#I don’t know how tapestry embroidering works shut up :)

[patheticbatman]

Win A Commission! Guess the book, win a drawing!

To be absolutely fair, this is a fanon interpretation of the above characters. On the book cover, they’re white (my version had one blonde and one brunette) sisters. However, it was me and a friend’s favorite book once upon a time, and she always imagined Addie, the main character, to look like her.

So to give you a fighting chance, here are three hints:

1. The book is about sisters

2. One is named Addie

3. One likes physical activity like swordfighting and running, and the other likes fiber arts.

Good luck!

[http-paprika]

IVY AND IRON THORNS

CHAPTER III

a medieval au / sir simon riley x lady reader / 2.4k / warnings descriptions of death, christian religious imagery / taglist open

called to have an audience with the lord of the castle, you leave questioning the life you've known

because this story has been on hiatus so long, please if you are tagged in the taglist, don't hesitate to ask to be removed if this doesn't interest you anymore. I apologize for the delay, you know how life is. also, I promise there'll be more simon in the next chapter!

masterlist / chapter IV

Perched on the cold, stone windowsill, you rest your head against the thick glass. You gaze outside into the bailey below, bustling in the early morning with activity, You spot the knight, though he’s brandished his armor today for simple clothes, the black mask still obscuring his face. But despite the intimidation you feel watching Sir Riley, the children follow him around in awe, clinging onto his legs and arms. There’s no hesitation when he scoops up a little girl and puts her up on his shoulder, and though you cannot hear it, you’re certain she’s giggling. A small smile crosses your face momentarily, witnessing a man of such stature being so soft with children causes warmth to spread through your chest. Briefly. 

A firm knock on the door of your chambers distracts you from the scene, causing you to fill with panic again. Remembering what Sir Riley had told you the night before, you were to have an audience with the lord of the castle. Your heart rattles in its cage of ribs, lungs expanding painfully with each breath as you cross the floor, your steps echo off the walls and each breath sounds louder in your ears. Any attempt to calm yourself falters as you unbolt the door and push open the heavy oak. 

On the outside, in simple leather armor, another knight of the castle stands at attention. He’s new to you, an unfamiliar bronze face with golden eyes. A foreigner, you wonder whilst looking at him. There was a memory of the merchants from afar who traveled through your father’s lands, their skin hadn’t quite been as dark as his, but just as curious to you. 

“My apologies, ma’am. But Lord Price requests your presence.” He tells you, bowing his head and crossing his chest with one arm. 

“Of course,” Swallowing hard, you step over the threshold and into the narrow hallway. Morning light streams through the few windows as he escorts you, speaking little except for directing you as to whether to turn. As you walk, servant girls in the castle greet the knight as he passes by, often giggling though the knight, who was called Sir Garrick, pays them little attention. Instead, he was focused on the task of bringing you to the lord’s study. 

Down narrow passages, up winding stairs into a high turret was where the lord of the castle worked and rested. When Sir Garrick brings you into the study, there is no one waiting for you. Just high shelves full of books, statues, and trinkets from wars and plunders. A tall tapestry with the crest hung down behind the desk, the embroidered skull and sword causing you to shiver. 

“Lord Price will be with you in a moment. Don’t touch anything.” Sir Garrick advises you before stepping out of the room and shutting the door. 

You startle when it slams shut, leaving you alone in the unwelcoming study. Glancing over at the bookshelves, you find yourself wanting to read over the title and run your fingers down the leather spines. Reading had never particularly been a hobby of yours, though your mother and tutor had taught you Latin and French, made you read pages upon pages, it bored you. Until now. There was a growing curiosity to view the collection that was grander than your father’s. How had you never known about a lord with a castle this grand? Surely your father knew the man, yet you’d never heard of Lord Price nor Castle Tharn. 

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” You startle at the sudden intrusion, not even having heard the door open. Quickly turning on your heel, you see the lord of the castle standing in the doorway. Tall in stature, broad shoulders hidden under his dark green shirt. He had the appearance of a warrior, the pride of a king in his gait. 

“Quite the collection, m’Lord.” You stutter out as he walks past, settling behind his desk. 

“My father started them to appease my mother. She was very unhappy in this castle and saw it as her prison, so my father began to gather them as they were the only thing that brought comfort to her short life.” He tells you, his light eyes narrowing to study your reaction, that the way you held yourself was different from a commoner. Even with the state of humility that you were in. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You tilt your head, remembering the string of jewels and pearls the prince had sent to you during the engagement. A sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, a frown crossing your face. A question lingers in your head though you do not chase it for an answer. “That was very kind of him.” 

“Hmph. A captor trying to please the captured.” Lord Price hums, his chest rumbling with his words as he sits straight up in his velvet chair. “Foolish, is it not?” 

“I’m not sure, m’Lord.” 

“It’s as foolish as my servants trying to console you.” The frown on your face grows more visible at his words, the riddles he spoke confusing you. His steely, cold eyes sliced like knives through your resolve. “My knights have told me of the misfortunes that befell your company on the highway. A highway which they were not supposed to travel on.” 

“Pardon me?” Your hands grip the fabric of your borrowed dress, wrinkling the gray fabric in your fists. The accusations stung, though you had no defense to his words. What did you know about the plans for traveling your father had forged? 

“The House of Cain, galloping about through the Queen’s land. It’s by God’s graciousness alone and the will of my knights that a single soul survived the night.” Lord Price stands from his seat, his figure eclipsing the silver of light from the lone window. Cloaking you and the room in darkness. The Queen’s land? Your mind swelled from his words, lacking any understanding. 

Lord Price pulls a scroll of paper from a shelf, laying it out on the desk you wearily approach. A map of your father’s lands is etched out in red ink, and the harsh words traitor’s lands are written over the valleys and mountains he governed. In black ink, you saw Castle Tharn with its rivers and surrounding villages. It was different from the maps you’d seen growing up, glimpsing into the rooms where your father and his advisors plotted. You were sure there was more land of which your father governed. But it looked small in comparison to Lord Price’s lands and the land of another lord, a name of which you did not recognize. Where were the allies your father boasted about? Was he really that desperate, closed off from those who would aid him in battle? 

“Was this not the road you traveled?” He asked, his gloved hand pointed to a thick line that ran through the heart of Lord Price’s land. Yes, they were. 

Your blood runs cold, a feeling of faintness passing over you like a ghostly breeze. Reaching for the arm of a nearby chair, you try to steady yourself. This was not what you’d been told. How much more could your world be shattered in such short days? 

“No, no. My father is a respected man. Highly praised and honored. He has allies, he has the favor of the prince.” You respond, trying to defend your family name. The House of Cain demanded respect and you would not let that fall. 

But he scoffs at your declaration, shaking his head in amusement. “The prince?” 

“Yes. Have you no respect for the royal family?” You ask, your voice quivering in fear. Never had you seen a man speak in such a way, so brash and crude in attitude and tone. It made you quiver, a present dread in your bones. He reminded you of a commoner you’d once seen on the gallows, awaiting his death for the crime of treason; he still would not recant the words he’d spoken about your father and the prince. Now, you wondered who had truly committed that crime. 

“That man is royalty by blood alone, I do not bow to him nor do I recognize those who follow him like sheep.” Lord Price looks at you with harshness, sitting down again with his hands flat against the wooden desk. “Your father gave you an illusion of prosperity and power.” 

You’d known that your father had begun to grow weary, that was the reason for your arranged marriage. But you had no idea it was so dire and fearful. The brutes your father spoke of fighting against the borders were the very ones that’d pulled you out of the mud. 

Lord Price watches as you sink into the chair, your lip trembling and eyes beginning to burn though no tears would spill. Not after the long hours you’d spent last night, curled up in the unfamiliar bed praying to wake up from the never-ending nightmare that’d grown longer and colder. 

“I’ve sent a messenger to your father, to tell him of what has happened to his wife and daughter. It will be up to him whether or not he agrees to my negotiations for your freedom.” He says, continuing to watch you like a wolf on its prowl. You were the rabbit being hunted after, small, frail, and unable to defend yourself from the whims of men. 

“My freedom? Am I your prisoner?” So, this was why he’d asked you that question before. From the beginning, he’d made it clear what his intentions for you were. A pawn in a long drawn-out game of chess that Lord Price had captured for his play. His expressive face shows as much, there’s almost an expression of pity that is quickly hidden away the longer you stare. 

“My quarrel is not with you, girl. Your mother was a good woman, it grieves me that she was forced into the marriage she was. For her sake, you will be looked after well. Fed, clothed, and free to do as you wish. Were you just your father’s daughter, I’d keep you in the dungeon.” He says, still speaking to you firmly despite the mercy he’s extended. Yes, it was better than the rat-infested dark dungeons the castle had, but it was not freedom. A castle whose walls confine you, no matter how lavish it is, when the sun sets is still your prison. 

“Were you my own daughter, I wouldn’t waste a moment in your retrieval. For your dignity and sake, I pray your father is the same.” His large hand is gentle when placed on your shoulder. The urge to cry in humility is strong, but the numbing truth of your fate is stronger. Would your father be so kind? For all the affection he used to shower you in, your father had sent you on roads that he knew were unsafe. How much he really cared was yet another question you did not want to answer. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The small chapel sat in the west corner of the castle walls, as you walked down the stone path to seek refuge and pray for your mother, the feeling of being watched did not leave you. Though Lord Price had not explicitly said that you would be escorted by a knight, you knew better than to assume you were alone. But, in the church, you were given a glimpse of freedom.

Inside, it was cool. The stained glass windows depicting images of biblical stories left colorful lights dancing over the floor and walls. Somewhere, you assumed there was a monk who served to bless the lord and his keep. But no one bothered you as you slumped down to kneel and pray for your mother. Believing in higher beings had always seemed silly to you, but for her, you’d pray that she’d safely travel to the heavens that she read of. 

But prayer felt foolish. Her fate had already been decided, what would simple, dumb words do? 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I would be alone at this hour.” You rise from kneeling, turning to see a woman dressed in deep velvets, her hair pulled up out of her fair face. Like a divine being, she smiled softly at you seeing the distress in your appearance. How you seemed to shrink under her gaze. 

“No, it’s my apologies. I only wanted a moment to mourn.” You respond, smoothing down your dress and keeping your head turned to the stone floor. Hadn’t you once refused to look down when speaking to anyone? Weren’t they the ones who were to cower? 

“You must be our guest. I, again, must apologize for not coming to your chambers and introducing myself. My youngest child has been in bed with a fever, and I did not want to leave his bedside until it broke.” She continued to speak softly, stepping forward and offering a hand. “I’m the lady of the castle. Lady Price. Though, I’d prefer it if you just called me by my name, Eden.” 

