with her stuffed Monstrous Nightmare clutched close to herself as well.

Padding over to the wooden couch— she was no longer bouncing about, her previous energy seemingly starting to die down— she looked up at the two adults expectantly, before climbing up onto the couch and settling herself right between them, leaning her head on Hiccups arm. “Can you tell me a story tonight? Please?” she asked sleepily.

(If you just want to time skip to when she’s testing her fireproof outfit, then you definitely can!!)

"Yes," Hiccup confirmed. "If you want me to be."

"You're already a great kid, Danny..."

Shaking his head, he said, "No, I...I am scared of some things. Everyone is, I guess what's important is what you do about it, how you face that fear."

"When you grow up...you should be just like...you. I grew up afraid that I couldn't measure up to who my father was. I don't want you to go through that, too. Just... just be you, Danny. Kind, thoughtful, brave, smart...you're already all of those things."

Nodding solemnly, he patted where the Dragon Blade was holstered on the side of his leg. "I always have it with me, Danny."

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

Astrid smiled warmly at Hiccup. "He does have a way of calming those fears, doesn't he?"

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

As Danny left to get ready for bed, Hiccup and Astrid worked together to clean up from dinner.

Since Hiccup managed to clean up as he cooked, it only took a few minutes for everything to be done.

Hiccup scooped up Zephyr, holding her to his chest. "Hear that, Zeph? You have a big sister, now."

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

Zephyr had eaten, and was in Hiccup's arms again, getting close to falling asleep.

The couple sat on the wooden couch, talking quietly about their days, when Danny joined them once more.

As she climbed up and sat between them, Hiccup and Astrid scooted over slightly, making sure she had enough room.

When she leaned her head on Hiccup's arm, he looked down at her, a small grin on his face.

"Let me tell you about the Rumblehorn named Skullcrusher, and how he saved us from a tidal wave..."

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

A few days later, Hiccup had brought the finished fire suit home with him, having tested it out in the forge.

"Danny! Danny, your suit is ready! You need to try it on, I need to make sure it fits right, that it's comfortable..."

[legitalicat]

Dragon of Valhalla

AN: The biggest shout-out and thank you to Foxy, because she gives me basically all the songs all the time just based on the vibes I need, and they're the reason my brain works while I write this.

Series Masterlist here!

Songs of the Chapter

Hell's Coming With Me by Poor Man's Poison

Far From Home (The Raven) by Sam Tinnesz

The Bells by Ramin Djawadi

The Last War by Ramin Djawadi

Summary: War comes when Wolf-Kissed commands.

CW: Language (including insults used in AC Valhalla, that are spoken in Old Norse, used in the same context), battle, violence, character death, betrayal, nothing scarier than a woman scorned

Pairings: Talks of past Anya Eivorsdottir x Ceolbert of Mercia, Sihtric Kjartansson x Anya Eivorsdottir, Eivor Varinsdottir x Hytham of the Hidden Ones

Word Count: 3k

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Chapter 10

Ravensthorpe, Kingdom of Mercia

If anyone asked Eivor what the end of the world felt like, she would describe this moment. Learning her daughter, her only daughter, was being held prisoner with an sword hanging over her life was something she had dreaded since the moment Anya was born. She knew their enemies were great. She never truly anticipated it to be her allies, her friends, to endanger Anya.

“What happened?” Hytham asked when Eivor could not.

Everything was perfectly fine this morning with Eivor’s return from Lunden. They had welcomed their friend Soma of the Summer Clan and her people just earlier in the morning. They were rallying their allies to prefer for the coming days in which Anya would need forces.

“He said it was to originally kill Lady Æthelflaed,” Sihtric said, looking to Uhtred. The look of anger was not missed by Sihtric, but he turned back to Eivor and Hytham. “But men of my father, they were there, and they told him of my allegiance to Uhtred. He was angered by you hosting us, and I think he planned for this the entire time, but my being there set him off. He gives you until the moon is at its peak to come answer for the betrayal, as he said.”

Uhtred recognized the look on Hytham and Eivor’s face. He imagined his looked the same when he learned Alfred held his own children after Gisela died. Though, he knew there was a key difference. Alfred would not slaughter Uhtred’s children. Ivarr had no such reservations.

“Where?” Eivor said.

She spoke with the authority of Odin. Her voice was enough to command a mountain to move. Should she ask it, the sun itself would go disappear into oblivion.

“Tamworth,” he responded. The way Eivor and Hytham looked to each other, silence between them, set him on edge. “What is it?”

“She has dreamt of taking that fortress since she was small. It has remained in Saxon hands, no matter the year. If Ivarr has her there, he is backed by a Saxon Lord,” Hytham said.

Then, Sihtric looked to Uhtred. Both men seemed to understand the meaning. If Ivarr had a Saxon Lord on his side, who wanted Æthelflaed dead, there was only one man they could think of. Æthelred of Mercia, Æthelflaed’s husband, could be the only one.

Æthelred had no honor about him. He was a coward, a worm, unworthy of the muck caked on the bottom of a farmer’s boot. To hire Ivarr to arrange the murder of his wife, and presumably their child, would prove that to anyone.

Uhtred could see that Sihtric was torn in his concern. As a friend, he was concerned for Æthelflaed. Yet, his priority lay with Anya. Uhtred may be a bit rash, but he could not blame Sihtric for his worry.

“What would you have us do, Eivor? We act on your word,” Uhtred said, turning to the jarlskona.

It was not usual for Uhtred to be willing and committed to being at the command of another. He did not take orders well, he never had. There was a part of him, though, that felt responsible. If Raven Clan had not accepted him and his men into their town, Anya may have walked back unscathed.

“Hytham, ring the bell,” Eivor told her husband. Without a word, Hytham did as she said. He all but ran to the bell, hitting it over and over again. She looked to Sihtric. “Are you able to fight?” ( 1 )

“Odin himself could not stop me,” Sihtric told her without a hint of hesitation.

“Good,” Eivor said. She looked as Soma and Dag, two of her closest friends, walked into the longhouse. “Ready every man or woman who can wield an axe,” she instructed them. “Dag, you and your men leave immediately towards Tamworth. Soma, your men ride with me.”

“Aye,” Dag answered. He needed no further instruction.

“What is going on, Eivor?” Soma asked her.

“We are taking Tamworth and burning every man that stands behind it’s walls,” Eivor said simply. She gave the command as though she were a warlord. “Ivarr Ragnarsson seems to have forgotten who I am and I intend to remind him.”

Sihtric saw Dag look at him. Then around the room. There was a look of realization before it faded into what could only be described as bloodlust.

“He has Anya?” Dag asked. His words were not aimed at anyone in particular. But it was Uhtred who nodded to him, giving him the confirmation.

Dag started chanting, howling like a dog. Men scattered through the crowd chanted just the same, beating their axes against their shields. It was a war cry.

“To war, then,” Eivor said.

Tamworth Fortress, Kingdom of Mercia

When Anya woke, she was sitting in the dirt, hands tied. Her arms were wrapped around a post in the middle of Tamworth Fortress. And she sat there for hours, watching as men walked by her and paid her no mind.

There was a stickiness keeping her hair plastered to her head. She could only assume Ivarr had busted her head open with the contact of his axe. She was determined, though, to not allow anyone see her falter. Her head remained high as morning faded into the afternoon, and then into the evening.

Anya did the only thing she could in this moment. She prayed. It started as a prayer to the gods, begging for her salvation. As she did, she knew it was futile. The gods gave her purpose, gave her strength. It was her mother, though, that would grant her freedom once more. ( 2 )

With any luck, Sihtric had made it back to Ravensthorpe. Once her mother knew where she was, the situation she found herself in, Anya had no doubt Eivor would take the head of anyone who dared hold an axe against her.

She looked up to the sky when she heard a raven cry. The bird flying ahead was near as recognizable to her as her own bow. Sýnin flew overhead, taking in the fortress. Her mother was close.

“You know, I always hoped this day would never come to pass,” Ivarr said from behind. Her jaw tensed as he came into view.

Anya stood in her spot. On instinct, she wanted to struggle against the binds that held her. She wanted his face to meet her axe for such treatment.

“Ergi,” she said viciously, spitting at his feet.

“Come now, little wolf, do not behave like your mother,” Ivarr said as he shook his head.

“You remember her, then? I thought you forgot, considering what you have done,” she snapped at him.

“Your mother allows my brother’s murderer to roam free in your town. This cannot go unanswered,” he barked.

“A death from years ago,” she reminded him.

“Would you not avenge Ceolbert? His death was five years ago, would you be able to let the man who killed him walk free?!”

Anya glared at him. Ivarr, of all people, knew what Ceolbert meant to her. He was forever in her mind and her heart. The simple touch of his hand, the sound of his voice reading to her the Saxon histories, the joy of seeing him catch his first fish. Memories she would hold onto until she took her last breath.

“Ceolbert was killed in cold blood, Ubba was a loss of war, it cannot be considered the same,” she said darkly.

“Was he not lost during the war against the Britons?” Ivarr asked her.

“Ceolbert wanted peace, Ivarr! Ubba wanted nothing but death!”

The stars were just starting to dot the inky sky. Sounds of axes drumming against shields were heard in the distance. If Ivarr noticed, he did not give any indication. None of his men moved. As such, Anya did not either. ( 3 )

“I loved him, and you, as though you were my own. This is not something I do lightly, little wolf,” Ivarr told her quietly.

“Then why do it? Why ask for me if it was Ma you want?” she asked him.

She could not stand the sight of him. Even so, she did not dare to look away. Breaking the eye contact would be giving him a victory. One would not dream of giving him.

“You are the reason she fights,” he said simply.

Past the gate, in the outer courtyard of the fortress, she could hear the battle. Clashing of metal against metal, wood breaking and splintering. It was not a war, but a slaughter. She would estimate forces of over two hundred stormed Tamworth.

“Surely you know this to be a death sentence? I command a dragon,” Anya said to him.

“And if I know you, you commanded the dragon to stay at your home until you need of him,” Ivarr chuckled. “You and Ceolbert were always alike in that way, you know. All the power at your fingertips and yet hesitation to last for miles.”

“Untie me then and I will show you just how much I hesitate,” she told him.

There was a bashing against the door. Eivor always made quick work of armies, even alone. If she were backed by the amount of men Anya estimated she was, they never stood a chance.

“Why, Ivarr? You were there in my first raid, you watched me grow. Why do this?” she asked him. She did not care that she was pleading him with now.

Being proven wrong about him was painful enough for Anya. But, if she were being honest, it was the loss of the man she knew. He was Ivarr, close to her as Sigurd had been. An uncle, for all anyone was concerned, the brotherhood between him and Eivor forged in battle long ago.

She knew him. She had fought alongside him herself. He had proven himself a mentor and even perhaps a father figure of sorts to the boy she loved. Her mind simply could not understand that he would do this. Not to her.

The gate was breaking with every hit. Ivarr did not look scared. Instead, he was ready. She knew that look well. Old dogs longed for glory in death.

“You cannot lose, can you?” Anya asked him. “If you win this fight, your twisted little mind is convinced you avenge Ubba. If you lose, you find relief in death.”

“You will understand one day, little wolf,” he told her as the gate finally broke completely. He did not bother to look.

Through the shattered remains, Eivor and Sihtric stepped forward first. Anya knew they would have been leading the charge. Her body ached to be in Sihtric’s embrace, to stand at her mother’s side. There were still many men and women fighting in the outer courtyard.

Even still, twenty flooded this courtyard. Forming a wide ring around the pole where she was tied, they slaughtered Ivarr’s men. And still, he did not look to Eivor.

“Every single thing I have done, I have done for the glory of battle. For the gods. For my father. Scrap by scrap I built my kingdom, only for Ceolbert to piss it away with his ceaseless peace talks with the Britons,” he said.

Eivor and Sihtric came to the same realization at the same time. But they could not speak it out loud. Not until he spoke it aloud.

“Have you finally figured it out, little wolf?” he taunted her. “Ceolbert died by my hand, too weak to even respond. He let out but a squeak when I shoved that dagger in his chest.”

That was when Anya fought against her bindings. She screamed incoherent things, the ropes digging unnoticed into her wrists. She slipped between languages seamlessly, her brain working too fast, trying to find too many insults.

If Anya could, she would command the earth open and swallow him whole. Ivarr committed a crime far greater than any. He had broken his oath to Ceolwulf, to Eivor, in killing Ceolbert. He took the life of an innocent who only ever wanted peace and understanding. Manipulated her, used her as bait. And all the worse, he lied to her.

“You have no honor, ergi! You bacraut! You impotent little worm! Release me and face me! Or are you too scared?” she screamed at him.

Ivarr had taken less than a step when Eivor reached out to grab him. She turned him around on the spot and punched him straight in the nose. Her fist was like stone as the bone broke beneath her knuckles. ( 4 )

When Ivarr regained his footing, both he and Eivor pulled their axes. Sihtric made his way towards Anya quickly now. He avoided everyone as he closed the distance, pulling his knife from its sheathe. There was no surprise to him that she did not watch him, but instead the fight of her mother.

This was not the same as he felt earlier. It was not that she craved for his blood. She craved his death, no matter how it took hold. Sihtric knew Ivarr had gone too far in many ways. It was only his concern for Anya that lead him to focus on her instead of killing Ivarr himself.

He did not waste time trying to until the rope. Cutting it was much easier, the blade cutting through the braided threads quickly. Placing the knife back in it’s proper place, he pulled Anya into his arms, back against his chest.

She did not struggle against his hold. She knew it was better, safer, that she stay back. And if she were to be free of his grasp, she would charge Ivarr.

“You do not wish to get to him?” Sihtric said quietly in her ear.

“My mother is Jarlskona. The crimes were against her clan. She is the rightful combatant,” she told him.

“I did not ask what is right,” he said to her.

She watched as Ivarr taunted Eivor. He dodged near every time she tried to strike at him. His body moved as effortlessly as a sail in the wind. He said this was the reason for his nickname, “The Boneless”. Anya knew though that he only learned to move like that in order to avoid his fragile bones being broken all the time.

“I would go far past what is honorable,” she whispered.

He needed no further explanation. Anya would always refuse what she considered dishonorable. It was one of the things he admired about her.

Anya watched, unflinching, as Eivor finally landed a blow to his shoulder. Ivarr screamed out, his own version of a war cry, before bashing his axe into Eivor’s face.

“Ceolbert was like a son to you,” Eivor shouted at him as she stumbled. “You launched a war in his name when only you were to blame!”

“I did what I had to,” Ivarr said to her. “Do you think I wanted his death?! He was like a son to me!”

“If he was, you would not have murdered him,” Anya could not help but yell at him.

Ivarr looked to her. The face he wore showed his guilt once again. Sihtric, in that moment, knew that Ivarr truly did love her. Probably even genuinely had loved Ceolbert. But he was a man maddened by bloodlust. There was no saving him.

Eivor kicked Ivarr in the back of the knee. Instantaneously, he fell, bracing himself on his other hand and knee. As such, she moved to his side and kicked him in the ribs.

The fighting around them had ceased. All that opposed Eivor’s forces either laid dead or had surrendered. The Saxons that had occupied this fortress were not prepared for hundreds of Danes flocking their numbers. Dane raids thus far had been relatively small in numbers.

Ivarr stood once more, swinging and missing. Eivor was able to land her axe in his chest. She pulled it out as he stumbled. When he tried again to swing his own weapon, she hit his wrist. His axe flew from his grip, sliding half way to Anya. And Eivor landed another blow, felling Ivarr.

Though he was not dead yet. He gasped for air. With every desperate attempt, blood poured from his wounds. He looked towards Anya, towards his axe. With a groan, he outstretched his arm to try to grasp it.

She stepped forward without a thought and picked up his weapon. The weight of its lifetime settled heavily in her hand. She had seen this man wield his weapon like a god, fighting for his place in this world.

“Please, little wolf, my axe,” Ivarr gasped. His fingers were grasping around nothing as he reached out towards her. He was desperate.

She looked to him. She remembered him as he moved through her life. A King Killer, the devastation of Īrland, a great Son of Ragnar. In his life, he fought and won countless battles. A warrior as great as any.

Still, Anya could not stand the thought of him feasting with Odin. The idea that he would stay in the eternal battle until Ragnarök made her stomach twist. Any amount of honor he had fought for and won was destroyed with Ceolbert’s last breath.

Sihtric watched as Anya walked towards him. While he expected her to hand him his axe, to grant him Valhalla. She had, until this night, defended Ivarr to everyone. Surely, there was still love for him.

It came as a surprise, both to Sihtric and Eivor, that she stepped on his outstretched hand. His fingers let out almost sickening cracks as she applied more pressure, leaning down to him.

“I hope your soul will be forever lost in Niflheim,” she said to him darkly.

Ivarr’s final thoughts were of her. The girl he had long since loved as though she was his blood, who he had watched grow, forsaking him. He thought of how she was the last in the world to have any great amount of faith in him. He thought of how he would only change the devastation he caused her. But mostly, he thought of how he finally understood the fear of her.

Taglist: @foxyanon @zaldritzosrose @lexeirikrleif @thenameswinter99

[nonasuch]

Up next: Miss Cambodia! Who is wearing something vaguely historial and very gold. Love the level of detail but it's still voting Present a little bit.

Miss Cameroon is also in vaguely historical gold, but she has a sword so I automatically like it way better.

The first indigenous Miss Canada is wearing an absolute layer cake of a First Nations-inspired gown, and also I think there's a Northern Lights theme AND the gown lights up AND she has a sword. 11/10, no notes. She's struggling to walk in it but I don't even care

Miss Cayman Islands is wearing their national tree. Sure! This is fine.

Miss Chile is wearing the Sabado Gigante roulette wheel, and I love it when Miss Universe contestants push this competition one step closer to full-on drag, so this is great.

I literally can't look at this and say anything but the first words that come to mind, which are "boob dragons." I'm sorry, Miss China.

Miss Colombia is wearing the first of many costumes tonight that were perfectly fine until they decided to incorporate a mural painted by a seventh-grade art class. I genuinely don't understand why they keep doing this.

Miss Costa Rica is wearing the murals from a Depression-era city hall, which is better than the murals painted by middle schoolers but not by that much. Piling on additional indignities: the basket prop, sculptural flower hat, and the fact that she can barely walk in whatever shoes are under there.

More gold, for those keeping track. I love the idea of an elephant-themed costume, and Miss Cote D'Ivoire is having fun with those ears, but unfortunately someone missed the memo about not putting a major design element directly over the contestant's crotch.

Miss Croatia looks embarrassed, AND SHE SHOULD.

Miss Cuba is "a goddess of love and destiny, and protector of women and children" which, sure! It's big and gold and I like the materials they used.

Let's be real here, Miss Curaçao. You're wearing a sparkly evening dress with a giant flower tacked on to the back. This is low-effort and I expected better of you.

Fuck, I'm only ten minutes into the video. This might be a two-day liveblog, guys.

it's that time:

Miss Universe National Costume 2024

is Here!

that's right! Everyone's favorite justification for the continued existence of beauty pageants has returned. with Looks!

Some of this year's top Themes include:

foliage!

gold!

weapons!

giant birds!

letting seventh-graders make your costume, apparently!

I did watch the video, but the most complete version I could find is missing a bit at the beginning. So I can't tell you what the inspiration was for anything before Bolivia; on the bright side that's fewer shitty rhyming couplets I had to suffer through.

Let's begin with:

Miss Angola! Tone down the color palette a little, and this honestly could have worked for that year the Met Gala was Catholicism- themed.

Miss Argentina, looking just thrilled about the sparkly toucan on her head. I feel like this is supposed to read as some combination of jungle/river/waterfall but this is from the part that I couldn't find on video.

Miss Aruba, I don't know if your giant spangly bird headdress was supposed to look like a potoo, but I am choosing to believe that it's on purpose and I love that for you.

(okay I checked, it's an endangered Aruban burrowing owl. even better!)

This is like the fourth year in a row Miss Australia has just worn a regular-ass gown. Do better!

You know who's doing better? Miss Bahamas, is who. Look at that giant fish. I wish I had video of this, I bet it moves.

Ah yes, when I think of Belarus I definitely think 'verdant tropical foliage.' also is it just me or is does the bodice fit very weird.

Holy shit, Miss Bolivia. This is where the video kicks in, so I can tell you that she somehow managed to dance in it. I'm a little afraid that this costume is going to eat Miss Aruba.

Miss Bonaire is from a Caribbean island that I don't think has ever competed in Miss Universe before? They have a national marine park that this costume is based on, which is is nice!

Miss Botswana's costume is made of leather and cowrie shells, and she is clearly having a great time being able to move freely without 75 pounds of headdress or platform heels. She did a very cute dance that kind of felt like a flex on her more heavily encumbered competitors.

Miss Brazil is wearing a tribute to Brazil's mineral wealth, which is something that basically every country with a mine in it has done at some point. I like the pannier-esque things, I guess.

Love a Tribute To A Weirdly Specific Thing, and Miss British Virgin Islands' mail-themed costume is a wonderful example of such.

Miss Bulgaria showed up dressed as a supervillain, her outfit is vaguely themed around 'the strength of women' and she just spat out a MOUTHFUL of BLOOD? on stage??? No idea how to react to that, frankly.

I'm going to pause to get the next batch of images together, and also to recover from the 'spat out a mouthful of blood' thing, because I was NOT prepared for that.

[lazywitchling]

I've identified as ace for about 5 years but for me I don't feel proud about it? I want to...

I'm trans and also ID as bi, so people don't really get how I can be bi and ace... So I don't make a big deal about my asexuality and even when I'm talking about my identity, or anyone is. My asexuality never comes up.

I don't know if you can relate to this at all really but my question is:

How did you come to accept your asexuality? Was it a struggle for you? And do you have any advice for someone that's shunned that part of themself for so long they've no idea how to even think of being proud of it?

Have a great day/night 🌻

Oooooh. Hm. Well this may or may not be helpful, but here we go:

I am currently only functioning with the one label. "Asexual" is my thing! Yay! I have my flag! I find my flag in gifsets and art and buttons and things! Cool! [points at the greyscale-and-purple] Look, it me!

I might be aromantic as well? But I'm less connected with that label, and not really sure if it fits. It probably does? Might not? idk. Either way, I don't see the aro flag and go "It me!" And tbh, that's totally fine. I can have parts of myself that are exciting and that I connect with and that make me proud. And I can have parts that are like "You know, idk, that's not really a big deal to me. It's part of me, sure, but it doesn't really impact me right now."

You don't have to be OUT AND LOUD AND PROUD of every bit of yourself. Some things can just kinda be there.

I don't really make a Big Deal about my sexuality IRL, either. I wear an ace ring because it makes me happy, and because I've found and been found by a few other aces that way. I have an ace flag pin that I made, because it signals others that I am Part Of The Group, Too. I have never really come out in the dramatic sense, never sat anyone down and explained to them my ace-ness. But if they pick up on the symbols I wear, cool! But nbd if they don't.

Most times, my pride is less prideful and more comfortable. Identifying as ace just makes me feel right in my own head and life and how I relate to the world.

The times when I have felt pride is around other people. Participating in covering this website in rainbows during June makes me feel pride, because I'm doing it alongside others. Talking to other aces and swapping urls of etsy shops that sell black rings makes me feel pride, because I've made that connection and found another person like me.

And I'll tell you what, I have never felt more prideful than I did when a friend of mine came to me and told me that she'd recently started identifying as ace, and it's because she had seen me and just how normal I made it just by talking about it. That by watching me, she realized that what she was feeling was normal and actually pretty cool and not wrong or scary at all.

[chef kiss]

I'm giving you a really long answer, I'm sorry 😂

But yeah. Pride is cool. Being comfortable is better. Pride follows that pretty easily. You probably know this better than I do, with your being trans! When you find something that seems to click your soul into place like a puzzle piece, you feel that moment of "Ahhh.... yes, that's right" like a good warm blanket. Flags can come later.

I can expand on the story later, but basically how I accepted my asexuality (after several months of waffling "am I? no. but am I? i mean. nah. but maybe?") was that I essentially said to myself "I am asexual. And that's pretty cool."

[ellemany]

YoKye Week #7 - Birthday

Words: +600 (non-edited)

 -Happy Birthday bruv! - Phoenix hugged Yoru affectionately, lifting him up.

 Yoru grimaced. For some reason, everybody wanted to hug him on his birthday, even though he explicitly said that it wasn't necessary.

 -Thanks Thanks. - He pushed Phoenix away, giving a corner smile.

 -Bye! - Phoenix sent him a hand shake before leave.

 Yoru signed, massaging the back of his head while he was closing the door. He couldn’t deny that the improvised small party was fun. Jett made a delicious cake and Sova convinced him to sing "I will survive" at Karaokê. He laughed a lot when they decided to play truth or dare and everybody discovered that Neon was able to do a handstand for two hours only to not tell how her first kiss was.

 But some people couldn't go. He missed Cypher's jokes (truth or dare would be awesome with him) and drunk Killjoy to get philosophical with him. Damn, he even missed Raze and Breach with their amazing playlist.

 And Skye wasn't there either…

 Even though she was out for a mission, it hurts.

 Yoru looked at his apartment. It was a mess. He rolled up his sleeves, starting the work.

…

 Skye entered the apartment on tiptoes, holding a big wooden box. She walked by the apartment, looking for him. Yoru let everything so clean and organized, that it didn't look like real people lived there. She opened the bedroom door, sneaking there.

 Yoru was sitting on the bed, playing some Mario game on his console. He looked to Skye briefly, paying attention to his game.

 -Hi…

 -Hi… -She went to him, sitting by his side. - So…

 Yoru didn't complete the phrase, concentrating on jumping correctly in the game. Skye put a lock of hair behind her ear.