Eden, a fitting name for the woman. She seemed to radiate the same aura your mother had once had, one of grace and goodwill. Someone you wanted to offer respect to. In the daylight of the chapel, she was strikingly different from her husband. More so than you ever thought your mother was compared to your father. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And do not apologize, your child’s health is more important than a guest. And I was not in the state of mind to visit with anyone.” You curtsy to her as you were taught, humbling yourself like your mother would’ve liked. 

“Yes, I am sorry to hear of what happened to your mother and company. It grieves me to know such tragedies happen within our borders.” She settles down onto a pew, muttering a quick prayer before glancing back at you. “I would also like to apologize for my husband and his ploy. I cannot excuse his behavior and whims, though I assure you he is a good man. There’s no one else in the world I’d want to be the father of my children.” 

Frowning, you still nod at her words and you couldn’t shake the truth from them. Even though you were bound behind the cobblestone walls, there was care offered to you. And you could not decide if you even wished to return home, unable to form a consensus about how you felt towards what you’d been told. Your father, a traitor to the crowned ruler? Exile seemed so much less cruel than accepting that truth.

Taglist: @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @ghostlythots @jadeloverxd @crystallizedtime

[simply-sithel]

Hey! Could you tell us more about your pillow book? That's such a fun project!

!!!! Book pillow !!!!

So kind of you to ask! 🥰Conceived around the start of the pandemic, I was lucky enough to grab supplies just before shutdown happened. Unable to decide, I picked up supplies for ~2 books, with three cover options because upholstery samplers are just impossible to say no to... Used 2” foam for covers, a lot of unbleached muslin for interior pages, and fabric samples for “book cloth”, “cover papers”, and “end papers”

The pages are large cuts of washed & ironed muslin (love the wrinkles, gives good “paper” texture) - cut a block of fabric big enough for front & back of folio, folding down once along the “top” of the pages, sewing around the perimeter leaving just a small gap at the bottom center of the folio. Invert fabric, slip in a rectangle of thin cotton quilting material, and hand sew the folio shut. Might not have needed to stuff the folios, but I did to make them extra plump. Each signature is 2 folios and I only did 5 signatures. Sewn with a tapestry needle and yarn with a basic french link.

End papers and crash (a sheer fabric sample) were stitched on— normal thread was used as “glue” to affix bits, the tiny stitches nearly unseen. Hindsight: I should have “glued” the signatures together with stitches, when you open the book you can sometimes see the crash behind them, not a good look.

The headband was stitched on w/ yarn. Hindsight: I should have used a larger core for it to keep it to scale. It’s as thick as a… pencil? When it should be more… thumb diameter?

I used scrap fabric to mostly cover the foam covers and affix them to the spine (roughly cut down foam, made thinner). In place of glue, I stitched the upholstery fabric to scrap fabric or foam itself. Having never worked with foam/upholstery before I of course made some mistakes- didn’t realize how permanently visible a stitch punching through the cover to hold things in place would be… next time, only stitch at seems/edges/out of sight….

In the end, it’s a superb pillow. Thick, “adjustable” in size, we often use it for lower lumbar support when sitting on the couch or as a headrest when dramatically laying on the floor like you do. As a book it’s not quite proportioned correctly and is sloppily “glued”. I’ve started a second version w/ an embroidered short two sentence story but am in the early stages- also grabbed thinner foam for those covers. Am hoping to print a longer story on cotton via Spoonflower (what story? Don’t know yet) when I’ve finalized the process.

Thanks for asking! 🙏

[zephyrcove]

Lol no, It isn't on you cause I should have just read it later, but I couldn't keep myself from it. Anyways the next prompt: "I'm sorry- will you just listen to me, please" I'm in the mood for angst lol. Ily 😘😁

One serving of angst for you K, freshly beta’d by the phenomenal @theroomofreq

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

Trust

Lily tore down the corridor after him, first years jumping aside as she went forward, tunnel-vision in high gear. Following the tail of his cloak as he whipped around a corner, she just barely caught him slipping behind a Gryffindor tapestry on the left side of the hall, the heavy fabric hitting the stone walls with a thwap as he disappeared. Steeling herself, her brow creasing in determination, she sidestepped a Ravenclaw and glanced behind her before grabbing the embroidered Godric by the ankle and stepping into the secret passage.

Her hurried footsteps fell heavily in the echo of the tunnel until she paused, realizing hers were the only set she could hear. Closing her eyes tightly and letting out a sharp, frustrated exhale, she turned back towards the soft glow peeking through the edges of the tapestry and walked slowly back down the passage, trailing her fingers along the cobbled walls as she went. Halfway back, her right hand met the resistance of invisible fabric and her fingers grasped at it as James pulled out from under it, his pace frenzied as he stormed toward the exit.

“James!” The invisibility cloak limp in her hand, she chased after him, desperate to catch up before he made it back into the traffic of the main corridor. 

“I’m sorry––will you just listen to me, please.” Something in her tone must have struck a chord in him because his heavy footsteps halted about two feet from the opening. Lily looked on as James kept his back to her, hands in his hair, and heard the shaky sigh he let out before turning back toward her.

Lily’s eyes shone with a hint of tears as she stepped toward him gently, reaching a hand out to brush his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the floor but let her hand rest there.

“James, I’m–I’m so sorry love. I know we talked about… about not engaging with them when we’re alone––and you’ve been so good about it...” She shifted the cloak in her grasp and took a shuffling step closer before she went on. “I just––couldn’t let them get away with it. Again. I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I wasn’t hiding that it happened, I just knew that it would hurt and I didn’t want you to feel that way.”

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, glinting in the low light of the hallway. “Well I am feeling that way, so what good did keeping it from me do? What good did getting Remus to keep it from me do?” The hurt in his voice was clear and Lily held back the tears that were threatening to spill over her lashes as she listened. “I know it hurts to hear them say that shit, I respect you for protecting him and standing up for yourself but–– God, Lily, every time I think about you facing them alone––the things they could do to you on the off chance you’re too outnumbered to have a chance––it makes my heart stop. When Sirius told me today that they’d come after you again––that I wasn’t there to protect two of the most important people in my life––it wasn’t anger that crossed my mind first, it was fear. Fear for what could have been and for what could have happened to you.”

“I know,” Lily’s voice was quiet as she spoke, her exhale trembling as she met his eyes again.

“And then there was anger, anger at them for fucking thinking about laying a spell on you and Re, anger at Remus for keeping it from me, and anger at you for breaking one of the most important rules of trust that we have with each other. No matter what.” He paused to look right at her, his hand coming up to caress her hair and his forearm resting on her shoulder. “No matter what, we don’t engage with them without each other. Without backup. I know Remus was there and I know you can hold your own, but we promised Lily. And every day we get closer and closer to a world where we can’t just hide out in secret passages and wait for each other, where we’ll have to stand and fight and kill and die without each other and I––” His breath was shaky as he too had tears in his eyes. The burning behind his stare pierced her heart, all the feelings he had for her splayed out before her in one overwhelming look like light through a prism. 

“I’m scared of that world Lily. I’m not ready for it. I know I walk around like I can’t wait to get out there and take a stand, which of course I’m going to do but, I’m not really ready. To let go of you or Sirius, to not be with Remus when he needs me, to not be there for Pete? To put the Order and the war above my family? That scares the shit out of me. So while we’re here, relatively safe in the walls of school and childhood, I can’t risk anything happening. I can’t.”

Lily inhaled softly, letting the cloak fall to the floor as she brought her hands to cup his face, the warmth of his cheeks seeping into her chilled fingers as she prompted him to meet her eye. “I know love. I’m scared too. We all are. We’re just children, no matter what Dumbledore says, or the climate of the Wizarding World demands. No matter how brave you are J, you shouldn’t have to be a soldier this young.” She rested her forehead against his and breathed along with him, allowing them to feel each other’s presence, there and alive. 

“And I never meant to hurt you by fighting back. I know I could have walked away, let Remus whisk me into one of you lots’ secret holes in the wall. But the things they said cut me, and I was tired and mad and I looked up at him and his snivelling face and I––I couldn’t back down. I couldn’t let them have this one. So I swore and I hexed them and then I whisked Remus away and we ran back to the tower––and I knew I had broken our promise and I begged him not to say, begged him to give me some time to figure out how to tell you.” Lily’s hands trailed down his sides, ghosting over his shoulders and down his arms until their hands gripped each other desperately. “I love you and I trust you and I know today I broke your trust but believe me, I understand the fear. In more ways than you’ll ever know. And I love you and your exploding hero complex for wanting to save me now and after school, but this is something… something that we both have to work through. Something I want to work through.” 

James dropped their hands and pulled her into him, tucking Lily into his chest with as much gentle force as he could. She felt the wetness that had been lurking in her eyes stain his shirt as she hugged him back, but she didn’t care. Her arms tucked under his, gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, and his strong arms held her there, safe and protected. He tucked her head under his chin, and she felt his cheek press into the crown of her head as she held on.

They stayed like this for a moment before Lily pulled back just slightly, tilting her head to look up at him with her chin on his chest. “James it’s something we’ll have to work through, but it doesn’t have to be now.” Her voice carried softly up to him and his eyes shone. “I’m sorry I broke your trust. It won’t happen again.” 

His eyes fluttered shut as he pressed a gentle but passionate kiss to her lips. “I love you, you know that, Evans?”

Lily allowed a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. “I know, love.”

“And I trust you. I do. I just can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He brushed hair back off her face with both hands as her hands clasped around his waist. 

“You won’t James. Not while I have any say in the matter.”

-

[mothdalf]

@finweanladiesweek

DAY ONE: Míriel Þerindë and Indis

I’ve depicted them both in their wedding gowns here, sort of two different moments in time linked together.

Under the cut is a VERY long head-canon/meta that eventually kind of turned into a fic, hidden in case you just want to focus on the art.

Indis is a Vanyar lady from the House of Ingwë, I like to think she was close in age to Finwë and they met when the Vanyar and Noldor first arrived in Valinor. They end up dancing and socialising at pretty much every event and are pretty good friends. That friendship has the potential to change into something romantic. But what’s the rush? They’re immortal. He’s a king, finally establishing a safe place for his people. There’s no danger here. No need to produce heirs. No need to marry the first person you dance with.

Míriel didn’t enter the picture until later. I like to think of her as half-Telerin hence her silver hair. Her parents were a Noldor nis and a Telerin ner who met during the great journey, her mother choosing to remain with her husband and the Teleri who lingered East of the sea. As a result Míriel was born on Tol Eressëa, and is quite a bit younger than Finwë and Indis.

Despite her typically Telerin looks, Míriel was a Noldor at heart and immersed herself in Noldorin culture and craft, soon settling on embroidery and weaving. She even journeyed to the House of Vairë to further her textiles skills and learn from the Vala and her Maiar.

I like the idea that many elves in Valinor follow a specific Valar, learning from them and acting as emissaries and ambassadors and links between them and the elves. Any elf can choose this (e.g. Celegorm and Oromë) but it is more common among the Vanyar. It just so happens that Indis is a devotee of Vairë.

So they meet in the House of Vairë. And they’re very different. Indis is philosophical, interested in the themes, and the music, and the history of Vairë’s tapestries; Míriel inspects the stitches with a magnifying glass, and has to be stopped more than once from teasing the fibres apart to see how they’re woven together.

Indis channels logic and a cool composure, very insightful and granted foresight in many matters. She’s mindful, and always present, finding pleasure in this very moment. Míriel buzzes with ideas, sometimes her head hurts and she can’t think straight because she HAS to work through this next project, move on to the next one, she can’t step away she can’t stop. And her composure can be obliterated by one blow to her pride.

But somehow the friendship works, opposites attract sometimes. And upon their return from the house of Vairë, Míriel invites Indis to Alqualondë. And after that they visit each other often, and share letters once Míriel has learned to write Sarati. And if those letters ever start to take on a more flirting tone- well there’s no rush for them either.

It’s on one of these visits that they run into Finwë, Indis introduces her new friend, and the rest is history. It’s only after this that Indis turns her keen insight on herself and has an “oh shhiiit” moment. And now her best friends are engaged and what is she supposed to do?

She helps Míriel dress for her wedding day, arranging jewels, combing her hair, lifting the heavy embroidered fabric of the wedding dress she worked for months on over her head, and finally placing her crown on top.

They’re happy. She’s happy for them. There’s no betrayal or tricks or seduction, just love. Besides it’s probably better Finwë marries a Noldor woman anyway.

So when Míriel announces that she’s expecting a baby, Indis is sure the dull foreboding she feels is nothing but jealousy from a deep part of herself that she tries to shut away. She watches and helps Míriel as she pours all her creative efforts into beautiful things for this baby. Toys and clothes and blankets and anything else she can think of. Indis teases that the child won’t have to repeat an outfit for at least 100years at this rate. They take a trip back to the place they met and work together at one of Vairë’s vast looms to make a tapestry mural for the nursery.

But soon the frenzied crafting starts to slow. And slow more. Until Míriel barely bothers to do anything. People who know her are worried, but she just takes her husbands hand and says that she’s tired, after all she is working on something special at the moment.

When Fëanáro is born Indis watches her friend scream and curse, and eventually weep with joy as she whispers to her husband “he’s the most perfect thing we’ve ever made”

Things do get better for a while. But Míriel’s eye starts to twitch when people congratulate Finwë on their son, until eventually she barks out “of course he’d get the credit! I only did all the hard work” in a rough, sarcastic laugh that’s so unlike her. She doesn’t go to any formal events after this.

She sobs to her husband that she’s frightened. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s happy, except that she’s not. She finds no joy and no inspiration, she’s cold and tired and feels like she’s fading away.

Finwë suggests a trip away, so they go back to Míriels house in Alqualondë, and she doesn’t feel as watched, as judged, less angry and paranoid.

But the grief doesn’t lift. She can’t settle to work, she can’t find anything she wants to work on, her head is emptied of ideas and full of fog and she just wants to sleep.

Indis comes to visit them and finds Míriel in the nursery one evening, crying quietly. At first she won’t talk, simply saying that she doesn’t want to wake him, but the tears don’t stop and eventually she whimpers that she’s scared, and she’s disgusted with herself. Because she loves her son so much, but she can’t help but resent him. In some small dark part of her mind she’s angry with him, for taking her happy life away from her, taking her strength and her drive.

Indis takes her hands and pulls her to her feet and down the stairs to Finwë. “we’re going to Lorien. Tonight. Staying here isn’t helping her and she needs more than this.” She towers over both of them and there’s no arguing with her tone.

Irmo and Estë help all they can. Nienna helps more. Eventually Míriel calms. Almost eerily.

One night she calls Indis to the garden of Lorien. Míriel embraces her and kisses her cheeks and thanks her for her help. She holds her hands and tells her she’s sorry, but she’s made her choice.

Indis tried to change her mind. So does Finwë when he runs toward the sound of a raised voice. Not Míriel this time.

She asks Indis for a moment with her husband. And Indis runs to fetch Fëanáro.

She hands the baby to Míriel and asks how she can leave him, he needs her.

Míriel’s face crumples but her resolve doesn’t. “I’ve already given him everything I have”

She presses the baby into her husbands arms and kisses him before lying down on the stone bench and closing her eyes. Míriel sighs, finally feeling peaceful, and doesn’t breath again.

After the resulting uproar has died down, Indis doesn’t see Finwë very much. She visits occasionally and reads his letters about Fëanáro’s brilliant progress eagerly, but nothing is ever as it was.

When they meet again by accident on Oiolossë, it all comes back to them both. They’ve missed each other, they miss Miriel, but they don’t have to loose each other. So they fall in love, and she comes back with him to Tirion while they make a plan. Fëanáro (the equivalent of a 10yo) is wonderfully pleasant to her, he asks about his mother a lot, and shows her all the things he’s learning about and working on. He’s so like Miriel that Indis doesn’t know how Finwë stands it.

When they first tell him that they want to get married, he doesn’t think much of it, at least until he picks up on the gossip and controversy, it’s only then that he starts to realise that something is different.

Indis gets ready for her own wedding without her best friend.

Fëanáro doesn’t take the Statute well, and the problems start. He decides to move away to continue his studies. Indis is not invited to visit him when his Father is.

Finwë is terrified when Indis gets pregnant with their first child, but she’s not. “I am not Miriel. As much as some might wish that were the case.”

The relationship between Fëanáro and his half siblings is a whole separate post. But the things he says about her and her children hurt Indis.

Sometimes she wants to scream at him “I knew your mother! I was her friend! I lost her too! She would hate to hear you talk to me this way!” but she won’t. She can see how he feels and she understands why, but this doesn’t mean she takes the way he treats her children lightly, and he wishes Finwë would back her more in this. But she bares it, and she teaches her children to be kind.

This all changes with the incident. Fëanáro can lash out, he can say cruel things, but he has never threatened one of her children before. And he never will again if he wants to keep his head on his shoulders. She hears the Valar’s judgement, and knows she will comfort Finwë over his sons banishment, as much as she is grateful for it.

The rage she feels when Finwë decides to go with him is cosmic. But it’s when she sees Nolofinwë’s face that she snaps. She tells him with eyes sharper than any sword that if he chooses to go, he can never come back to her. No matter what happens between his sons, she will never forgive him for what he’s doing to her’s.

The news of his death makes her heart hurt in the strangest way. She’s closed herself off from him but the pain bleeds through. At least now he can be with Miriel, she thinks. He made it clear where his heart truly lay when he left. She laughs until she sobs, then composes herself to comfort her children.

She nearly sends Fëanáro to reunite with his father in Mandos when he insights her children and grandchildren to follow him across the sea. She nearly faints when Arafinwë comes back baring tidings of the kinslaying, the streets Míriel showed her around littered with bodies and the beach they would walk along in the evening wet with blood.

Indis stands beside her youngest son when he’s crowned and moves back into her old rooms in Tirion, abandoned when Finwë left for Formenos. After all, she’s been a ruling queen for longer than Arafinwë has lived. She’ll make a good advisor.

In Mandos Míriel is faced by the life she chose to leave behind. First her husband, and then her son. She speaks with Finwë for a long time, and many hurts are healed, but they’ve both made choices they can’t take back. Míriel stands by her decision, she chose to stay, at least in part so Finwë could move on, they make their peace with other, and she encourages him to return and make peace with his other wife. News of their son’s death stops him. He knows that he will remain, it’s with Fëanáro that his heart truly lies, not Míriel, whatever Indis may think. So he appeals for her to be allowed to leave in his place, every inch the king as he points out that the statute will remain unbroken.

She is allowed to see Fëanáro once before she leaves. There are no words for how she feels. So sad, so proud. She’s so sorry to leave him again, but she promises to watch over his sons.

Míriel returns to life, but she doesn’t return to the life she left. She stays close to the halls, and goes to a timeless place, but one she knows well.

It just so happens that Indis is a devotee of Vairë.

So much is different, and there’s a lot to work through, and it’s hard. But being back where they began, with a new life for each of them, is made easier with this reprise of their youth.

And if, as their friendship blooms again into a new form, Míriel eventually asks about the specific wording of the statute, and what it means for them being the two living parts of this three person marriage, well- there’s no rush to figure it out.

[wxldchxld]

This started out as like, a light piece just to describe what Beck’s workspace looks like and I won’t lie I’m a little obsessed with it. People always ask me like how tf Harper and Beck get along and... this. It’s this. Harper turns into a big sappy baby who lives off of nothing but Loving Her Wife Juice.

I’ll probably go back and edit this a couple of times for typos and other things but I love it so much I just wanna post it rn. And I won’t be putting it under a cut so y’all will have to live with it.

Harper knocked, almost tentatively, on the open door. From outside she could smell the intoxicating aroma of fir trees and herbs, sweetened by dried apples and candied citrus, drawing the attention of any passersby and calling them in. But she lingered there, knocking a second time when she got no response. Somewhere an old record player was crackling as Judy Garland sang about far away places over a rainbow, and a warm voice was humming along with it. Harper gently ran her thumb over one of the embroidered silk foxes among flower petals embedded into the translucent curtain that covered the door. The fabric, a deep ocean blue, shuffled under her attention, and the little creatures looked as if they were dancing.

Even on the threshold of Beck’s workshop, the world felt so slow. Time didn’t abide by schedules and obligations. It flowed like a lazy river on the precipice of winter, slowly but surely crusting over with ice. If she stood still long enough, would it freeze entirely? Or would the warm glow that haloed her lover forever melt away the sharpest crystals and encourage it to move on?

She didn’t need to knock. She didn’t need permission to enter. Not only did she doubt Beck would care, but the building was hers. The city--in its own way--was hers. It was her nature to utterly and completely possess things---to take them into herself to keep. If someone asked, she’d likely have even said Beck was hers. 

But she had no claim over this place. It was a feeling that went far deeper than any deed or contract or organization. The magic here was so perfectly interwoven with it that it felt like it belonged to Beck.