 -I'm…

 -You don't need to say sorry. You didn't do anything wrong.

 -I know but… - She looks at the TV, pressing her lips. - I'm really sorry for not getting here earlier.

 Yoru signed, pausing his game, turning to Skye.

 -Skye. It's all right. - He looked at the box. - What you got for me?

 Skye smiled, passing to him the box.

 -I made it by myself. - She said proudly.

 He put the box on his lap, analyzing the delicate flowers carved on it.

 -You made me a box?

 -The box too, but open it! - She held his arm, swinging him.

 Yoru opened the box, blinking for the object inside.

 -A… Katana?

 -Yeep! I was looking for some woodcraft tutorials and a sword one aparead to me… - She started to talk while he was holding the katana, admiring it. It was obviously an amateur work, but it was clearly made with love. - Like, I thought that Sage could heal any serious burn so… - The edge was correctly sharp but the weight was only acceptable, far from ideal. Kind of unbalanced. He noticed little katakana scriptures of his name in the shiny metal, polished with care. - In the third try I didn't hit the hammer in my fingers. I was so happy… - The handhold was made with wood. As Skye especiality, it had a beautiful dragon shape, with even details of scales. It was pleasant to hold. Totally inefficient for combat. - Seriously, my hands never hurt that much. And I worked at the farm! - Yoru settle the katana back in the box, putting it on the ground carefully. - You know how many products this…

 Yoru held Skye's face between his hands, kissing her intensely. He pushed her until she lay on the bed, with Yoru on top of her. He only stopped kissing her when they both were out of breath. Skye smiled, with her cheeks in a pink tone.

 -I'm happy that you…

 -Take off your clothes. - He said already pulling off his shirt. -Now.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

+Bônus: Yoru passed the next days showing off his katana that HIS AMAZING, WONDERFUL, GORGEUS, BADASS, TALENT AND SMART girl made for him, even that was pretty useless for combat.

Thx for reading (๑ > ᴗ < ๑)

[cozy-the-overlord]

Just One Last Word

Summary: As children, she swore she'd become the greatest author in all of Asgard. Loki had his doubts.

Word Count: 4,360

Pairing: Loki x OFC

A/N: Look who's back! I got this idea from a made-up fic title sent to me by an anon a while back and I just loved the concept so much I had to write it. What can I say? I’m a glutton for childhood romance and angst

Thanks for reading! :)

Warnings: Implied/referenced domestic violence/child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :)

Read it on Ao3!

The first time Loki heard about Sága’s extraordinary book was the day Lady Gudrun decided that the spring weather was just too lovely to ignore and took her literature students to give them their lessons in the gardens rather than the stuffy palace classrooms. He couldn’t quite recall what year they were—childhood seemed so long ago that all of his primary classes had melted into one amorphous blur—but they had to have been young because Sága hadn’t yet chopped off both her braids in the middle of arithmetic, claiming that they were too heavy to think properly whilst wearing them. No, her braids still hung at her shoulders, and as Lady Gudrun read aloud to them on the lawn, Sága was busy weaving dandelion flowers into their intricate patterns.

“This is going in my book!” she whispered to Loki with a grin. “In my book, all the girls wear dandelions in their hair.”

Loki frowned. “What book?”

“The one I’m writing,” she said, fiddling with another flower stem. “It’s going to be the best book in all of Asgard.”

He had been going to say that there was no way in all the realms she was capable of writing the best book in all of Asgard, but then Lady Gudrun asked them if there was something they wanted to share with the rest of their classmates, since they seemed to be having such an intriguing conversation by themselves, and Loki had shaken his head, blushing. Sága wasn’t bothered. She kept playing with her dandelions and humming softly to herself, some horrifically out of tune melody Loki was almost positive she was just making up as she went along.

Sága Svanhilddottir was a strange girl. One day she had just plopped her bulging crocheted bookbag onto the desk next to his, and she never really went away. There were plenty of whispers about her—her mother was an Asgardian noble who had run away to Alfheim to marry a man in the Elvish court, only to return nine years later with a child in her arms and no husband to be found. At dinner, Loki would overhear the noblewomen’s hushed speculations on what could possessed her to leave in the first place, and what prompted her return. How had the Elf bewitched her so? A love potion? A spell? Had she gotten with child and fled to preserve her dignity? But then why return? Was he unfaithful? Was she unfaithful?

Sága had her own story. She told Loki very seriously before class one day that her mother had come back to Asgard because her father had been turned into a dragon by a wicked witch and now every time he sneezed he spat out enormous balls of fire into the air, and that her mother was afraid that the next time he caught a cold he’d burn the whole apartment down. She pulled down her dress sleeve to show Loki her burn scar, angry red flesh that stretched from her wrist all the way across her shoulders—a scar, she explained, she had gotten when she had tried to give her dragon father a handkerchief.

Loki didn’t believe her.

“Witches don’t turn people into dragons,” he bristled. “My mother’s a witch, and she would never turn anyone into a dragon.”

“That’s because your mother’s a nice witch,” Sága explained impatiently. “This was a mean old witch, with pointy teeth and spiky hair, who hated everybody.” Ruffling her shorn locks (this was after the ill-fated math lesson), she bared her teeth in demonstration. “She was mad at my father because he forgot to bring her mousetail pudding for her birthday like he promised.”

“He—what?”

But Sága only waved him off dismissively. “You’ll have to read my book,” she said. “I explain it all there.”

Oh, that damn book. It seemed like it was the only thing she ever talked about, this stupid, imaginary book. Because it had to be imaginary. Loki had never even seen the girl hold a pen, let alone write a sentence. No, she was too busy prattling on about her wonderous book, this book that would one day become the pinnacle of Asgardian literature.

“Someday, they’ll be making students read my book instead of this nonsense,” she’d whisper to Loki as their teacher read to them in the front of the classroom. “It’ll be much more interesting.”

Or when he ran into her in the library, and she’d drag him to the shelf where they kept all the classics.

“This is where they’ll keep my book!” she’d grin, having the audacity to pat the dusty wood where the great authors of millennia long past rested.

And then there was that one time during one of the feasts, when he turned around to find her staring at him intently from across the ballroom, a studious expression on her face. He shot what he hoped was an intimidating glare at her, but she only skipped across the room to join him.

“What are you doing?” he asked sourly.

“Looking at you,” she said, grinning as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I need to remember how you look like, so I can put you in my book.”

Loki scowled. “I don’t want to be in your book.”

“Well, I want you in it,” Sága retorted. “And, since I’m the author, that’s all that matters.” She grabbed his hand and began pulling him towards the dessert table. “Come on, Prince Loki. Let’s get some cake!”

Thor said that he must be harboring a crush on her, to seemingly hate her so and yet be constantly spending time with her. Loki nearly threw a fit when he accused him of such at the dinner table. He didn’t like Sága. She was strange and irritating and talked far too much and he wanted her to go away. He spent time with her because she followed him around, not because he wanted to! She was annoying. And weird. And …

And yet.

One day she wasn’t in class. Loki thought he’d be relieved—finally, a lesson where he could listen to the teacher without having to filter out her constant chatter. But … it didn’t feel right. It was too quiet—he hated the empty stretches of silence that hung over the classroom every time Lady Gudrun stopped talking. For some reason, it seemed even more difficult to focus without the familiar presence of his deskmate hunched over the table and picking splinters out of the wood with her fingernail.

The library was more of the same. Loki perused the shelves, gaze lingering on the spot Sága had claimed for her own. She was the only person he really talked to, he realized. Without her, the day felt hollow.

She was gone for the rest of the week. Her mother was gone too, and rumors began to fly that she had decided to take her daughter back to Alfheim to rejoin her mysterious husband. Loki couldn’t help but remember her story about her father the dragon.

Just when he was starting to fear she had left for good, one morning a ratty old crotched bag smacked the desk next to his before class started.

He scowled to mask his sigh of relief. “Where have you been?”

But Sága wouldn’t say. She only grinned at him from under her crown of dandelions. “I was working on my book. Why?” she asked. “Did you miss me, Prince Loki?”

Loki flushed bright red.

It was strange to think about now, with everything that had happened. At the time, Loki thought he would have fallen on his sword before he ever referred to Sága as a friend. And yet, she was not only a friend, but the closest one he had. She continued finding ways to spend time with him even after they graduated Lady Gudrun’s class—she’d track him down and ask him for help with her arithmetic, or to wish him luck on an upcoming test, or to tell him about a book she thought he’d like. Thor and his companions drove Loki up the wall with their merciless teasing, but their words couldn’t quell the odd sort of fluttering in his stomach every time she came running up to him clutching some new story against her chest.

“Is it your book?” he’d ask jokingly, even as he took the novel from her hands.

“No,” she laughed. “I’m still working on that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you now?”

Sága patted his shoulder, still grinning. “Don’t worry,” she said. “When I’m done, you’ll be the first to read it.”

She was pretty. Loki wasn’t quite certain when that happened. Sága didn’t really change all that much, even as everyone else grew and morphed into something resembling maturity. She continued cutting her own hair, keeping it messy and uneven and even shorter than his. She’d weave dandelion stalks into the shorn clumps and walk around in gauzy yellow dresses with cuffed sleeves that went past her fingers, looking like one of her fairy-story creatures come to life. It was generally accepted that she looked ridiculous, and Loki didn’t disagree. He just felt that she made ridiculous look good.

He noticed it when she came down to the sparring pit to watch him practice with his daggers. There she was, perched on the railing, beaming like the sun as she waved at him. She was pretty. Very pretty.

Loki turned around without waving back. There was a heat rising in his cheeks that he wasn’t quite sure how to address. He missed the target completely on his next throw.

He wasn’t the only person who noticed. The other boys his age were beginning to be quite drawn to Sága Svanhilddottir as well, although Loki suspected it was less due to actual interest and more because of her proclivity for disregarding traditional decorum. She loved to dance. It seemed every ball she was spinning across the floor in the arms of some new beau, giggling so loudly that her voice echoed down the hall. Loki hated the way they’d hold her, gripping her tightly to their bodies as if she belonged to them, but Sága didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it. She’d laugh and whoop and make a show of it as they twirled through the song.

It might have made her popular with the young men, but older members of the court weren’t as amused. After all, such displays weren’t exactly becoming of an unmarried woman. But Sága didn’t mind that they whispered things like “promiscuous” and “loose” as she walked by. Unlike her fellow ladies, Sága wasn’t particularly interested in catching a husband. In fact, she once told Loki in no uncertain terms that she had no intentions of ever giving her hand in marriage.

“Marriage is horrible,” she said. Loki could barely hear her over the ruckus—it was Thor’s Nameday Feast, and such a raucous celebration was hardly ideal for intimate conversation. He thought Sága might have been enjoying the festivities a bit too much as well—she was swaying on her feet as she leaned in to speak. “You’re tied down forever to some person, and you don’t even know what they’re going to be like! Sure, they might seem nice, but who knows!” She hiccupped, and Loki found himself reaching out to steady her without realizing he was doing it, accidentally grabbing the shoulder he knew to be scarred under her sleeve.

Sága brushed him off. There was a bitterness in her eyes that made his chest ache. “I don’t want to get married,” she said. “I just want to have fun.”

He walked her back to her rooms that night. He had started doing that recently—partially because with the way she was staggering he didn’t trust her to be able to make it herself, and partially because the voracious looks some of her dance partners had been giving her were making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

Sága grinned at him when they made it back to her door. The dandelions in her hair were beginning to wilt. One was nearly falling off her head, held there only by a tangled strand.

“Are you going to kiss me, Prince Loki?” she asked.

Loki started. All at once, the fluttering was back. “What?”

“You’re my prince, aren’t you?” She was swaying quite a bit, but she didn’t look away. Her breath stank of wine. “Aren’t you supposed to kiss the lady goodnight?” She leaned forward as if meaning to demonstrate, but ended up falling right into his chest, giggling all the way. Loki caught her, hoping she couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

My prince.

“I—I don’t think it would be very princely of me to kiss you right now,” he whispered.

“Maybe not,” she yawned against his armor. “But I’d like it anyways.”

Loki inhaled. I’d like it too. But she was drunk, practically incoherent—she didn’t mean any of the words coming out of her mouth right now, and he knew it.

And so, he helped her back up and through the doorway. “Not tonight.”

Sága perked up. “Tomorrow?”

She looked so childishly excited that Loki couldn’t hold back his chuckle. “Sure. Tomorrow.” Maybe he had had too much wine as well, because the thought of such a silly promise exhilarated him far more than it should have. “You come find me and I’ll kiss you.”

They never spoke about that night again. Sága didn’t seem to remember it—when he ran into her the next day she was nursing a headache and a new idea for her book and wanted to ask him a question about the mechanics of water seidr. Loki didn’t mention it either. The whole thing felt much sillier doused in daylight. What, did he think she was just going to knock on his door and cash in a kiss like a raffle ticket? No, it was better that the whole thing just fade into obscurity. Loki told himself he was relieved that Sága didn’t remember his promise.

It didn’t stop his thoughts from racing every time he saw her.