Inside the room, there was a little tsk and a rich, quiet laugh. “What are you doing hanging out there like a bat? The door is open.” 

The door was always open. Beck still clung to the old superstitions of their people. Ancient rules about hospitality and ways witches ought to behave. Rules made in a time when their people had been valued and listened to, long before Christians had turned them into a target and Google had rendered them obsolete. But Beck claimed it wasn’t about people, it was about magic, and its strange laws that were shrouded in mystery. Magic, she said, liked to know its witches were always open and welcome to it. In return for a witch’s “proper” hospitality, magic would sweep away the bad luck that so often got caught behind closed doors. And--again according to Beck--spirits were much the same, and closing the door on them might cause otherwise benign entities to turn dark with anger.

But Harper had been raised by much less traditional witches. One specifically that would have worn her back end raw with a wooden spoon for letting the heat escape and airing their business out in front of their neighbors. 

She pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the room, leaving any lingering thoughts of her mother laid on the doorstep with the rest of her worries.

The apartment was an explosion of barely organized chaos. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling or were pressed between the thick, heavy pages of spellbooks laying on the shelves beside jars stuffed with candied fruits and tea leaves. Knitwork and embroidery and tapestries and clothing in all states of completion were laid out on tables or hung up from the wall. Live plants in brightly colored pots lounged in the sunlight that poured in from the huge windows on the far side of the wall. There was a collection of open-faced cabinets filled with canisters of wood and glass and stone that sat in clusters with no apparent system of coordination. Above her the high ceilings had been turned into an aerial playground of wooden bridges, little boxes, and plush cushions either nailed into the wall or floating in midair among the drying plants where her most cantankerous familiar could sit and look down on the apartment like a goddess. A fire roared energetically to her right, and to her left there was a small kitchen where an enormous pot of sliced apples was being attended by an enchanted spoon.

It was nothing like the penthouse they shared when Harper left her work to come home. But oddly enough Beck’s workshop didn’t feel cramped or chaotic. It was warm. It was inviting. Everything melted together on the merit that no two things were remotely related to one another in any sensible way. A way that suggested every single item had been purposefully hand picked or handmade by the master of the domain and placed precisely where they were meant to be. 

And there she sat, behind it all, nestled among the plants in front of a wall of windows. Her feet were curled up in the plush, gliding rocker beside her, and she was smiling up at her through a halo of sunlight. In this place she was a queen, and her crown was made of braids entangled with wildflowers and encrusted with knitting needles and crochet hooks that she had stuck away for safekeeping and promptly forgotten about. She was holding a little stuffed creature in one hand, and pulling a needle and thread in the other.

Beck always seemed fondly amused by the slow, reverent way Harper entered her domain. Their eyes met for a few gentle seconds, and then Beck looked to her right, where something shimmering and half formed in the sunlight began to move. Harper tried to focus on the spirit, but it collapsed in on itself and turned into a yellow moth as big as her hand, and lazily fluttered into the shadow of a flower by the window.

“That doesn’t unnerve you?” Harper asked, taking a seat in an armchair across from her girlfriend.

Again the blonde let out a breezy laugh that harmonized with the music in the background.

“You spend half your nights in an enchanted necropolis in some undisclosed abyss with only dead people and a renegade faerie for company, and an air spirit unnerves you.” She said, a playful perk in her brow. 

Harper scoffed in feigned offense. “Dead things don’t think. They don’t watch me. I don’t like to be watched.”

“What a shame. You’re quite the sight to look at.” 

Now Harper laughed, a rare, genuine chuckle of amusement. She wasn’t modest by any means, but Beck’s flattery could still make her heart race and her stomach fill with butterflies. As if it were the first time, even though compliments fell from Beck like droplets of rain in a spring shower.

“Well it’s a privilege. And it’s only bestowed on people I think highly of.”

Beck snorted soundlessly. “I can’t imagine there are many of those.”

“Only one, currently. And I’d let her do anything she pleased.” Harper replied. There was a small, suggestive grin on her lips, and a devilish twinkle in her eye.

“Oh?” Both of Beck’s brows raised and the hand holding her needle pressed against her heart as if she were shocked. “Then I guess I have someone to be jealous of, because you certainly don’t let me do whatever I want.”

Again she laughed, and Beck joined in with her. Harper rolled her eyes, her quick tongue failing her, and said lightly. “Shut up.” 

“See?! There it is right there. Always bossing me around.” The little witch clicked her tongue in fake disapproval. 

“Anything you want to me.” Harper corrected, still grinning so wide that it hurt her cheeks. “The fact that I don’t let you wreak havoc all across the tristate area is not the same.”

Beck held up both her hands in surrender. “Hey, you say potato, I say tomato.”

“That’s-” Harper halted her correction when she saw the look on Beck’s face that suggested her point was about to be proven perfectly. “Absolutely right.”

It was Beck’s turn to roll her eyes, and then she returned her attention to the project in her hands. Harper leaned forward just a little to try and catch a subtle glimpse, and without a word from the necromancer, Beck raised up the stuffed animal to show.

“Essi has decided that she’s infatuated with snails.” She said, shaking her head. 

Esteri was a frequent visitor in their home. Harper could remember when she was born how Beck had practically lived at Frankie’s house and brought the infant home with her when her friend needed rest. Midori and Jari had done just the same, and the door to her penthouse had practically revolved for months as the gaggle of friends came and went. Essi had just turned three a short while ago, and she’d grown into a wild-eyed, challenging little girl. Consequently, one of Beck’s favorite hobbies consisted of indulging her every whim and encouraging her to be as difficult as possible. If that meant making a snail to feed her newest fancy, Harper knew that “Aunty Beck” was more than happy to provide. 

“It’s not surprising, between you and Dori I don’t know who lets her play in the dirt more.”

“We play in the garden.” Beck corrected.

Harper refused to give ground. “Gardens are mostly dirt.” 

“It’s important for witches to know how to plant and grow.” Her playful tone had gotten a little more serious. Not angry, but carrying a thread of absolute belief. “You could use a bit more time in the garden. And the sun for that matter.”

“Alas my love,” She sighed dramatically, “I am a creature of the night.”

Something soft bounced off her nose and fell into her lap. It was the snail. It’s stupid, smiling face laughing up at her.

“Are you throwing things at me now?” She teased, “Do you really want to start this with me?”

“You’re the one who said I could do whatever I wanted to you.” Beck wasn’t even bothering to contain her wolfish grin.

“You. Not this creature you’ve created. I can’t take an attack like this sitting down. I have a reputation to uphold.” She stood up, stuffed animal clenched in her hand, and slowly walked toward the fire place.

“Don’t you dare!” Beck squealed. They both knew it was an empty threat, that Harper would never disrespect the woman she loved so brazenly, but Beck threw the blankets off her lap and scrambled to her feet in a flash. Harper held the stuffed creature high above her head as Beck latched onto her. 

There was a flush of heat that certainly didn’t come from any fire as their bodies pressed together. Beck was all soft curves over surprisingly strong muscles and blue eyes that glittered in the flames.

“Give me that back!” She demanded, trying to sound stern and reaching hopelessly for the toy. The pair stumbled and fell against a wall. When it shook a cascade of lavender petals and thyme leaves peppered them like confetti.

The necromancer curled one of her legs behind her lover’s and held up the animal higher. “I never knew you had this kind of rage inside of you. You know maybe you should go to therapy.”

“I never knew you were so annoyi-OH” Harper swept them both to the side, and Beck only managed to stay upright because she was being held against her so tightly. The little witch huffed, her cheeks flushing. “Oh I’m going to knock you over the side of the head so hard it smarts for a month!”

“See! There it is again! That rage!” Harper teased, merciless. A little childish, even. “Beck it’s me! Please, remember you loved me once.”

“You’re too rotten for loving. You give me that toy right now!”

Harper was shaking with laughter, her free hand wrapped around Beck’s waist as she strained. Beck was laughing too, intermittently. Every few seconds her angry façade would break just long enough for a smile and a chuckle that made her quiver against her.

“Why are you so godsdamned tall?! Was your mother a giant?” Beck’s hand had a hold on her wrist and her nails were just barely scratching the skin that ignited a dangerous excitement in Harper.

“A troll, actually. It’s a wonder I turned out so pretty.” Harper carefully guided them through the room backing them into the perfect position. When her hand was at just the right height, she felt the toy roughly ripped away from her, and the enormous black feline leaped over the both of them with it in her mouth, and (likely sensing what was about to happen) ran out into the hall. 

"They say the devil has a pretty face---and Angrboda you’re giving that back!” The smaller witch tried to twist to look at her familiar, but Harper had pulled her tight against her body. Now with her other hand free she tilted up her lover’s chin and kissed her softly, the both of them still intermittently giggling.

They turned again, fingers tangled in one another’s hair, lips locked, the air between them dissolving until her lungs burned but still neither of them pulled away. Not until Harper had backed the witch up to the armchair. She gave her lover a rough push and watched her fall back into the seat, panting and grinning in delight. 

She placed a knee on either side of Beck and trapped her against the cushions, reveling in the way she shivered. Her head stooped to whisper in the little witch’s ear. “And what would you let the devil do to you?”

Beck's hands were tightly gripping her hips, trying to pull her even closer. She smelled like apples and wildflowers and everything Harper loved in the world. She was everything Harper loved in the world. Perhaps even the only thing she loved in the world of the living.

“I’d let her do anything she wants.” Beck said beneath her, and the record came to a scratchy stop, and all Harper could hear was the crackle of the fire and the door slamming shut behind them.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Empires on the Horizon Epilogue

Jason is a CEO: Epilogue

When i started this fic (around 9 months ago-- holy hell we could have had a whole human in that time) i didn’t expect it to go in the directions it did or to produce the characters and story it did. While it’s not one of my more action-packed fics it is still very special to me because 1. it’s my first jason centered fic (of which we don’t have much of); 2. it’s my first really long multi-chap (the longest before this was 10 parts); 3. i got to explore so many of my crackships and dynamics of friendship i may not have been able to if we (for example) stuck to canon; 4. most importantly i love this fic because it started out (the very first chapter) as an original story that just was not going anywhere but when i decided to make it a fanfic, suddenly ideas were pouring from my fingers like wine from a split barrel. these characters feel as much mine as they are Rick’s (which is a dangerous path to go down and i’m not actually claiming they’re mine-- gods please don’t sue me). in short i love this fic dearly, i’m so proud of how far all these little babies have come (especially jason) and i hope you feel even a smidge the joy i feel over this, as you go on to read the very soft conclusion to Jason Grace as CEO.

masterlist; my links

[image has alt text]

There was something almost magical in the gleaming silhouette of the Manhattan skyline. There was something hopeful about it too. 

Jason Grace stepped out of his car, relishing in the sound of the gravel crunching under his feet and the babble of people all around him. His suit—  a deep blue, dark enough to look black, and glittering with tiny silver diamantes that looked like stars— clung to his shoulders and hugged his legs. The theme of the evening was “Starry Night”. He figured coming as the actual night was accurate enough. Drew and Silena had done a beautiful job on his outfit, to no-one’s surprise. He would see them here tonight, along with their husband, and the rest of his friends. And tomorrow, oh tomorrow, he would be off to Rome, with the man that filled his life with overwhelming light.

“Jase,”  Someone called out from the darkness, “Are you hiding from us because you put two different shoes on again and are too embarrassed to say?”

“Shut up Annabeth,” He laughed, “I’m coming.”

He walked towards the group of silhouettes, making out Leo and Annabeth, and Nico and Will, and coming from behind them were the dressmakers and their Charles. Hazel and Frank would be making an appearance later in the night.

“You all look beautiful.” He smiled, hugging them, kissing cheeks and foreheads, relishing in their closeness and their comfort, as he has always done. And they did in fact look beautiful. Annabeth in a dress of blue swirling around her and pooling at her feet— the colours matched the sapphire on her ring finger; Leo in a matching floor-length skirt and a sheer polo-neck that showed off every clean brown line of his skin; Nico and Will, in contrast, were complete opposites, the former in a black suit with silver jewellery, and the latter in an off white with gold accents; Silena, Drew and Charlie all had on suits with various parts of the galaxy embroidered in gold, threading a spectacular tapestry through the emerald green. All in all, his friends were really hot.

“Y’all ready?” Will drawled, tilting his head to the entrance of the hotel a little way away.

“Let’s go celebrate!” He winked in response.

And then they’re walking towards the bright lights, launching into conversations and updates and work and jokes. It was familiar in the way driving home after a long time away was, or catching a waft of the specific smell of your elementary school art room, or seeing someone from your childhood and slipping into a comfortable back-and-forth.

“Jase,” Charlie scooted next to him, breaking away from his conversation with Nico, “How’s the construction for the new section of the outdoor center going? I heard you hit a snag last week with the design?”

“Yea there was a few centimeters off with one of the structures and it caused the whole area to be off balance,” He scrunched his nose, remembering the horror from last week. “I’m just grateful we caught it in time.”

“I can’t believe it’s been a year since that center went up,” His friend marvelled, eyes wide with the disbelief of time. He knew the feeling well.

“It’s crazy. I came back from my holiday and then everything was just on fast forward.” He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m happy though, with the progress and how far we’ve come.”

“You’ve just burst and grown and brightened,” There’s that soft smile, the one that made all of Jason’s insides turn to mush. The one that told him he was loved in every capacity.

“I know.” He felt the blush creeping up his skin, pale after the long winter months. “I don’t owe it to myself though. All of you guys have—” 

“No way mister,” Annabeth chimed in, “You absolutely owe it to yourself. You got yourself there, we just cheered you on.”

“Yea,” Leo nudged his arm, a gentleness shimmering in his brown eyes. “You were the hero of your own story.”

He muttered thank you’s and tried to embrace the blush but their love and joy and pride still drowned him. Before anyone else could pile on the sincerity they were walking into the lobby and being ushered to the large, elegant ballroom three doors down.

There was a collective gasp from their group, audible even above the low hum of chatter, and the soft jazz drifting through the speakers. The entire room had been made to look like they were standing inside the middle of “Starry Night”. Like they were the townsfolk parked outside their houses witnessing the strange and magical sky above them. Swirls of blue in the draping curtains and circles of yellow in the chandeliers and wisps of the cypress trees growing from the walls as if the very room had been built around a tree.

“This is—” He didn’t even have the words to fully express his awe. If he were an art major he would have died from the beauty of it all. As it stood he could barely keep himself up.

“I know,” A voice said quietly from behind him. “It’s almost divine.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t even turn around to see who it was. He simply stepped back and let arms envelope him. He didn’t need to check, because he knew, he would always know. In the heat of their skin, and the hum of their voice, and the love that radiated between them like scorching summer sun.

“Moró mou,” He sighed, tipping his head back to rest against a shoulder. From this angle he could see blazing green eyes and jet-black curls, and impossibly high cheekbones, and a jaw sculpted by Michaelangelo.

“Hello my love,” Percy Jackson smiled. “How are you?”

“Happy.” He muttered, lips brushing against his boyfriend’s cheek.

“Good,” The man nodded, squeezing his waist where his arms still wrapped around. “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“I will not just survive through it,” His eyes crinkled at the corner as pure joy washed through him, “I will live through it, and I will enjoy every minute of it.” He knew the reason for the question, for the concern. But tonight it was not needed. He was nothing but excited and elated for the hours, and then days, weeks, years to come.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

A glass tinkled somewhere to their right, grabbing their attention. And then Zoe and Reyna were stepping together and drawing people towards them as if they were gravity, magnets, the center. They looked it certainly: Zoe in a stark white dress, hugging her figure, shimmering like stardust every time she moved; and Reyna in a watery blue, gauzy and flowing in time with her body, where she goes it will ripple behind her.

“Thank you,” His lawyer started, giving them a dazzling smile. “For being here. All of you.” She looked them each in the eye, her own filled with love and… were those tears? From his no nonsense, boss lady lawyer? Oh he was so going to give her a hug and then tease her endlessly about it. 

“We have a thousand people to thank for all of this,” She gestured to the room, “And a thousand more to thank just for being here, but that will come in the form of surprise take-me-homes at the end of the night.”

“However,” Zoe’s voice, still as strong and quiet as ever, rang out across the room. “There are two people we would like to thank right here, right now.” Her smile lit up the world as her eyes landed on them. “In typical us fashion, it’s a little out of the ordinary but please can both our ex-boyfriend’s come up here.” 

The crowd burst into laughter, him and Percy with them, as they detangled themselves from each other and walked hand in hand to the front of the room.

“As you can see,” Reyna grinned. Jason held in the groan he knew would accompany her next words. “We did a Partner Swap.”

The laughter only loudened, people whistling, and clapping in time with their amusement.

“I will spare you the sordid details,” Zoe’s own giggling softened to a smile, “But two years ago, after Jason and I had broken up, I called him in a panic asking for help. And despite being on a much needed holiday where he happened to meet a certain someone,” She winked at them, eyebrows waggling comically, “He listened to me, then made use of his contacts and connected me with Reyna.”

“And after I charmed the suit off of her, and won her lawsuit,” Reyna stepped in, grinning wildly, “She agreed to pop open a bottle of champagne and celebrate our win.”

“I’m not quite sure about the charming part, angel.” Zoe quirked an eyebrow, “But yes one champagne bottle and the rest was history.”

“In conclusion to this whole ordeal,” His lawyer turned to them, “Jase, Percy, we have a present for you, to thank you for loving us, and for loving us enough to let us go, and furthermore for bringing us together.”

Zoe handed them an envelope but before they bothered to open it they pulled the women in for a hug, thanking and congratulating them. He would not change what they had for the world. He will be grateful forever. He will love them even longer.

Percy ripped open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He leaned over his boyfriend’s shoulder and read with him.

The universe has a funny way of pulling stars together but we know with certainty that the four of us are born from the same constellation. Thank you for everything. We know we can never really repay you but please accept this as a start. 

Tucked into the last fold of the paper were two plane tickets to Japan. The holiday they had discussed once, a Saturday game night that ended with the four of them huddled around the fire in Zoe’s apartment, chattering softly about this and that. Printed in small font at the bottom of the page was a cherry blossom branch and more text that read,

Get married losers, we want joint holidays so we can get the couples packages.

He bubbled with laughter at that, and looked up at his friends, tears pooling in his own eyes.

“Alright everyone!” Reyna clapped her hands, gathering the attention of the humming crowd. “Let’s get this engagement party started.”

And then music filled the room and people dragged each other to the middle of the space and there were cheers as the song came into focus and truly Jason understood the meaning of life that night.

After they had thanked Reyna and Zoe again, and chatted with their other friends Percy pulled him to the dance floor.

“Jase,” His boyfriend cupped the back of his neck, arranging their bodies into a work of art. “We have wonderful friends.”

“The very best,” He agreed, swaying their hips in time with the beat. “We have built an empire with them by our side.”

“Will you be the emperor then?”

“There is no monarchy in this kingdom,” He smiled, blue eyes glittering and bright. “It is just us, and our love, and everything beautiful the world has ever had to offer.” He saw oceans reflecting back at him, wonder soaking in his words, happiness pressing against his lips.

His boyfriend pressed their foreheads together, bodies still moving to music far away. “And if we look further?” Percy breathed, “Past the empire, to the horizon beyond?”

“It is all home,” Jason Grace smiled. “We are home, my love.”

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Okay there are so many people to thank and you best believe i’m going to thank them all because this fic would literally not exist without them.

@nishlicious-01​​ my favourite person, my biggest supporter and the only person who gets to shout at me when im writing fanfic at 1am because i’m not sleeping but also because ‘why am i not reading it ciara????’

@queen-of-demons-and-hell​​ for every comment, every like, every complaint you took when the writing demon was on strike. you have my heart. id be lost and a little lonely without you.

@leyontheway​​ your comments on this fic were golden and i often came back to them just for that extra burst of motivation and serotonin. i found a friend in you and now i can’t imagine my life without you.

@msdrpreist​​ Sky, mi cielo, you are one in a billion and i cannot believe i found you (and you me) across all this space and time. thank you for your unwavering support and your wonderful thoughts.

@larrikin-is-a-himbo​​ when we started this fic i believe you were @/queenbrunnhilde (or something to that effect) but although your username has changed your loveliness and endless support hasn’t. Thank you for sticking along for the ride

@spoopylucy​​​ Lucy... what do i even say to the person who singlehandedly changed my day, week, mood every time i saw a reblog from them? your tags were the start and the end. they made every upload an exciting task. and i knew no matter what happened in the fic or how long it took as soon as i got a notif from you i couldn’t be anything but happy. thank you my Luce, you’re an angel!

@not-hiesenberg​ for being my ‘ciara what the fuck even does this say? do you know how to spell?’ checker when i was too tired (more like too lazy) to do it myself.

@lesbian-peanuts​​ thank you for the love! you were one of the first people interested in this little universe and i can never thank you enough for that​

@legendary-cupcake​​ your spam when reading this was such a happy moment in my life and im ecstatic that you stayed for the ride! thank you​

to all the people on my tag list, who have liked this fic, and especially those who have commented: i see you, i love you, and i thank you with a heart full of happiness. you changed my world.