What would it be like to kiss her, he wondered? Would she let him pull her close? Would she wrap her arms around his neck and run her fingers through his hair? How would it feel to press his lips to hers, to close his eyes and just drink her in as if she were the only thing that existed?

He wished he could find out.

Loki remembered the last time he saw her. Her father had passed away, and she and her mother were returning to Alfheim for his funeral and to clear up several issues regarding his estate. They weren’t sure how long they’d be gone, but Sága predicted that the legal affairs would take years to resolve.

“Is it bad that I don’t want to go?” she asked in a whisper the night before she was set to leave. Loki looked at her, huddled against the balcony railing besides him. Inside, the feast raged on, but in the moonlight the world seemed almost tranquil.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” he said slowly. “Funerals aren’t exactly joyful occasions. I doubt anyone ever wants to go to them.”

She was silent for a moment, staring across the gardens spread beneath them. “I was happy when they told me he was dead,” she said finally, voice hoarse. “That’s bad, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to be happy because your father’s dead.”

Loki wasn’t sure what to say to that. He didn’t know much about Sága’s father—she almost never spoke of him, and Loki never asked—but he never could quite forget the stories she would tell when they were children, about witches and dragons and violent, fiery breath.

He inhaled. “I don’t think that’s bad either.” A part of him wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, but he wasn’t sure if that was right. “If he was a good father, you’d feel differently. But he wasn’t, and you don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

Sága only nodded.

The next morning was less somber. When Sága came to say goodbye, she seemed her normal, airy self, bouncing and bubbling over every small detail.

“Hopefully, by the time I’m back, I’ll have my book done!” she beamed. “And I’ll bring it back for you to read!”

“Well, in that case, I’ll be counting the seconds,” he drawled. Sága laughed, and he found himself gazing into her eyes. They were lovely, those eyes—warm, like liquid amber, brown and sparkling with mirth. He had never really stopped to think about it before, but she had to have the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

Perhaps he was staring too intently, because Sága had stopped laughing. Loki felt his cheeks flush. He was about to apologize when she threw her arms around his shoulders.

He was so thrown off by the embrace that he couldn’t really comprehend what had happened until after she had let go. It was a quick hug, spur of the moment and over as soon as it began. It meant nothing.

Still there was something in the air as Sága pulled away, something he didn’t think either of them had the capability to describe. She patted his shoulder, nodding as if in agreement with something neither of them had said.

“Goodbye, Prince Loki,” she said thickly.

He nodded too. “Goodbye, Sága.”

It was the last time he saw her.

Loki stared at the book on the table. He had told his mother that he didn’t want any more books—he was beginning to feel less like a person and more like a pity case with each shipment she sent in.

Enough with it! Just let me rot in peace.

And she had agreed. The flood of books had ceased.

Except for this one.

He hadn’t heard them come in to drop it off, which was concerning. Loki had always been a light sleeper, and that had increased a hundredfold by the time he had returned to Asgard. He wondered if they were drugging him.

The book itself was crisp and clean—freshly bound. He always used to like those books as a child, so new that the spine let out a satisfying crack as he opened them for the first time. Now, he was almost afraid to touch it.

The mossy green cover was unassuming. No artwork, no patterns, just the title and author in simple gold lettering.

Dandelion

Sága Svanhilddottir

Loki didn’t know how long he stared at it. The dungeons made it hard to keep track of time in general, but in that moment it felt as if everything around him ceased to exist. He couldn’t tear his eyes from it.

Damn. She actually did it.

Sága … when was the last time he thought of Sága? She seemed to exist in a different lifetime, a character in a story that had long since been shelved. He remembered her, though—a scrawny little girl on the grass, weaving yellow flowers through her braids.

In my book, all the girls wear dandelions in their hair.

He picked it up. It wasn’t particularly heavy, nor particularly thick—certainly nothing like the texts of old she had once proclaimed herself equal to. It appeared quite average, really. Maybe he wouldn’t read it. The whole thing was birthed out of a childish fancy, and he no longer held any appreciation for fairy-stories.

But who was he kidding?

The story was about a girl named Dandelion (Loki groaned aloud upon reading it, although such puerility was to be expected from an author who went about her days with weeds dangling from her hair) who lived with her mother and her beast of  a father off in some nonexistent realm, far away from Asgard. While her father had not the form of a dragon, he certainly had the temperament. He spent the days raging about their household, ranting and raving at every little inconvenience until he’d worked himself up into a violent frenzy.

Her mother didn’t know what to do. She was alone in a strange land, having forfeited her freedom to irrevocably tie herself to this monster of a man. She had nowhere to go, no family to turn to. And so she grit her teeth and took the beatings and the curses and prayed for a miracle.

Of course, little Dandelion was too young to understand this. She didn’t know why her mother cried herself to sleep at night, nor could she comprehend the foulness of the words that her father spat into the air. She had never known anything else. And so, every night she sat upon her father’s knee as he brushed out and braided her long, silky hair and read aloud to her from his rotted old storybook. Dandelion loved those stories, of monstrous dragons and evil witches who feasted on rats and tarantulas, fair maidens locked away in towers and dashing princes fighting their way through bramble-choked woods to awaken them with a kiss.

She’d dream about those stories as she lay in bed, writing her own in her head to drown out the crashes and cries ricocheting off the walls on the floor below her. In her mind’s eye, Dandelion could see herself as the maiden, nose pressed against the window as she waited for her prince to scale her tower and carry her to safety.

He never came.

But she was not long for this way of life. One night, during dinner, her father in a fit of anger overturned the candle on the tablecloth. The fabric went up in flames. They spread fast across the table and caught on Dandelion’s cuff, setting her sleeve ablaze. She survived—her father was quick to come to his senses and douse the flames—but her arm was badly burned. It was at that moment that her mother had had enough. She took her daughter and ran for it.

After a long struggle to secure the funds they needed, they were able to book passage back to her mother’s home realm. There, they found sanctuary.

She found something else there too. There, sitting in the very back row of the classroom with his head hidden behind a book, was a real, living, breathing prince. Dandelion was entranced—she had always thought princes to be some mythical creature that existed only within the pages of storybook. And yet, here was one right in front of her, like the most normal thing in the world. He didn’t seem very princely. He just seemed like a boy, a quiet boy who preferred reading to conversation. Dandelion would have never known him to be anything else if her mother hadn’t pointed him out to her.

But she was curious, and so when given the opportunity to choose her spot, she sat down next to him. He was a strange prince. He’d argue with her about the stories she told, but that only meant he was listening to her. He’d say he didn’t want to see her when she bumped into him outside of class, but he’d still follow her down the hall when she turned to leave. He didn’t strike her as the dragon-slaying tower-scaling type, but that was okay. Dandelion liked him just the way he was.

The story went on. Dandelion grew up to the whooshing of letters slipped under the door—her dragon father, asking her mother to come back, to come home, promising that he was different and everything would be all right. There were times when her mother seemed almost swayed by his sweet words—she’d sigh and say that it would be nice to see their family safe and back together again and stare off into the distance as if remembering something other than the screaming or the fighting or the burning, as if she had forgotten the way Dandelion would wake screaming in the night convinced she could smell her flesh burning. It sent cold shivers down Dandelion’s spine. She began tossing the letters into the fire before her mother had the chance to read them.

She’d turn to her prince for comfort. He didn’t know about the letters, but somehow, he made her feel better all the same. He was light and safe and everything she needed—she always seemed to be laughing when she was with him. And when he laughed—something about that laugh made Dandelion’s chest feel awash with a lovely sort of warmth.

She was in love with him.

But Dandelion didn’t say anything about that. She knew he only saw her as a friend—a silly, trivial friend who he could tease and laugh with without having to concern himself with the solemnity of his station. If he knew how she felt … she could lose him entirely. Dandelion couldn’t face such a prospect.

Instead, she danced with everyone but her prince, drowned herself in wine and spent her nights in the arms of any faceless man who wanted her, all in some vain attempt to sway her feelings in another direction. It only made things worse.

But life went on. Another letter came in from the realm of her birth, written in a different hand than usual. Her father had passed in his sleep, it explained. At long last, the dragon had been defeated. Dandelion was to return home immediately. And so, she bid her prince a friendly farewell.

The fallout of her father’s death was horrifically complicated. She was his legal heir, but she had also spent a majority of her life estranged from him and she found his representatives unwilling to hand over control of his estate to her. It was years before she could come back. And when she did—

Loki couldn’t bring himself to finish it. He knew very well what “Dandelion” found when she returned to Asgard—or more aptly, what she didn’t find.

You’re my prince, aren’t you?

He wished he had kissed her.

[jaskiersvalley]

💜✨ This is an Amazing Creator Award! Your creations are incredible, and they light up every dashboard they land on. Pass this on to eight of your favorite creators to show your appreciation and let them know their art is loved! ✨💜

Bready, my wonderful friend. Thank you for this ask, it really made me smile. You're an eternal delight and I want to say thank you for your thoughtfulness and constant kindness. Have some silly Lambskel as a token of my gratitude.

CW: Clowns (which reminds me of this post)

Children grew up at an alarming rate. Eskel could have sworn it was only a few blinks ago that Geralt took guardianship of baby Ciri with Yennefer. Now, she was turning six and Eskel had been roped into chaperoning a birthday party. Again. Though he did have a scrawled invite arrive in the post, painstakingly stickered, glittered and signed by Ciri. It was nice that she wanted him there but Eskel knew that if she hadn't invited him as a guest then Geralt would have been gently bullying him into helping out on the day anyway. Not like Eskel minded, he loved Ciri and would happily do anything for her.

The big day rolled round and Eskel turned up early at Geralt's house. There were already balloons around the door, the house inside was decorated with birthday banners and, in true Ciri fashion, dragons. That year she had very sweetly demanded a clown for her birthday and Eskel was curious to see whether Geralt had given in despite his strong dislike of them. Why someone felt the need to put on so much makeup and parade around in ridiculous clothes was beyond reason. Once, while drunk, Geralt had admitted it made him uneasy to the point of it actually being a fear.

"Ah, you're here," Geralt said as he stepped out of the kitchen and spotted that Eskel had let himself in. "I need to have a word with you."

A strong hand wrapped around Eskel's bicep and tugged him into the kitchen. He went willingly enough, curious as to what secret Geralt was going to let him in on this time. They stood in silence for a moment, Geralt watching him with serious eyes.

"Don't fuck the clown."

Frankly, Eskel was a little offended at the request. "Is this because of the demon stripper Yen hired for your birthday?" The look Geralt gave him was answer enough. "Come on, she was hot, was off the clock by the time I took her home. And she kept her horns on."

The punch to the arm should have been expected and Eskel grumbled as he rubbed the soreness left behind. Before he could complain, movement in the garden caught his attention. There was the clown, hauling a large, colourful bag to the small gazebo that had been set up. Suddenly, Eskel understood Geralt's request and he promptly decided it wasn't something to pay attention.

"Oh."

"No." Geralt said flatly as Eskel took one last look at the clown and turned to go out into the garden. "Eskel, I'm serious. No! Don't fuck the clown!"

"I won't," Eskel called over his shoulder. "I'd let him fuck me."

Unfortunately for Eskel, Yennefer was in the garden and seemingly in on the "don't let Eskel fuck the clown" mission. Which was quite rude on several levels. Firstly, Eskel was offended that the other two thought he would jeopardise Ciri's birthday party for the sake of a fuck. Secondly, he was an adult who did not need to be guarded and protected. If he wanted to stick his dick in someone, nobody but he and the intended person had any right to object.

As it was, he still found out the clown was called Lambert and, if Eskel focused then he could make out the most sinfully plush lips under the layers of makeup. It was on pretty thick but Eskel couldn't feel like he was in a place to judge, he'd never had to dress up as a clown before so that slathering was probably normal. It was difficult to make out the true features of Lambert under all of it but Eskel knew for sure he was handsome.

There was no time to get to know Lambert any better because Ciri and her friends turned up in a wild, screaming mass and it was all hands up deck. Balloon animals were the start of Lambert's entertainment and Eskel had to give it to him, he was good. Especially when he looked at the parents with a half made giraffe that most definitely looked like a cock before becoming something more child friendly. Eskel didn't think he'd snorted that hard in a long while. It actually hurt.

Next came the cake and Lambert took a well earned break. Well, not quite, because he happily made crowns for all the adults, showing them how to untwist them into swords if they wanted a fight later on when the children had gone. And he winked at Eskel when he gave him a crown and a dubious looking sword that was most certainly two twists away from being a cock.

"Just how many balloon cock shapes do you know?" He had blurted out and quietly adored the smug smirk Lambert sported.

"All of them. But I like to model them on real life ones. And I don't have a model at the moment."

Eskel barely held back on a guffaw at such a blatant come on. It was only Geralt's grip on the back of his neck that held him in check, along with the low growl of "you will not fuck the clown."

"Not while he's wearing large circus trousers," Eskel had agreed.

His composure was totally wrecked by Lambert cocking an eyebrow at him. "Want to see what's under the big top?" Because yes, Eskel really did.

After cake and presents Lambert had a set of magic tricks to show. it started off quite well, nothing impressive but the cards were fun to follow and Eskel saw how sleight of hand worked.

"And now," Lambert announced, pulling a top hat from under the table. "I will make a rabbit appear!"

The top hat did indeed look empty and Eskel was curious whether it would be a real rabbit and whether Lambert kept it to a traditional white on. Getting the children to join in with the chanting, Lambert tapped a wand against the hat and reached into it, only to frown. Rummaging in the hat, he cursed much to the children's delight.

"It seems our magic has gone a bit wonky," Lambert said, not hiding his agitation very well. "Rather than manifesting a rabbit in the hat, we have conjured him up somewhere in the garden."

"Maybe he's up your sleeve?" Ciri called. "You should check!"

There was no way the rabbit was up his sleeve but Lambert dutifully reached in. He pulled out a card, a couple of coins, an unending row of silk tissues, another wand that erupted into a bouquet of flowers. All of it was met by loud laughter and cheering from the children who were rolling around laughing the more frantically Lambert pulled things out.

By pure chance, Eskel gazed out over the garden, only to spot a large white rabbit merrily hopping towards the house. Quietly, he went to grab it, cradling the obviously well loved and spoilt creature, petting it out of habit. Watching Lambert grit his way through a few more rather lacklustre and failed magic tricks, Eskel couldn't help but be thoroughly charmed. He almost missed the growling sigh from next to him.

"Fine. Fuck the clown." Geralt looked utterly resigned.

With Lambert looking a little frayed around the edges, Eskel finally took pity on him. Walking up behind the children, he cleared his throat.

"There I was, trying to have a slice of cake when this suddenly appeared on my plate instead. I don't suppose any of you know anything about it?"

The cheer from the kids was deafening but Eskel only had eyes on Lambert and the almost palpable relief rolling off him in waves.

"Maybe if Lambert would care to whisk this rabbit away, it might bring my slice of cake back."

Rabbit carefully handed over with one last scritch between the ears, Eskel stepped back and happily joined in with the chanting to hide the rabbit in the top hat again. Thankfully it was a success and no rabbit was visible when Lambert showed his audience with a flourish.

After that the children were ushered away and Lambert was left in peace to pack away. Well, mostly in peace. Eskel lingered and watched, curious to see Lambert without the clown makeup.

"That was an entertaining set," Eskel commented, sorely tempted to casually lean against the leg of a gazebo. But it would never hold his weight so he refrained.

"Fucking Rabbit," Lambert growled, much more rigid and tight now that he wasn't performing for children. "I'm going to eat him for dinner if he does that again."

"And how often do you threaten him with that?"

After a telling silence, Lambert snorted. "Every other day. He's a bastard."

Valiantly, Eskel held back from commenting how pets usually turned out like owners. But then he'd have to admit to Lil Bleater being an absolute menace and what would that say about him? Instead he straightened up and sauntered closer to Lambert.

"So, the offer of seeing a pitched tent still available?"

He crowded against Lambert who gave him a once over before nodding. It was all the permission Eskel needed before kissing him, heedless of how makeup smeared against his skin. Behind them, the door to the house was slammed shut and Eskel had to pull away with a chuckle.

"I'm under strict instructions not to fuck the clown." His eyes were dark as he took in the smudged and ruined makeup around Lambert's lips. "So, either the clown fucks me, or you can take your makeup off."

There was hesitation in Lambert's expression. He was obviously torn, lower lip caught between his teeth. "I'm not-" he broke off and his shoulders hunched. "I'm not handsome like you under the makeup."

"I think you're plenty handsome enough. Why don't I help you take it off?"

Another pause before Lambert gave a nod. He sat on one of the chairs after handing Eskel the makeup remover and wipes. It was slow progress but the more Eskel saw, the more he liked. One half of Lambert's face was done and he flinched away from Eskel's touch.

"It's not pretty," he warned and Eskel nodded before reaching again. That time Lambert didn't move away but he was tense as a scar was unveiled.

"You worry that it's not pretty," Eskel rumbled, "yet you called me handsome with all my scars. Double standards much?"

There was no reply but Lambert couldn't meet his eyes. Gently, Eskel wiped the last of Lambert's makeup off and sat back with a grin. "Knew it. Utterly, devastatingly handsome. I'm afraid it's terminal."

That drew a laugh from Lambert at least and Eskel leaned in to kiss the giggled from his lips.

"I think Geralt and Yennefer can handle the kids from here on," Eskel purred. "Why don't I take you home?"

As they left, he sent a cheeky wave to Geralt who was watching them from the kitchen window. Eskel couldn't resist sending him a text from the car though.

"Thanks for the fun afternoon. Don't worry, I didn't fuck the clown. We'll play it safe though, he'll keep the shoes on to keep my knees comfortable though."

The reply from Geralt didn't bear repeating but it had Eskel throwing his head back and laughing.

[nalu-love-4-life]

Dragon Swan Song

Author’s Note:

It’s been a very long time since I wrote a drabble on Tumblr for NaLu. But I have had an itch lately to write something for them, because I haven’t written anything passionately in a very long time, and what could be more fun to jump back into writing than to write about my OTP?

I hope you all enjoy this short NaLu drabble where Natsu is a knight assigned to protect the princess, Lucy!

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The skirt of my dress flowed freely around my ankles as I paced back and forth from the end of my bed to the chamber doors. A feeling of impending dread was steadily building in my stomach and each time I stopped to take a breath the anxious knots only seemed to pull tighter. The late morning sunlight streaming in from the balcony created patches of heat on the cool stone floor. While the warmth on my skin brought brief comfort, my thoughts were still troubled and they swirled in my head, going ‘round and around, making me dizzy. My pacing stopped only when I heard a low rapping on the doors behind me.

“Excuse me, Princess. I’m coming in,” a husky voice called.

I swiveled around and straightened my back, and hastily tucked a couple loose strands of hair - which had fallen over my face - behind my ear. After clasping my hands together with a firm grip, I answered, “C-come in!” There was a momentary pause before the doors opened and a familiar mess of pink hair peaked into view.

Natsu, I thought with a soft sigh. I could already feel my worries sliding off from my shoulders. As he stepped into the room, I could see his firm build. He stood almost a foot taller than me and his skin was tanned from spending long days training in the sun.

“Princess Lucy, is everything alright?” He asked. “I could hear your footsteps from the other side of the doors. Is there something on your mind?” His voice was deep and sincere, but the formality of his speech felt strange.

“Y-yes! Everything is fine, really. No need to worry. I’m just overthinking some plans that my father had proposed to me this past evening.” I did my best to brush his concern away with a smile and a curt wave of my hand, but the crease between his eyebrows remained and his lips did not move from the slight frown they were set in.

“Hmm,” he hummed aloud. “Well, though I believe you’re telling me the truth, I cannot take your words at mere face value.”

“Huh?” I questioned.

“You don’t look like you’re in full health, Princess. So I will do my own inspection to make sure you are feeling well,” he said in a raised voice while peering down the long hallway. I waited with anticipation as Natsu quietly shut the wooden doors. He paused, and I watched his shoulders rise and fall as he slowly breathed in and out. When he turned around and looked at me I could see the glimmer of mischief dancing in his onyx eyes.

“Natsu,” I said. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the day. We could be caught!”

He smirked, briefly flashing his sharp canines. A jolt rippled down my spine and my heart beat faster in my chest.

“We’ll be fine, Luce,” he said. Natsu took a couple steps closer to me. He had a confident air about him. “Anyone who was around thinks I’m simply checking on the princess to make sure she’s feeling well. Nothing wrong with that, right?” He raised his eyebrows and the devilish flare grew in his eyes. My knees wobbled underneath the intensity of his stare. As he entered further into the room, the sunlight illuminated the details of his face. I couldn’t help myself from studying him.

The old scar that ran down his right cheek stopped at his jawline, and another stretched across the right side of his neck. The rough skin healed a bit darker than his normal shade, which only made them appear more prominent. His cheeks were dusted a soft rose giving him a healthy and youthful likeness. Light freckles speckled the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, but if you weren’t looking close enough you wouldn’t think he had any at all. There was a bit of dirt on his forehead and his hair was in mild disarray, so he had probably been training in the courtyard or tending to the horses in the stables earlier. My eyes continued to scan over his face. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

“Like what you see?”

“Huh?!” Startled, my concentration broke and our eyes locked.

Natsu chuckled and closed the little distance that was left between us. His smile was warm. “You’re cute when you get lost in thought,” he muttered bringing his right hand to rest on my cheek. It was as if there was fire in his fingertips. His touch was gentle, but every one set my skin ablaze. I could feel the rough callouses on his palm that had formed from years of hard work wielding his sword and perfecting his skills.

“Don’t tease me like that,” I pouted. My hair fell loose around my shoulders as I turned my head to the side.

“Aw, come on, Luce. I was being serious,” he whined, but the slight twitch at the corners of his mouth gave away his amusement. A gasp escaped my lips as I felt two strong arms circle around my waist and pull me forward. Our bodies pressed together and the palms of my hands rested on his chest. All I could think about was how firm and strong it felt.

“Natsu th-this is embarrassi-!”

“You really are beautiful, Princess,” he murmured. His voice was low and tender and every word sounded so sincere. I really admired that about him. Though sometimes he could be honest to a fault, it was just another one of his many charms.

He used his hand that was on my cheek to brush the hair from my face and place it back behind my ear. “There they are,” he said. “Hey, Doe Eyes.” A quiet chuckle rumbled in his throat.

“Hi,” I whispered almost breathless. Natsu smelled like warm linen and earth, with a hint of something sweet, like honey or vanilla. I wished that I could bottle that scent so I could revisit it whenever, but did my best to focus so I could at least commit it to memory. His dark eyes held me as a willing captive and I couldn’t tear myself away. As frustrating as his teasing could be at times, I was never more at ease than when I was enveloped in his embrace. Whenever it seemed like everything was turning upside down and I felt as if I could float away at any given moment, I could always count on him to tether me and bring me safely back to solid ground.

His face relaxed as he scanned over me. “Now,” Natsu said clearing his throat. “Are you gonna tell me why you were pacing so much? Your footsteps were so loud, I bet everyone in the castle thought an ogre was stomping around in here.” Natsu’s eyebrows lifted and his lips puckered ever-so slightly. I could tell he was holding in laughter.

“How dare you!” I huffed and pushed against his chest so that he would relinquish his hold on me. “And just when I thought you were being genuinely sweet for once.” I crossed my arms over my chest and marched onto the balcony.

There was a cool spring breeze and the sky was bright blue with thin white clouds floating lazily overhead. I positioned myself so that my arms rested against the thick metal railing that overlooked the castle garden. All of the flowers were in full bloom and their many scents mixed in a harmonious melody which filled the air and swirled around me. I took a deep breath in to fully appreciate the wonderful aroma. As my muscles began to relax the sound of heavy boots came closer to my turned back.

Natsu stood quietly beside me with his back leaned against the railing. He craned his neck to the side and looked across the castle grounds. “You always did enjoy the garden, didn’t you?” He asked, although it seemed like it was more of a statement to himself. “Even when we were kids, if you were ever upset you’d always go someplace where you could see the flowers.”

I glanced at him from the side. “Of course I like the garden,” I sighed. “The flowers are pretty, it’s always quiet, and I can lose myself walking around in it. I can pretend like I don’t have a care in the world—like I can do whatever I want—be whoever I want—love whoever I-” I stopped myself and turned to look at Natsu. He was smiling at me, but it was small and there was sadness underneath. Natsu shifted his eyes away from me and turned around so that he faced the garden. His broad shoulders slumped forward and his weight pressed down on his forearms that he’d rested on the railing.

“Do you remember that day?” He asked. “When we met?” I ran my eyes over his face, trying to discern what he might be thinking. “You were picking daisies in the far corner of the garden to make a makeshift crown, and I was running from Makorov ‘cuz I accidentally tore a hole right through his trousers with my sword.”

“As I recall, you caused that tear because you were sparring with Gray again over who was going to get to eat the last slice of Miss Mira’s strawberry shortcake that she’d baked earlier that day,” I mocked. “But then Erza knocked your heads together, claimed it for herself, and ate it right in front of you! So neither you nor Gray got any cake and you were both punished for fighting—no sweets for a whole month!” I raised my hand to cover my mouth as I laughed.

“Y-yeah… Erza’s scary,” Natsu muttered.

I stood with my hands on my hips and gave a disapproving stare. “I haven’t forgotten how you ran straight into me and crushed all of my daisies before I could make that crown, by the way,” I said. “And you caused me to fall face first into the dirt and ruin the new dress Father had gotten for me, too,” I huffed. Natsu grimaced and rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his hair.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “I remember getting an earful about that too.”

I scoffed in mild amusement. “It’s fine. To be quite honest, Father always ordered the most stuffy dresses back then, anyway, and the one you ruined was particularly stifling to wear,” I said. “Especially when I was out in the garden.”