[guileheroine]

a sky full of song, chapter one

Korra, princess of the Water Kingdoms, receives a gift from her blacksmith friend on the auspicious winter festival / Korrasami royalty AU / ao3 / My piece for the @korrasami-valentine-exchange (assignment: Date A) (reposting with cover!)

“The wedding of the Earth Prince, yes, on the solstice. But it’s an opportune moment for a longer tour, we don’t want to waste the journey. I’m afraid your father can’t afford it, and before you ask, I’ve been conferring with your mother’s office. And frankly, I’m loath to request it of her after…

Councillor Panak trailed off as Korra hurried him along with a gesture of the hand. He pushed his eyeglass up his nose and took her eye seriously. “To the point, then—what do you say?”

Korra was tapping her foot under the meeting table. Prince Wu, if she recalled, was equally as intolerable as old Hou-Ting, the spirits bless his poor betrothed. But the prospect of a fortnight around the Earth Kingdom, with its delicious fare and diverse landscapes… that made her much more amenable to the whole idea.

“Around the solstice, huh? Alright. Why not.” It was a way off. She had time to arrange her retinue and her schedule as efficiently as possible for maximum enjoyment.

“…That means a tour to the Earth Empire in the spring—or summer, if Her Royal Highness prefers it?”

“Oh, spring,” Korra said in a rush. “Spring. I’m not sure I can do Earthen summers.”

Panak smiled quite kindly at that, and nodded at his scribe to jot it down. Korra returned his smile. They really were getting along better. It was nice. This meeting was also stretching much farther into the evening than she had understood it would.

The Lotus Guard at the doorway didn’t so much as blink as she pushed the heavy door open and went out. He was one of the older men, having been here long before the war, and quite accustomed to her ways.

Once Korra was out in the foyer, she raced. Her quarters, and her next appointment, were in the other wing of the palace, but she had promised to go see her mother first for a few minutes before the Queen went to bed. The winter sun was long gone; all the windows she skipped past were dark, torchlight gleaming on the icy sills. In the halls, on the other hand, the air was bright as frost, festive. She wove around decorators from all over Agna Qel’a hanging new crystalwork along the old bead tapestries and tying berry wreaths around the tall pillars. Down the stairs, in the main hall, the humongous fires that burnt uninterrupted over the winter lit the place generously. As she sped through, headed for the opposite staircase, Korra caught the eye of one of the housekeepers.

“Mina! Mina, are you busy?” She took the girl’s arm, whose eyes goggled, alarmed only at the princess’s sudden appearance but unperturbed by her familiar ways. “Could you go to the kitchen and send for some tea to my apartment? Milk and honey for me—and some of whatever black blend is left, what my blacksmith friend likes. They’ll know. Thank you!”

When she turned to continue, she was immediately waylaid by one of the ice sculptors.

“Your Highness! A moment.”

Just a moment to breathe was exactly what it took for Korra to finally notice the centerpiece of the hall: an elaborate sculpture-fountain of Yue. The moon and ocean spirits hovered above each of her hands, water pouring in gentle arcs out of their gaping mouths.

Korra’s father was pulling out all the stops for Yue’s Day. She knew, for her part, that it was a private gesture for the Queen, newly returned from a long diplomatic engagement with the northern Air court. Korra stood at attention for the sculptor, whose fingerless gloves allowed him to bend with especial precision.

“Should her hair run—” he said, bending Yue’s locks of ice into free-flowing rivulets, “or stand arrested?” Another curl of his palm froze them again.

“Freeze them. More volume!” Korra said, thinking of her mother, who always grumbled about her limp hair. Then she was on her way to the Queen’s chambers, and then her own.

“I got your tea. Hi, princess.”

Korra’s blacksmith friend took a pointed sip when she finally entered her drawing room. Asami’s smirk was hidden behind the glassy cup, and her hair was wet. One of Korra’s towels was slung over the back of her seat—one of the nice ones with the finely embroidered monogram.

“Asami. Sorry I’m late!” Korra slumped onto her divan, sending one of the cushions flying onto the carpet. “It’s good to see you.” She took a moment to catch her breath before picking the cushion up, sitting comfortably and grasping for the tray on the table.

“Don’t worry about it,” Asami said, moving the cup from her mouth, the smirk finally melting off. She pushed the tray into Korra’s reach. “I’m done for the day. A couple of the apprentices are closing up shop for the very first time.” Her brows waggled.

“Impressive! But still, thanks for coming. I know you’re working hard.”

“We had an appointment, right? And—” Asami grinned and stretched, pulling her warm wools tighter around her “nothing like the thought of a royal shower at the end of the day to get you through it, you know?”

Korra rolled her eyes. The staff knew to let Asami into Korra’s apartments, and even if she could tell they were a little reticent about her using the princess’s bath and vanity, they of course said nothing. The dogs more or less dragged Asami in through the gates every time she came by the palace, and by order of the princess, they were the ones that decided things in her absence.

Asami scrutinised the tray from the kitchen carefully before picking out a little moon pastry. “How was your meeting?” She took a bite, attentive both to the pastry and Korra.

“Looks like I’m going on tour to the Earth Kingdom in the spring,” Korra told her. She wasn’t surprised to see Asami’s brow spring up, and her taste-testing pause.

“What, all over?”

It was a town in the Earth Kingdom that Asami originally hailed from, before she travelled to the Fire Empire with her father, an innovator in the art of war. After the war’s end and the subsequent reunification of the Water Kingdoms, the newly humbled Sun Emperor had gifted King Tonraq an ancient forge for the royal armoury as a token of good faith and cultural exchange. Korra remembered how it had taken several pulleys, and days, for it to be transported into place in one of the main avenues in the city. They had set up a house around it for a new smith to eventually train locals in the foreign art. Asami—skilled as a metalworker, but bereft of a livelihood and a family after her father’s foundries were shut down—had decided to venture north to start afresh. She vied for the position and won it handily.

Korra glanced at her long. “You could come with me, you know. Take a vacation, if you manage to get this new shop set up in time. I’m sure you’ve trained all your underlings well.”

“We’re getting there,” Asami said vaguely. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

Korra was musing, recumbent with her feet up now. “I must warn you, t’s for the wedding of the Queen’s nephew. They’re a lot stuffier in the Earth kingdom. All the pomp and pageantry,” she clarified. “I’m not looking forward to that part.”

“I’ll bet.” Asami gave her a sympathetic smile.

Sitting pretty in formal assemblies, she did not enjoy. Peace was harder than war, in a lot of ways. At least it was for Korra, who had been right at home as a strategist commanding the bending battalions in the few Fire Empire skirmishes that had reached the north. Or as a captain fending off the marauding warlords and shaman-kings in the southern fiefs who took advantage of the chaos to arouse the spirits and stage deadly rebellions. Her leadership, covert though it was, had played no small part in subduing the northern theater and paving the way for all the ancient Water tribes to be reunified under Agna Qel’a and her father’s leadership. The lasting peace of the years since had proven they were stronger together. Just as it had proven that the Princess’s patience for peacetime bureaucracy needed a good deal of practice.

“You should come. We’ll do you up as my retainer so you get a salary. I might need you to keep me straight.”

Asami was good at that, blowing off steam after long, boring days. The mellowness of the warmth, nothing like that of her forge, evened Korra’s mood like little else.

“Oh, so you want me to drop everything and trail you around as a handmaiden?”

Korra scoffed, embarrassed. “Well, don’t put it like that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Asami sat up. “An Earth royal wedding, huh? Think they’ll let me in?” She picked at the cushion in her lap.

“They will if I have anything to say about it.” Korra yawned. “It’ll be my turn soon enough.”

“How’s your mother?” Asami said, following her train of thought seamlessly—it was always the queen that pestered Korra about finding a match, good-natured but more earnest than she ever realised she was appearing.

“Sleeping. She had a long journey back from the Northern Air Temple. Dad’s happy, though. Just casually planning her a ball this weekend for Yue’s Day.”

“Hey, is that what that business down in the hall is?” Some forgotten curiosity clearly jolted Asami. “There were all these new kayaks moored around the drawbridges when I came through, too.”

Korra nodded, while tentative recognition continued to filter into Asami’s expression. It was easy to forget Asami had been here nary a year. But she had, and it had been a busy year too, with little time for exploration, per her own frequent complaints. “You know about it, right?” When Asami shrugged evasively, Korra explained, “It falls on the day of the first full moon after the winter solstice. Yue was a princess of legend—our ancestor, apparently—who became the moon spirit.”

Asami sat forward. She loved tales like this, and listened to them like she was being entrusted a secret.

“We’ve celebrated it as long as anyone remembers, but the festival is supposed to usher good fortune and fertility. I think that’s why it became a couples thing.” Korra didn’t think much of that. “But, well, the idea is to spend the evening under the full moon, which is why all the kayaks are out. Really, everyone just needs an excuse to liven up the winter!”

“That I understand,” Asami said wryly, ill accustomed to the polar night. “Yeah, I went to the market in town to pick up some new gloves and they had stalls and stalls of new fare. Jewelry, wind chimes, furs.”

Korra sat up, conspiratorial. “I bet at least one of your new proteges will sneak you a little gift. I get messages every year. Mostly upstarts, but some cute ones, too.”

When Asami had first been appointed as the blacksmith, Korra was uncertain what a girl her age was doing heading up an official royal undertaking like that, with all its bells and whistles. When she arrived at a welcome dinner with her family, Korra found her altogether too precious, and definitely not deserving of the private summons and the White Lotus escort. Especially not when the whole rigmarole was keeping Korra from her planned retreat to the kennels for the evening, where, in the end, the strapping night guards were giggling and blushing about the new blacksmith.

At her father’s behest, Korra had put on her most functional anorak and taken Asami some cakes, conserves and newly dried jerky from the palace a couple weeks after their meeting. He insisted it was a part of the Princess’s duty to look after someone in their employ so new to the land—a girl her own age no less. Down in the city, the townsfolk were pleased to see Korra as she made her way to the workshop, but no one made a fuss (unless they were young and excitable already), unlike what she had heard of the other Kingdoms, larger and loftier as they were. She wondered if Asami the Blacksmith liked that about here, or found it lacked decorum, as Korra knew some folk abroad definitely did.

Asami had a study above the forge, from which she dealt with its administration, and living quarters on the next storey. These were yet lonely and sparse, but not completely devoid of homely touches, as though she would have spruced them up if she only had the opportunity. Korra noticed well-kept shrubs and a vivid landscape on the wall; then Asami came and curtseyed deep and pulled off her apron.