“Well, I wish you had said something back then before Erza chewed me out for that in between mouthfuls of cake,” Natsu laughed.

“Why would I when it’s so amusing to see how you and Gray shake like puppies when she scolds you?” He pretended to pout at my taunting which only made me laugh more. “Miss Erza’s not so terrible, you know,” I said gaining my composure.

“You only think that because you’ve never had to fight her. After one training session I can barely move for days whenever she’s put in charge of combat practice. She’s merciless!” He whined.

I giggled and Natsu turned his head so he could look at me. His eyes were serious when they met mine. Something about his steady gaze threw my stomach for a whirl. “W-what is it?” I asked.

Natsu shifted his weight and stood tall. His stature blocked the sun and cast a shadow over me. To someone else, he might seem scary using his full height to his advantage like this. But to me, he was no more threatening than a dragonfly.

“Lucy,” he said. His voice came off stern but his eyes were almost pleading. “Tell me why you’ve been so stressed lately. I won’t continue to pretend like I haven’t noticed.” Natsu took my hand in his. I could feel his thumb tracing gentle circles over the tops of my fingers. Unlike before, he kept a respectable distance between us and was careful to hide our clasped hands behind the railing.

We couldn’t risk the groundskeepers or any other castle attendant seeing us, and the balcony was a very public spot. Any affectionate display witnessed by the wrong person was sure to circulate through the castle grapevine, and there would surely be repercussions to face. I knew this, of course, but I still felt my heart longing.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Author’s End Note:

I hope you all enjoyed this first installation of this NaLu drabble as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sorry to leave you all on a bit of a cliffhanger there but it was getting much longer than originally intended haha Should I continue it and make it a real story? If you want more please like, comment, and/or DM me and let me know what you think! And make sure to follow me on here on tumblr for any updates on this story and so you don’t miss any other Fairy Tail NaLu drabbles or fanfic posts/art or story reblogs!

❤️ nalu-love-4-life

[visionsdiary]

It is tragic. The story. It did not have the outcome one would hope, there is no happily ever after just a story, a moment for a while where they existed, where their worlds collided and then burned in passion, in truth, and eventually ash then nothing.

~

She was to be crowned Queen though every bit of her screamed to run away. To beg on her knees to her mother to give her more time. More time, more experience. She wasn't ready, she couldn't be.

She doesn't have much of a choice, it's to happen in only 3 days, where she will be forced a responsibility she wants nothing to do with. She was indeed every bit of a coward for running, for hopping on her horse and racing through the tall trees of her homeland.

Where seasons are experienced its fullest. Where the mist is thick and the magic thrums through every tree, every rock, and river. She welcomed it the thrumming like drums of the music they'll play at festivals. She let her tears fall freely and her scream ring like thunder spoking all birds nearby.

How is she to run a kingdom? Her kingdom? She has yet to face battle. Yet to make treaties, yet to lead anything in her life, but she is expected to lead a kingdom when she can barely lead a rabbit to a trap.

Or barely see the one she led herself into. It wasn't meant for her in her defense. It was meant for something else, something she only heard about in stories from the sailors, stories from warriors who've traveled farther than the forest she has stuck to most of her life.

A dragon. They had gone extinct or so she was told. She has never seen one up close before. It was in a trap right next to hers tied up in a net that made the creature roar in fear. It was not as big as she thought one would be. It was bigger than her but not by much. Its scales were a pattern of circles, ombre of white and orange with thorns running down its back.

"What do we have here?"

A man caked in leather saunters toward her and the struggling dragon. His face was covered in rags only allowing her to see his eyes, dark and daring. How is she going to explain this one to her parents?

"It seems we've captured a slave," His hand reached through the hold gripping her chin and turning her side to side, "A beauty you are. I'm sure you'll catch a fine price."

Ripping from his hold she reared back and spat in his face.

"Ye might want to re-think this one. My father will tear you to piece."

"Is that right? And who are you?"

"Princess Merida of DunBroch,"

He reared back and laughed. "Looks like we are in the presence of Royalty fellas," Laughter surrounds her on all sides. There were more than she first believed, or maybe the laughter just echoed off the trees. This thought was soon disregarded as men stepped from the treeline one by one. Yep defiantly more.

"I-I'm serious. You wouldn't want a kingdom on you do you?"

"They'll have to find us first." She trembled.

That was only a few months ago and now she sat in this cage, skinny, starved but her fire simmered under the surface. She will escape. She must. The dragon that was trapped with her grumbled, catching the piece of fish Merida snuck from the guards.

She pets her scaly friend, who purred in response. "Don't worry Sylva. We'll get out of here I swear it."

Their cages were right next to each other. An only arm's length away from each other, Sylva was the only friend she had here. An ally she was happy to have. It was night and they still sailed toward the sanctuary as it was called. In other cages many other dragons stayed locked up, barely fed.

Though she felt bad for them it wasn't the time to think of anyone else. She gets her and her friend out first and maybe if she could gather the firepower she'll return and free the rest. The guards light the last of the lanterns, taking their stations around the ship.

"In an hour or so they'll nod off to sleep."

She was only allowed out as entertainment. Her singing is what saved her so far and she served the ones who took her before she was locked up once more but her plan was sent the moment they gave her access to their water and wine.

"I put your venom in their drinks, just enough to put them to sleep, and then we'll be home free." She was hopeful and when the hour had passed she took her sharp piece of metal that broke off from her cage. She had sharpened in the past few months and hoped this would work.

She picked at the lock, jiggling it side to side, up and down until she heard a click and the cage door squeaked open. She celebrated dancing and jumping with silent whispers of triumph. She then went to unlock her dragon's cage when she heard a noise.

She paused, pressing herself against the other side of the cage, and watched as a man wielding a flaming sword crept by the cages of the dragons. He was covered in what she assumed was armor, a fabric she's never seen before. His hand rose and made signals to no one she could see.

She watched in wonder as they let out the dragons and they flew off. She backed away as the man got closer to her dragon's cage hitting a stray bowl. It rolled, tumbled down some stairs alerting the man. He sneaked past the cage and she looked around for any weapon.

Her eyes landed on one of the spears they used on the dragons and picked it up. It was heavier than she thought but it didn't matter she needs to fight.

"D-Don't ye come any closer."

He paused for a moment, his sword still drawn and still on fire. She wondered what she must look like. Dirty, torn, and starved. Disgusting. It made her confidence waiver, her mother would have thrown a fit if she was here, appearance is part of ruling she'd say.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I heard that before" She shuddered at the memory. Truly men were vile pigs taking what they wanted without a care in the world.

"Chief!" Someone whispered.

He held out a hand stopping his companions in their tracks.

Though she'd never admitted it she trembled, once again outnumbered, and wondered if this group could be any less dangerous than the one she'd been sailing with. He stabbed the sword into the ground, the fire remains just on the sword.

'Does he have magic?' She wandered. If he did then it made sense why he stop the others. He doesn't need them to kill her.

She swung the spear in a warning. "I swear if ye come any closer, I'll cut ya."

He puts his hands up in surrender for a moment she thought he mocked her but he raised them higher to his helmet. He took it off and she was met with green eyes.

He was tall, slender. His auburn hair swayed and she could see the braids in the back. She looked down at his leg and saw that he was missing one, or half of one. It reminded her of her father. Her father. Tears weld up in her eyes. She's going home even if it means getting past this stranger.

Resolve hardened she didn't let the tears spill though she was sure he could see them.

"Hey," His voice was soft as if he was trying to tame a wild animal. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You can't promise me that nor will I believe it." She looks around for an escape. She could swim, take their boat since they must have come from somewhere. Then they will have to deal with this pack of beasts instead of her. Or- Sylva.

She looked to the sky wondering if her friend left, she was no longer in her cage. His friends made sure of that but she's still unable to spot them in the sky.

"Hiccup, we have to hurry." One perked up. Merida looked to her right where one of them was sleeping only feet away, he began to stir and grumble. His friend was right.

"We can't just leave her here." He whispered back.

He turned back to Merida. "Come with us. I promise we'll take you home." He held his hand out. An offering, an extension. More men started to stir, waking up and realizing they'd been robbed.

"Hey!" One shouted. They were found out.

Them or him. She looked back up to the sky and whistled. Nothing. Her chest squeezed at the betrayal but she understood all the same. She looked back to the green eye man and sighed.

"Don't touch me." She warned before hitting the guard that ran after her. He flew overboard screaming as he fell into the water.

The man grabbed his sword putting back on his mask.

With them, she fled and it was that decision that started the sewing of their story.

Their tragedy.

[greenninjagal-blog]

15 for Anxceitmus pls - Anon 👽

I’ll be honest I’ve had a plan for this one for days but never enough time to sit down and write it. Now lets see how this goes :D

Summary: Virgil steals a taste of a cake that’s not his and ends up poisoned.

Words: 4360

Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @lunasfriendgabby @never-end1ng-suffering @silverflame-wc @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @thenaiads @treasureofpriam 

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist || Prompt page

Piece of Cake

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but you have to trust me okay?” the voice says.

At least Virgil, thinks the voice says it. He can’t really tell over the noise in his head and burning fire in his lungs and screaming in the background of everything that was going on. He can’t even see really, based on the rush of white and black dots all over his vision like pin needles getting jabbed directly into his eyes as his throat shreds itself apart again and again and again.

He’s not sure what is happening, not sure when he hit the floor or how the world around him compressed into just him or why his entire body seems to be trying to rip itself apart with varying levels of success. 

He sure that it hurts. 

And that he hasn’t cried like this since he was kid and he fell and hit his head on the cobblestone fountain in the market and there was just...so much blood everywhere and he thought he was going to die back then.

It had just been a bit of icing.

And Virgil can still taste it on his lips between the blood and the salty tears and the vomit. The avocado taste that he hadn’t had since his mother had passed from the plague a decade prior.

The burning in his lungs is agony, like he jumped into the castle furnace and breathed in the cinders for fun. He strains his arms to tear at his chest where the boiling feeling seems to bleed from, but something is holding him down, and he screams, pleads, begs-- anything, just to make it stop. He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he won’t do it again, he swears--

It’s like a white-hot poker being driven between his ribs and twisting, like a dragon’s breath right before those sharpened foot long teeth snap him right in half, like his head had been tilted back and he’d swallowed lava.

He writhes against it, but something has his left arm and his right wrist and there’s a weight on his legs that keep him from moving despite the desperation in his motions. Every inhale moves the flames--and he can’t quite tell if they’re imaginary anymore, surely something imaginary wouldn’t couldn’t doesn’t hurt like this hurts so much so badly he’s sorry sosorrypleasejustmakeitstopplease---

Then, all at once, it’s over.

The fire reels back, flooded by a cold so icy it steals the rest of the breath he had. His limbs feel like lead and they drop to the floor of the kitchen. It’s also mercifully silent, which seems eerily impossible because the Castle is never silent ever. His vision swims like dunking in and out of the river back home when he went swimming with the older kids in the river. Far over head the gaping arches of the room fade in and out of clarity. The hollowness rings faintly in him, followed by an all-consuming exhaustion that peels away the rest of his thoughts.

“Virgil?” Someone says his name.

He almost recognizes them. He should probably recognize them.

There are faces over him, people he knows, but they’re too blurry to make out. All he wants is sleep suddenly. A deep dark long sleep.

“Let him sleep, your highness,” someone else says softer. “He’s okay now.”

 And then Virgil’s eyes close and he loses consciousness.

The unfortunate truth of the matter was that Virgil had no reason to be in the kitchen in the first place. He should have been mending that tapestry that the twin Princes had mangled in spontaneous duel last week, or adding the few last details to the new tunic Prince Remus had been instructed him to prepare, or fixing the tear in Prince Roman’s riding cloak, or simply catching up on sleep that he had missed while pressing himself to finish the new Birthday outfits for the Twins Ball at the end of the week.

But as it stood he had slipped from his crafting room to the kitchen in hopes that the Head of the Kitchen would take pity on him like he had done so many times before and offer him some scraps from the feast that was going on. 

Some noble had arrived in the early morning and the castle had been abuzz with energy as the King welcomed him. Virgil had already heard several rumors about it, just from lurking on the corner counter out of the way of the scurrying kitchen maids and the servant runners. 

“Something about him strikes me as odd,” Patton had admitted to him between cutting up strawberries, helping a maid balance a honey bun tray, and directing a newer servant boy on the proper way to refill a spare goblet. “I didn’t like the look he gave Prince Roman at all.”

And Virgil had snorted at that, swiping a glob of honey from the empty pan before it when to the stack of dirty dishes. “You don’t like any way anyone looks at Prince Roman.” He had pointed out sucking on his index finger.

Patton gave him a disapproving look but waved off his blatant theft. “I don’t know what you mean, kiddo-- Lower Terrance! If you keep trying to pour from that height there’s a chance you’ll miss and stain the table cloth-- I know that he’s an important noble, but the way he was looking at Roman was the way a butcher eyes a piece of meat before he cuts it.”