She was willowy and beautiful under the gear and the soot (over it, too, to be honest), which endeared and repelled Korra in fairly equal measure, ultimately leaving her as indifferent as ever.

“My parents and Lord Arnook want to know how you’re getting on.” Lord Arnook was the esteemed keeper of the royal armoury, and he liked Asami just as much as everyone else did.

A flicker of sadness—shame?—crossed her face, then she put her hand on the table. “Won’t you sit? Your Highness. Let me bring you something hot first.”

Asami lit the fire in the blink of an eye and stoked it without watching, like it was the back of her hand. She had some bread in the pantry, over which she spread the aqpik jam Korra had delivered her. Korra watched her as she boiled the water. Her skirt was heavy, probably to insulate from the heat and cold alike, but it fell flatteringly from her height; and her long hair, which had flown in waves in a foreign style at dinner, was pinned into a practical bun. She made a sharp, fragrant tea she had brought from the continent. Her eyes lit up unexpectedly when Korra bent her own cup to cool it.

“Ah, I love seeing that,” she cooed. “I suppose I’m still not used to it. The other elements don’t bend like that. And I hear you have great skill.”

Korra’s own smile came too quick for her to suppress. “Who told you that, the King?” Then she regarded her keenly. So, how are you… Do you need anything? Do the men from the quarry treat you okay?”

“Oh, everyone here is… They’re very warm. Makes up for the chill,” Asami laughed.

It was a line so hackneyed that gritting through it was itself a country-wide inside joke. But this calm and rosy girl injected fresh, charmless charm into it. Maybe everything was charming if someone this winsome did it. After that, Korra softened considerably.

“They are,” she replied, with no small amount of pride. A sudden shame crept up her chest, that she probably couldn’t count herself among those nice people that had made Asami feel welcome.

Then Asami swallowed and the colour of her voice changed. “I miss my home, though. I know this job is more kindness than I deserve, after what we did but… It is a little lonely here.” She confirmed what Korra had already deduced, mostly because she knew the feeling all too well. “I guess I just don’t have a lot of time to go and make friends after work.”

Korra didn’t doubt that; it was hard, physical work. The one or two times she’d witnessed it, the clang rang in her ears for hours afterwards. She wouldn’t have pegged a girl like this for it. Asami reminded her more of some of the young ladies she knew from her old classes, when all the children around the court would be dumped into the royal healing hut together for some hands-on learning.

“Have you been beyond the city yet? The land out there… that’s our land. This is just a fortress.”

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to,” Asami said, wistful. “Pretty sure I can’t go on foot though.”

“Well, if… if you don’t know anyone else, I could take you. I have the best dogs in the Four Kingdoms.”

Before the month was up, Korra had sent a commission to the Queen’s personal seamstress for some sealskin gloves and winter-grade furs. She gifted them to Asami on her birthday. “You need these anyway, I think, but you’ll definitely need them where we’re going.” And that night, Korra took her to see the aurora.

There was a hamlet a few miles north of Agna Qel’a where Korra knew the elderly chief and had asked her for passage to an outcrop in their territory, after divining the well kept secret that it was one of the prime spots for watching the sky dance. Asami, enchanted, never took her eyes off it—so unflinching that Korra almost began to feel envious of the lights.

It became a routine. Korra knew every inch of her realm. If a diplomatic mission sent her to one tribe or settlement, she would be sure to take a day or two exploring the local country before she returned to the capitol. It had been a great boon when the southern tribes first came under their stewardship. The Princess spent time in every village, took interest in their land and in their lore; met challenges of the wilds and the weather with hunger, and any unknowns thereof with abiding curiosity. She knew what to wear, which sled or boat to take. When to find the rarest whale pods before they went south; where the starriest cliffs were, and the sunniest lakes.

All of which impressed Asami a great deal, and that made Korra happier than most things. And no worse were the days they spent in her apartments going over the sordid palace gossip, or in her apartments tracing old scars by lamplight, healing them word by gentle word.

On Yue’s Day, Korra stopped by to see various palace aides located around the city with customary gifts. In a castle town, there were plenty with such connections, and she relished the ruddy smiles, quick drinks, and flustered curtsies she received in turn. She saved Asami for last, because Asami had asked for some time together. Korra entered the smithy by the front, her senses clogging with immediate heat. Two of the apprentices were there: one of them gaped while the other barely blinked.

“Asami? I come bearing punch… and those moon pastries you like!”

She commenced the usual ritual of announcing her presence over the steam and noise while peeling off all but a couple of her layers, when Asami emerged out of the back. She was squeezing her hands together in excitement.

“No, no, no, don’t,” she urged, a gleam in her eyes like the blades that hung behind her, “we’re going somewhere.”

A few minutes later, they were walking along the main canal under the sparkling lights, milling through the townspeople. A fresh drift crunched beneath their boots. In a few more, they were alighting one of the kayaks in the dock.

Asami faced her and paddled like a natural; and naturally, Korra gaped.

“Do not tell me you haven’t done this before!”

Asami’s tongue stuck out in concentration as she suppressed a giggle, but her limbs moved with finesse. “Just the once. So far. Don’t be distracting me.”

“I won’t let us capsize,” Korra assured her.

Eventually, Asami settled into her rhythm, and the canal carried them out of the city, past all the lights. The banks of glass-cut brick gave way to a more jagged channel littered with pack ice at its mouth, floating blue and still. Korra gripped the edge of the kayak, not for any physical comfort. A crackling anticipation, and an unnameable fondness both, were welling and welling in her with every mundane word they shared.

When they disembarked on the lake’s other edge, the ice was landfast: a ghostly field glowing under the full moon.

Korra knew this place, but she had scarcely been here in the middle of winter, when the ice field extended endlessly, as vast as the sky. As they tramped across the snow, she began to wonder what Asami’s surprise was. There wasn’t much for a mile in any direction.

“We should sit for this,” Asami said, pointedly ignoring Korra’s prying questions.

The wind had kicked the snow up into berms along the field. Korra froze one so it was sturdy enough to perch on. Then Asami took her pack, and pulled out some plain tubes of parchment; nothing Korra would have looked at twice, although she didn’t know what they were.

“What’s in there?” She said.

“Some of my metals, some of my salts,” Asami replied enigmatically, almost sing-song. “Wait here.”

She heaved herself off the berm, ran several yards towards the horizon and stooped. She planted the tubes, and did something else Korra couldn’t see, though she thought she recognised the bright filigree on the cover of the pocket matchbook Asami carried everywhere.

When Asami had trundled back and sat again, Korra crossed her arms and laughed, bemused, her humour ebbing. “Are you going to tell me what’s going—”

BOOM!

Korra gasped, startled out of her words. She would have fallen from the perch if Asami didn’t catch her around the waist, giggling blithely all the while—

A wheel of light bloomed in the sky like a flower, dazzling and surreal. All the colours of the aurora—except they were peals of crystal fire, pouring out like diamonds before disappearing into the smoky air. Another wheeled up after it with a strange whirr, before it exploded into a glittering shower, and more in succession.

They reminded Korra of the spirit hales in the heart of the wilds, and even deeper in a buried memory, of the Fire explosives some of the raiders had once set off on the Southern Sea. Except these were brighter—and safer, because Asami had made them.

Korra looked to her when they had died, beaming under the mitten that covered her mouth in shock. “Are there more?”

To her eternal delight, there were more. New flowers sprouting on the celestial vault, they would be burned in her memory forever.

“They’re no aurora,” Asami said, while Korra scoffed and slung her arms around her, huddling for the cold and the buzz. Under her embrace, and half her weight, Asami looked chuffed. “But I thought they might liven up your night.”

Korra cupped her earmuff, then her cheek. “Thank you. This is the best day I’ve had all winter.”

Asami’s pyrotechnical skills didn’t even surprise her, but that could hardly diminish the sheer majesty, and novelty, of the display. Even minutes later, Korra could hardly believe what she had seen.

“Well, I couldn’t let you be the only show-off around here.” Asami smiled. Then the smile dropped from her eyes and she hesitated, like she couldn’t let that sit for an explanation. “Korra. I wanted to do something special. You’ve made me feel at home here in a way I never imagined. And I’m just a smith, from the Fire Empire!”

Korra felt her eyes water and blinked the tears back quickly, because they would ice and sting in the bitter air. She bit the smile off her lips. “You’re not just anything. You’re a terrific handmaiden.”

She snorted as Asami shoved her off and reached for her pack again.

“One more thing. I thought it might be too smokey for this after all those incendiaries, but it’s worth a shot anyway.”

This time Korra recognised the device she emerged with. It was made of two cylinders, and the mechanism that held them together spun smoothly like the spokes of a wheel. She handed it to Korra, who held the spyglass up.

A field of stars materialised. Korra held her breath.

The stars were luminous at the poles, but she had never seen them like this, and for the first time they felt close enough to touch, invoking a bracing, irrepressible wonder. In silence, she gazed.

“The moon spirit leads all the stars out tonight, right?”

Asami had done her research. Korra turned back to her. “So they say.” She hooked her arm through Asami’s, and held her hand. With the spyglass still to her eye, she let her head fall against Asami’s bundled shoulder.

“Tired, princess?”

Korra rustled her breath, long-suffering. “Why do you call me that!”

The way Asami said it—like it was something of her own decree, and not that of ten thousand years of tradition and some profoundly sacred doctrines. There was a sweet and strange tug in Korra’s belly whenever it happened, and this time, tonight, it lingered longer than ever.

“‘Cause you’re a piece of work,” Asami said, trying to interlace their thick, mittened fingers, which required some effort.

Tentatively, Korra turned the spyglass to the moon herself. She winced— it glared straight back, too bright. Maybe another night, when it wasn’t Yue’s Day.

Yue’s Day. She now held the thought delicately in her chest, as if she wanted to guard it from the wind and chill. If Asami loved her—were to love her—there were several reasons not to say it. They both knew them, whether they had turned them over consciously or not.

But the risk of showing was low. And the reward, as her own euphoric mood tonight proved, was magnificent.