Virgil swallowed and eyed the cook carefully. “Well, how was he looking at Prince Remus?”

“He wasn’t.”

Virgil frowned, “Wasn’t? He ignored the second Prince?” Which seemed ridiculous on all fronts. First of all, Prince Remus was royalty, and no one ignores royalty, ever. Not even if its 3 A.M. and they send for you to discuss a different pattern for the tunic you were making for them and you barely have time to put on presentable clothes much less brush your hair. Secondly, Prince Remus was impossible to ignore even if you were trying to: between his gaudy outfits and the morning star he kept looped on his belt like a sword and his voice which echoed off the cement at all hours of the day, he stood out wherever he went. His auburn hair and green eyes made him quite the talk of the castle.

Patton wrung his dish cloth between his fingers before going back to slicing strawberries. “Well not at first. He bowed and present Remus a cake. After that Remus was too distracted to really notice anything else.”

Virgil had snuck a strawberry from the pile yet to be cut and pops it in his mouth, chews, swallows and then asks politely, “What about his consort?” 

“You mean Dee?” Patton slid a sliced strawberry to the side of the wooden board. Virgil had thought was entertaining that Patton had even asked. Roman didn’t take consorts, and Remus only had one: a man by the name of Dee who had the eyes like butter and a smile too soft. His hair flowed like a golden hay field, and his voice was like a fable siren’s. Virgil hadn’t heard him sing, but he couldn’t imagine that there had ever been an instance where he hadn’t been able to get what he wanted from someone.

Dee was pretty, but in a sense that it was too pretty to be real. Like a snake oil merchant come to sell wares to the naive populace. 

But Virgil was biased on all fronts: Dee had always been present when Virgil had need to take measurements of Prince Remus for his new tunic, and every time he’d been summoned after that, watching Virgil’s every move like a predator waiting for the perfect time to strike. Virgil’s hands had shaken so badly he had barely been able to read his own notes later, and even if he tried to tell himself it was the stress, he knew it was because of how delightfully attracted he was to two things that weren’t open for him to even dream about. So, he buried thoughts of Prince Remus’s muscles and of Dee’s breathy laughter and pretended that they didn’t keep him awake at night.

“Dee was impassive, you know,” Patton had said, drawing Virgil from his thoughts, “I’m never able to read him.”

“Not like I can read Prince Roman,” went unsaid, but Virgil could hear it under his words. 

“What kind of cake was it?” Virgil had asked instead, because he was a merciful friend and wasn’t about to bother a man about unrequited crushes while he was kick dirt over his own emotions.

Patton had wrinkled his nose. “Avocado! Can you believe it? I’ve never heard of an avocado cake before!”

Virgil blinked. He had glanced towards the end of the counter where the cake had been placed so elegantly. He had been eying it all night, letting his mouth water how good he imagined it might be, but knowing it was avocado? “My mom...she used to make those. They were my favorite.”

“Oh, I know that look,” Patton said, pointing his knife at him, “You know that cake is for the Prince. He already declared that no one but him is allowed to have it, Virge. Even if I wanted to slip you some, that would put both of our necks at risk.”

And Virgil knew that, he did. But it was a large cake. Surely, the Prince couldn’t eat it all by himself.

And frankly he knew enough about the royal family by now to know that absolutely no one else would eat a monstrosity like that. Prince Roman didn’t even like avocados to begin with and had loudly complained the last time Patton had tried sneaking it into a meal.

Was the man really going to miss if Virgil snags just swatch of the icing?

Patton lightly hit his hand. “Don’t,” He warned with that stern voice of his which revealed his years over Virgil. 

“I wasn’t!” Virgil lied.

“I’ll toss you out of my kitchen, Virgil.” Patton had told him. “Because I’d rather lose your company for the next few nights than have to watch you be run through for stealing from the crown.”

“It’s a cake.” Virgil whined.

Patton gave him another warning gaze and moved another strawberry around. He had been about to say something else, but at that moment Logan, the resident mage who always chose to stay scarce when there were visiting nobles about the halls, had chosen to flourish down the servant staircase which had appropriately distracted them both. Not that Virgil had been hoping for a distraction. 

But who was he to stare a gift horse in a mouth?

Logan had zeroed in on Patton, per usual, causing the cook to blush the same way he did around Prince Roman and Logan had mentioned something about a plant they were attempting to magically grow. Virgil hadn’t really been focusing on the words as much as the fact that Patton’s eyes stayed trained on Logan while he talked. 

Virgil had inched down the counter, placing a finger to his lips when Terrance noticed what he was doing. He reached out with on hand and flicked just enough of the icing that he’d get a taste, but not enough to disturb the overall look of the cake. In fact, Virgil was certain no one would even know he took some if they hadn’t seen anything. 

“Virgil!” Patton yelled just as he popped his finger in his mouth. 

Virgil had stiffened at the sound of his name and whirled back to face a very mad Patton and a surprised Logan. The taste of avocado had hit the back of his throat, which almost made him feel great: it tasted just as earthy as he remembered it being when his mother made it, with just the right bitter aftertaste  that made Virgil want more, although he didn’t remember it being quite so prominent--

“That was the Prince’s Cake!” Patton had shouted, “As in Prince Remus! I don’t care if you are in good graces with his highness! That was a stupid- stupid -stupid-- what on earth were you thinking? Virgil--!!”

And that was when Virgil had first felt the burning, like an itch in his throat that had suddenly swept him up. Patton’s voice had faded as he grabbed for his own throat, for his chest, for anything to remove the sudden agony ravaging his body. He had toppled straight off the counter in the middle of whatever else Patton had shouted, taking the cake right down with him.

Because that was just Virgil’s luck that he’d steal a lick of the second Prince’s cake and end up poisoned within an inch of his life.

And to be honest, the price for stealing from the crown in most cases is death, and since Virgil had been pretty sure he was going to die anyway he figures when he closes his eyes that was going to be the end. 

He wakes up, with someone carting their fingers through his hair the way his mother used to do, before she had gotten sick and died from that plague that had taken over half their village. His head feels like someone had stuffed cotton between his ears, his throat like someone had forced him to swallow swords. He’s warm, which was a strange concept: usually the servants’ quarters are cool, even in the summer and Virgil’s blankets are never quite been enough to stave off the tendrils of chill that seep into his cot. But here and now? Oh, he’s so warm and comfortable he never wants to move again.

“--want him killed!”

“I know you do, your highness.” Another voice says, a voice that’s closer and more comfortable, “But there’s much more to gain from keeping him alive.”

“That cake was intended for Me!” There is the sound of something shattering, something ceramic, and fancy, and expensive.

Virgil tries to shift, tries to open his eyes, but it’s just so...exhausting. The hand in his hair drags slightly, before restarting softly, more gently than before.

“It’s okay, Love,” the voice over him says softly. “I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.”

Something else crashes. And another. And another. 

There are more after that, but Virgil doesn’t remember them.

The next time he wakes, he’s more aware of where he is: he can feel the luxurious goose feather blanket draped over his chest, and how several of the loose feathers tickle his chin with each inhale, can feel the soft pads of fingers dancing through his hair in a way that make him want to relax and drift off again, can feel the coolness of a wet cloth on his forehead that wards off an overheating.

Its comfortable, its perfect.

But there’s never been a perfect thing in Virgil’s entire life.

He shifts, moaning with the effort to get his body to move after so long (?) of stiffness. He hadn’t realized that there had been people talking around him, until the conversation comes to a soft stop and the hand in his hair retracts slightly.

Virgil’s eyes open and he almost believes he’s still dreaming.

He knows where he is, even though he can’t believe it: he’d know the opulent bedframe and those darkened green curtains anywhere; he’d know those grey and silver blankets, and that room shape even if he should have fallen blind with everything else that had happened. He had been in that room far too many times for him to not have known.

He’s in the Second Prince’s room, lying in the second Prince’s bed, under the second Prince’s covers, and the Second Prince’s consort was sitting beside him with his hand in Virgil’s hair and another hold a book he seems to have been in the middle of reading.

“Oh,” Dee, the consort who was far too pretty to be anything other than trouble, says softly. “You’re awake.”

“He’s awake?” The sound of the Prince Remus startles Virgil, although it shouldn’t have. It only made sense that the owner of the room would also be in his own room.

What does not make sense is why that Virgil is there.

“Softly,” Dee says to the Prince without removing his eyes from where he’s staring down at Virgil with an expression that he doesn’t dare put an actual name to. The very idea of it makes the back of Virgil’s mouth sting.

Prince Remus had been across the room, perhaps staring out that large window which he did often while waiting for Virgil to respond to his summons, but he comes to the bed almost before Virgil can form another thought. Virgil tries to sit up, tries to move because this was the Prince and Virgil had already been caught stealing a taste from his cake and he was lucky they did just let him die--

Prince Remus puts a hand on Virgil’s shoulder and lightly shoves him back to the pillows, back to Dee’s side, back down. Whatever strength Virgil thinks he has disappears right out of his limbs.

There’s something strange about the Prince, Virgil notes squinting up at him. Not that there isn’t usually something strange about him; it seemed that every time Virgil was requested to his presence there was something just off about him. Virgil had thought it had been like a tease: something that would stick in his mind while he threaded his needles and cause him to shake his head with fondness. It had seemed that Remus had made a game out of it too, on the rare occasions where Virgil almost asked if he was cultivating some sort of joke, and the Prince had smirked at him and dared him to say something (which of course he never did, because Virgil quite likes his head where it’s attached to his neck, and the feel of Dee’s eyes on made him dangerously aware of his own standing).

But this sort of strangeness was not like the other times. It’s a calmness that encompasses the Prince, much like a still pond moments before a stone plunges into the depths. There’s no extra energy, no mischievous glints, smug crude joke. There’s just Prince Remus, and a seriousness that make Virgil fear for his life.

This is the Prince who could beat most of the military with nothing but his fist and his morning star. This is the Prince who could stare down an invading army and send them running home with just a single threat. This is the Prince who would challenge Death to a duel and make it out with his soul.

There’s a fresh cut across his cheek that hadn’t been there the last time Virgil had seen him, as if he had dodged a blade by mere inches and dismissed the attack as not nearly as worthy of his attention as Virgil somehow was.

“Why did you eat that cake?” Prince Remus asks.

“Re—” Dee says sharply.

The Prince holds up a hand at him, and Dee holds his tongue. “I want to know.”

Virgil suddenly feels like the blankets are constricting, tightening around his torso and his chest like a vice. His body shakes at the very idea of the cake. The mere thought of avocado makes his mouth violently taste like blood and his throat smolders with the threat of pain.

His hands go to his neck, to relive the pressure that’s not really there, but Dee is quicker. The consort catches both his wrists and pins them softly to Virgil’s abdomen with one hand and uses the other to rub tenderly rub Virgil’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” the consort says, in a soothing tone, that makes Virgil want to cry, “Shh, you’re okay now, Virgil.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Virgil chokes out, “S-sorry.”

Whatever the Prince is looking for, he doesn’t seem satisfied. He stands up again, fiercely shoving the bedframe. He takes three steps from the bed and then spins back around with a murderous expression.

“Sorry?” He shouts. “He’s sorry!” He slips his morning star from its hook on his belt and spins to swing it against the wall.

“Remus!” Dee interrupts.

“Shut up!” Prince Remus snarls right back. The sound of metal against the stone walls explodes throughout the room, causing Dee to tense up. Its violent and cold and Virgil hates it, hates that he caused it, hates that he doesn’t know why and he’s too afraid to ask.

Dee shifts like he wants to get up, wants to go to his prince and cup his face to ground him back to a reality before he does something he will regret, but in the end he stays right with Virgil. And Virgil is selfish enough that he’s thankful more than he’s guilty. The sunlight from the windows make the consort’s hair glitter gold and the black jewels around his neck that claim him as Prince Remus’s property glint harshly. His touch is far softer than Virgil would have expected, softer than the blankets, softer than a breeze on a warm summer’s day.

The prince swings four more times at the wall, deepening darkening cracks without the slightest care in the world. Then he takes his weapon and throws it across the room where it collides something else beyond Virgil’s line of vision before falling mercifully silent.

“Are you finished, your majesty?” Dee says in a tone that’s dangerous close to being chiding.

“I will be finished when I have that skamelar’s head at my feet!” Prince Remus says nastily. “That cake was intended for me!”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil whimpers again.

“And just what do you have to be sorry for?” Prince Remus turns on him, “Tell me, Virgil! If not for you, I would be dead from having boiled from the inside! Or maybe from having clawed my way right into my ribcage. Or maybe from having ripped my own throat apart? I’m sure that would have been a lovely sight for everyone to watch!”

Virgil’s heart clenches, and he doesn’t know what to say, what he should do. The back of his throat tastes like the inside of his stomach, like blood, and poison, and avocado. And the Second Prince is saying his name like it’s the most normal thing in the world, talking like Virgil had done it on purpose, sounding like Virgil had saved his life and that meant something more than fate intervening at the right moment.

Dee says, “We came so close to losing you, Virgil. It was a matter of luck that you survived. Logan said that if he had been any further away, if you had taken any bigger of a taste... you would not have stayed alive long enough for him to figure out the cure.”

They talk like it means something. Like Virgil’s life is worth something more than the tailoring services he supplies, like he can’t just be replaced with just a single royal announcement, like they think Virgil is….

“W-why?” Virgil trembles. “Why are you—"

Prince Remus kneels next to the bed, and his head dips slightly so that his black crown bows for Virgil.

“Did you really think that all these times I just wanted new clothes?” The Prince says so quietly Virgil’s breathe catches. “That I’m not capable of fixing my own holes in my trousers, or my cloaks, or that I truly cared if what I was wearing had rips in them at all? Before you came along Father had been threatening to take all of my weapons and lock me in a tower so I would stop going through fabrics so quickly.”

Dee’s fingers ghost over Virgil’s chin lightly. “And a three A.M. summons is surely the most normal thing for the royal tailor.” There’s a teasing smile on his lips, lips that Virgil thinks might be very nice against his. “Our prince was quite inconsolable when you appeared looking just as presentable as normal, Love.”

There’s something about the way he says words--“our prince”, “Love”--like they’re the most normal and natural things in the entire Kingdom.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t spent night waxing poetry to me about what you want to do with him, Dee!” The prince commands.

“I have no clue what you are referring to, your highness,” Dee says with a red blush across his ears.

Prince Remus looks up at both of them, before leaning forward on the bed. Like a magnet, Dee moves towards him as well and meets him for a smiling kiss in right over Virgil.

He’s seen them kiss dozens of times: soft kisses, warm kisses, kisses so openly filled with love that Virgil feels like he’s intruding when he looks at them. They’ve kissed while Virgil had taken measurements, when he had been taking notes for the specific requests the Prince had for him, when Virgil had been leaving to go about his duties.

Virgil has never left apart of a kiss like this. His lips are on anyone’s and the only touch he has is where Dee was still holding his hands, which had turned into him lacing their fingers together in a mangled knot. Prince Remus reaches out and takes his other hand, and who is he to deny his prince?

He feels faint, float, not really. Surely, he was still dreaming; the last wisps of the poison having their fun with him. Surely, he was about to wake up and find himself not nearly this lucky.

“Don’t scare us like that again, Virgil,” Prince Remus says, breathlessly as he presses his forehead to Dee’s and squeezes Virgil’s hand, “Not before I have a chance to properly court you. I’ll bring you a barbarians head on a stake or something!”

Dee merely smiles down at him and says “Love.”

Virgil thinks that if he died, perhaps this wasn’t such a bad place to spend the rest of eternity.

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

A Chance Meeting

So it turns out I have absolutely no self control.  So here you are; Thorin POV of ADM.  Enjoy, and be sure to let me know what you think!

Part 1 of ‘Matters of the Heart’.  Link to Series Masterlist

Thorin’s POV of A Deep Misunderstanding

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used: Estel

Word Count:  2,267

Warning(s):  Rude Thorin, a mild swear word or two

~~~~

I turned the map in my hands, trying to make sense of the twisting pathways of The Shire.  

Damn those Hobbits and their complicated city designs.  Why couldn't everything be straight instead of twirling around in circles?!

Glancing up to compare a street name on the map with those upon the wooden marker, I scowled in frustration.  I had already gone down the wrong path once, and I did not wish to repeat my mistake.  Well, then there was the other street I went down and got lost in.

"Why didn't the blasted wizard think to mention that there are multiple streets named after the same bloody plant?"  I grumbled to myself, striding down a pathway that seemed to match one on the map the aforementioned wizard had given me at our last meeting.

The dirt was well-trodden beneath my boots; pebbles crunching lightly with each step I took.  A light breeze gently guided the few clouds scudding across the bright full moon that lit my way.  The faded emerald flannel of my cloak and the hot Dwarvish blood that ran through my veins was enough to shield me from the breeze, but all the same I pulled the cloth tighter around me, disguising my figure.

The last thing I wanted was one of these Hobbits making a fuss about a Dwarf wandering through their streets in the dead of night.  That would just be the icing upon the cake to this already disastrous night.

Just then, I came to the top of the hill; a picket fence surrounding a round Hobbit dwelling that had the mark of Gandalf etched on the green door.  Vaguely, I could make out the sound of raucous singing and loud voices from where I stood.

Mahal, I was late.

Heaving a sigh of relief at finally reaching my destination, I opened the gate and trudged through up the cobblestones.  Stepping up onto the doorstep, I thumped thrice upon the door; my frustration getting the better of me.

Instantly the noise died down and silence fell upon the moonlight night.  I turned my gaze to one of the windows, trying to see who had all arrived before me.  

Then the door creaked open and I turned my head to look through it, gazing at Gandalf who was bent double as he stood in the entryway of the Hobbit hole.  A Hobbit stood just behind him, looking thoroughly put out.

"Gandalf.  I thought you said this place would be easy to find.  I lost my way, twice."  I murmured in a low voice, stepping inside.  "I wouldn't have found it at all, had it not been for that mark on the door."  I undid the chain fastening my cloak around my neck and pulled the garment off; folding it neatly and setting it aside.

"Mark?"  The Hobbit exclaimed, pattering over to the door to peer at it as Gandalf pushed it shut.    "There's no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!"  He protested.  I ignored the peeved Hobbit and gazed around at my surrounds with a smile on my face.

Comfort was a word that described this place perfectly, and comfort was something that I longed for after a long journey from the Blue Mountains.

"There is a mark, I've put it there myself."  Gandalf replied to the Hobbit before turning to look over at me.  "Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."  

I looked down upon the Hobbit, stepping closer to study him with a close eye.  "So, this is the Hobbit."  I murmured, disbelieving that this was whom Gandalf had talked so highly of.  Crossing my arms, I shifted on my feet.  "Tell me Mister Baggins, have you done much fighting?"  I inquired roughly, walking around the Hobbit to look him over.

He looked small and used to the comforts of home; hardly someone I would take along on a arduous quest.  He would be more of a liability than an asset.

The Hobbit shuffled on his feet, looking utterly bewildered.  "Pardon me?"  

I continued on with my questioning, taking in the fine linens he wore.  "Axe or sword, what's your weapon of choice?"  I asked, coming back to face the Hobbit.

He rocked in place, glancing down at the ground before returning my gaze.  "Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know."  He replied saucily, "but I fail to see why that's relevant."

I refrained from rolling my eyes, turning away from the Hobbit to look over at the others who had clustered in the doorway.  "I thought as much.  He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."  I smirked, looking back at Kili who grinned and laughed at my poking fun at the Hobbit.

The Hobbit looked disgruntled at my words, but stayed silent as I walked past him towards the doorway where Dwalin stood.  He and Balin turned and led me through the kitchen and into the dining room.

There in the dining room, a raven-haired woman worked at stacking plates; her back towards us as she picked up a pile.  Turning around, she started in surprise upon catching sight of us standing there, but kept her hold upon the plates.  

I was not one for petty, emotional feelings, but it would be a lie if I denied that I did not feel fluttering within my disloyal heart.  I was embarking on a dangerous quest; I had no reason to be lusting after a pretty dame.  But yet there was something about her that attracted me.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"  I asked with a raised brow, curious as to why the Hobbit had a Dwarrowdame in his home.  They were rare enough within Dwarvish colonies, so how did she come to be in these parts?  

But before she could respond, Gandalf spoke up from behind me.  "Her name is Estel and I brought her along with me because I believe she can be of use on this quest of yours."

I turned to look at him, unsure if my ears were working properly.

Take Dwarrowdame along on a quest that might very well claim all our lives?  I should think not!  Particularly if she is as attractive...NO!  I cannot think of her in such a way.  I had no business pining after a dame.

"I do not think that she can be of any help on this quest, Gandalf.  We do not need another person to look after..."  I murmured meaningfully, but Gandalf paid no attention me and went on to take his place at the table.

The lass--Estel--was quick to hurry away with her load of plates, heading into the kitchen where she lingered.  I took a seat at the head of the table as the rest of my companions made their way back into the room and found a seat.  

Everyone talked quietly as they waited for some unknown signal, but I remained preoccupied in my thoughts.  I had seen many different dames during my lifetime, but none--not even the most beautiful--had sparked such feelings as Estel had when my gaze fell upon her.  

It was not like she was different--oh, but she was--she was shorter in stature, sturdy, dark-haired with blue eyes that glimmered like sapphires or kyanite gems found deep within the mines.  No different than any other dame I had ever met.

But yet, she was entirely different all at the same time.  Such a contradictory thing, but true nonetheless.

Soft footsteps sounded behind me, and the woman preoccupying my thoughts appeared at my side with a bowl in her hands.

"We saved some of this back for you, Master Thorin."  She murmured softly, setting the bowl down in front of me.  I gazed up at her delicate features--ignoring how my heart fluttered as I took in the slight smile she wore.  

"Thank you, Miss Estel."  I nodded, and she nodded back before turning away to settle herself beside Bofur.

Jealousy rose within me like a dragon as Bofur turned to talk quietly with her.  She laughed softly at something he said and I resisted the urge to bolt upright and separate them.  Why did it matter?  It was not as if she was my One or anything.  These were just lustful feelings brought about by my long journey.  Nothing more.

But Balin's voice drew my attention away from the raven-haired lass.  "What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?"  He inquired, setting his elbows on the table before him as he leaned forward with interest.  "Did they all come?"

I swallowed my mouthful of warm broth and nodded, pushing aside all thoughts other than the quest we were embarking on.  "Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms...."

Later, after the Hobbit had fainted upon hearing the description of Smaug, I lingered in one of the hallways with Balin.  We watched as the Hobbit walked away from Gandalf, and Balin let out a sigh.

"It appears we have lost our burglar.  Probably for the best.  The odds were always against us.  After all, what are we?  Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy makers.  Hardly the stuff of legend."  He bemoaned, and my gaze flickered over to him as he stood across from me.

"There are a few warriors amongst us."  I countered softly, but Balin shook his head.

"Old warriors."

"I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills, for when I called upon them, they answered."  I murmured, "loyalty, honour, a willing heart.  I can ask no more than that."

That was all they had to offer in the first place.

Balin watched me carefully as I twisted the key Gandalf had given to me in my fingers.  "You don't have to do this.  You have a choice.  You've done honourably by our people.  You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains.  A life of peace of plenty.  A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor."  He said quietly, but I only shook my head gently.

"From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me.  They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland.  There is no choice, Balin.  Not for me."  

Balin smiled, his eyes twinkling at me.  "Then we are with you, laddie.  We will see it done."

I smiled gratefully at the elder Dwarrow, knowing that what I asked was no small feat.  We all ran the risk of losing our lives in this quest.

~~~~

Following my conversation with Balin, we made our way into the sitting room where the rest of the Dwarrows had begun to gather before the fire.  Instantly, my eyes sought out Estel and after a moment I found her sitting alone, cradling a mug in her hands as she stared into the flames.

Upon my entrance, she glanced up and her gaze met mine for a instant before she looked away again, looking down at her mug.

Ignoring the urge to go and talk with her, I walked over to the mantlepiece, leaning against it and staring down into the orange and yellow flames that danced to unheard music.  

Slowly, I began to hum, losing myself in thoughts and memories of a day long past; a day when fire lit up the sky and ground shook beneath the feet of a dragon.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold.  To dungeons deep and caverns old.  We must away ere break of day.  To find our long forgotten gold.

The pines were roaring on the height, the winds were moaning in the night.  The fire was red, it flaming spread.  The trees like torches blazed with light.

Gradually, the rest joined in, choosing either to sing aloud or hum the melody.  The room filled with the heavy weight of sorrow as those old enough to remember the day recalled everything that had happened.  I scanned the room, my gaze lingered on the lass.

She sat mutely, her brow furrowed as she listened to the words.  Vaguely, I wondered how old she was.  Perhaps she was around Kili's age and had only heard the stories about that fateful day.  

I continued to watch her as the last notes faded away, the room falling silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire.  Drawing a deep breath, I pushed away from the mantlepiece and walked over to Estel, seating myself by her side.

It was strange; I felt nervous about approaching her.  

"Miss Estel, do you not know this song?"  I inquired in a low voice, and she turned her head to look at me; raven locks spilling over her shoulder to cascade down her back.

"No, Master Thorin.  I have never heard it before."  She answered, and I raised an eyebrow.

"You haven't?"

"No."  She bit her lower lip, drawing my gaze to it.  

I wanted nothing more than to steal a taste...  Mahal, what was I thinking?  

Drawing in a deep breath, I reluctantly focused my gaze on her eyes.  Estel continued to gnaw on her lip--driving me mad--as she glanced out the window behind the two of us.

"It is high time for me to call it a night I believe.  I will see you early tomorrow, Master Thorin."  She nodded to me as she rose to her feet; shooting me a smile that shouldn't have caused my heart to flutter like it did.

I had no business falling in love.

Like this?  Read this?  Reblog it!!