[fandomsonrequests]

𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓..? [𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 2]

fandom: ATEEZ

characters: prince! park seonghwa

reader: fem! knight

word count: 1.8k+

summary:  It was time for another Selection. No- not a Selection for a bride but rather a well-trained knight to keep Prince Seonghwa safe after a failed assassination attempt. You, a blacksmith’s daughter, manage to make it to the elite group of knights worthy and skilled enough to protect the crown prince after months and months of training. This alone catches Seonghwa’s eyes- in more ways than one

a/n: so here come’s the second part! ALSO- ateez won in The Show today! so good job atiny! WE DID GOOD! Let’s get them more wins! <3 <3 Also forgive me if there are any spelling mistakes or anything- this isn’t proofread :’)) 

again please feel free to message me if you wanna be put into a taglist! <3

↞previous  ♛  next↠

You were about to throw another playful jab at your brother when the sounds of brass trumpets echoed throughout the village. The people around you grew confused as it continued. There were horns in your village, yes, but this was different. It sounded more regal and official compared to the somewhat brash sound of the village horns.

You threw a rather quizzical look to your brother who shrugged in response. Many of the townsfolk around your area left their place and started moving towards the source of the sound, causing you to do the same. You went over to your father, handing him his cane as you three walked towards the exit of your smithy.

“Oi!! Chris! ____!” A voice called out.

You turn your head to see your friend Siyeon come running towards you. Her steps slowed down to a jog beside you, greeting your father as she did. “What do you think is happening?” She asks you, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“I have no idea.”

The sudden sound of the trumpets caused quite a commotion in your village.

People peeked their heads out of their windows, children climbed trees to look over the tall heads of the adults, even the quarry workers were spotted in the distance as they peered from their place of work and down at the village below them. The people all around you were murmuring to each other, speculating about what was happening. 

“Maybe it’s the city-folk?” Someone on your left said. 

“Traders maybe?” Another replied.

“No- traders aren’t grand enough to do this.”

“Maybe they’re city traders. You know how they are- so full of themselves.”

The folks all around you had different points of view on what was happening right now. Many were curious. Others didn't seem to really care and were just dragged along by their friends. But most of the townsfolk were confused. 

Why was there fanfare coming from an entourage from the city? 

The village was a rather small and quaint place; it was small enough that everyone practically knew everyone around here. There wasn't that much to see or do. The most eventful thing that had ever happened in the village was when a wedding took place during the annual First Moon Festival. And that had happened years ago.

“I think it’s from the palace,” Siyeon whispered over to you, gently nudging your side. “It sounds too fancy to be from the city.”

“Isn’t Capitol a city?” You ask her with a small smile, referring to the area the palace was built. 

Your friend blushed in embarrassment, laughing it off and brushing her black hair to the side. Your eyes followed the movement- rather- the grey streak in her hair for that matter. You remember asking her why she had that in her hair to which she responded that she was just born with it. 

“Well yeah,” Siyeon cleared up with a shrug. “But this just sounds different. Trust me- I know what I’m saying.” She concludes with a wave of her hand.

As the trumpet sounds grew nearer, you could see about four to five flagpoles standing tall. Each golden plated flagpole glinted under the sun, bearing either a red or blue velvet flag. On each flag, golden tassels hung off the edge while an elegant crest was embroidered into the center of it. And wasn’t just any crest- but the royal Crest. 

Siyeon smirked when she realized this and nudged you. “See? I was right. I told you so; didn’t I tell her so, papa?” She asks your father. 

Your father, amused by the banter between you two, decided to humor your friend. “Yes indeed, Siyeon. You should’ve listened to her flower.” 

“Papa..!” You retorted and feigned hurt - quite dramatically. 

“You’re such a drama queen, Yellow.” She laughs, calling you by your nickname. 

You nudge at her with your shoulder, careful not to accidentally push your father in the process. “You started it, Wolfie.” 

You don’t remember how both of you ended up with those nicknames but you do remember that it was on the day both of you got drunk on the day the two of you reached the age of legality. 

Going back, people seemed to grow excited when they realized that the palace had made an effort to travel from the Capitol to the outskirt-mountain village of Trelark with a rather small but handsome entourage. 

"I think a Selection would take place.." Your father murmurs to himself but loud enough for you to hear.

You frown at the unfamiliar term. "What's that?" 

"Its when many young women are elected to be trained by a noblewoman so that one day the prince can pick one of them to marry," Your father explains. "Though I don't know why they picked Trelark out of all places…"

You took note of the worried look in his eyes and the way his shoulders hunched with uncertainty. Your arm came up to gently wrap around his side, giving him a small squeeze. "..so why are you, worried papa? Do you think I'd be elected?"

Your father turned to look at you and shook his head, a sigh escaping him. "You're just like your mother; I can't hide everything from you." He says with a sad chuckle. 

"Don't worry papa, ____ is too in love with the place to leave." Chris steps in after a while of being silent. "And she loves you too much to leave you too."

You only nod at your brother's words. If you were to be selected, they'd have to drag you away. Because there was no way in hell would you ever allow yourself to be separated from your family.

"Oh okay good. I'll just take her place then." Siyeon jokes while flashing a wink at you. 

"Oh please do. You'll make a better princess than me." 

By this time- it seems as if the whole village came out to see what was happening. 

The entourage's flag bearers wore crisp red uniforms, lapels hanging off of their shoulders. They marched alongside the knights who held themselves high. The glare from their spotless armor was practically blinding. 

Many young women gushed over the knights as they passed by, holding onto each other as they tried to catch their attention. 

You could hear your brother chuckle in dry amusement at the girls' reactions. Although deep down you knew that maybe he was a teensy weensy bit jealous of those men in armor. You gave him a gentle nudge- some form of encouragement to cheer him up.

At the end of the short entourage was a small carriage driven by two strong horses, manes well-groomed and tied as a tapestry bearing the royal family's crest hung off their sides. 

The carriage comes to a halt as soon as the fanfare ends. And almost as if in on cue- everyone grew silent. Only the occasional cough or sneeze could be heard. They stared at the carriage and waited for someone to step out. You could practically feel the tension in the air, weighing heavily on all of your shoulders. 

You wince when you feel your father’s grip on your arm tighten. You settle your own calloused hands over his, thumb running over his fingers to help him calm down. You smile at him reassuringly. It’s alright. You tell him with your eyes although your conscience wanted to argue things won’t be okay after this. 

A sudden muted thud from inside the carriage startled you and a few folks around you. The poor scrawny carriage driver scrambled off the driver’s bench and down to the carriage door. He opened the door to reveal a brightly dressed man with a silver beard, trimmed and curled on his chin. You heard someone snicker in annoyance from behind you, something about the old man being a pompous asshole. 

The nobleman stepped out of the carriage and cringed when his polished boots sunk in the mud, causing a few giggles to erupt around you. They quieted down though when his head snapped up, the purple feather on his hat swaying with the motion. 

“Ahem, commonfolk of Trelark,” He starts. For a man his age, his voice was quite clear and crisp. The only problem was the condescending tone he used. “I come to you to deliver a message on behalf of the king!”

Another bout of murmurs erupted from the people around them. The nobleman didn’t seem to like this as he had exaggeratedly cleared his throat again, brows furrowed and sharp nose upturned. Christopher couldn’t help but scoff at the man’s attitude.

“It looks like he has a stick up his butt.” He whispers to you to which you stifle a laugh from. 

You shut up immediately when the man’s eyes shifted over to you, making you purse your lips in embarrassment. The man cleared his throat for the umpteenth time and continued with his speech. 

“As you all know, there had recently been an attempt to assassinate our beloved prince Park Seonghwa. Fortunately, the assassin has been caught and dealt with but our prince is left vulnerable to the future danger that may unfold.” He adjusted the stance that he had on the ground and slipped a little. He grabs the handle of the carriage door to stabilize himself, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

A few young boys laughed at the nobleman earning a glare from him but they didn't seem to mind. He cleared his throat and spoke up again. “As I was saying, the prince is susceptible to any impending danger in the future. To remedy this- the king has requested that a special selection take place.”

You frowned. Special selection?

The man produces a scroll from his satchel and unrolls it to read what this "special selection" entailed. “All able-bodied people from ages eighteen to twenty-four are ordered to be brought to the palace,” he scrunches his nose in displeasure at this. It was evident that the thought of bringing commoners to the palace disgusted him. “And trained under the captain guard to be picked as a suitable protector for the prince. 

“People who fail to pass the standard are immediately sent home. However, only the selected protector shall live in the palace along with their direct family to compensate for their time in training and as a gift of gratitude for their service to the royal family.”

The nobleman closes the scroll and opens his mouth to speak again. “On the morrow, all delegates shall gather here in the morning. The king shall send carriages to fetch you and bring you to the palace. Do not pack anything unnecessary, only the essentials and a few clothes as you will be provided with wear when you arrive.” 

The nobleman huffed and spun on his heel, seemingly relieved to be done with his task. As he moved to step back into the carriage, he slipped again from the mud. His knees hit the ground, soiling his expensive leggings and bloomers. The frantic carriage driver rushed to help the nobleman only to make things worse by slipping onto his bum. 

More laughs resounded from the townsfolk but the nasty glare that was thrown didn’t seem to deter them. The nobleman shoves the driver away, grumbling under his breath about how he hated the kingdom outskirts and shut the carriage door. As soon as the driver returns to his seat, he cracks the whip and proceeds to drive back down the mountain. Once more the trumpeters played a fanfare and marched along with the entourage. 

That's where you let everything soak in. 

If you could get yourself to become the prince’s protector- you and your family could live at the palace and you could finally give the good life you always promised to your father. The thought alone excites you. 

A grin makes its way to your face, eyes bright and hopeful. But as you turn to look over to your father- you notice a deep frown on his face.

This wasn’t good. 

[kiatheinsomniac]

Huntress II

[ I ]  [ II ]  [ III ]

(Y/n)'s (e/c) eyes flickered between the two women who were seated before her.

The one on the left was blonde with curled hair that cascaded in ringlets over her shoulders, complimenting her tanned skin. Her face bore dark brown eyes that glimmered with sparkling tears, they reminded (Y/n) of a lost fawn. She wore an elegant grey dress with detailed beading and a white front and clutched a tear-stained handkerchief in her left hand. She looked as though she had hardly slept since the murder. This one was Lucia - the daughter of a Count and Countessa from Venice.

The second was much darker-skinned. She had her ink-black hair parted down the middle with the upper half of her locks styled up in a bun. She wore a white dress with a red sash around the middle and embroidery over the skirt of it. Wrapped around her shoulders was a cascading cloak with all the detail of a tapestry and embroidered with patterned glass beads. She wore a golden circlet and red veil that was attached with a clip at the back of her head. Many earrings and bracelets, as well as a golden necklace, flaunted her wealth. This was Halime, the daughter of a very successful and wealthy Ottoman trader. She was very tired too and had been awoken from sleep to talk with the Witch Hunter. A cup of coffee was clutched in her hands to assist in rousing her sleep-fogged mind.

"I need every detail that you can remember about that man and anything that felt different about that night, what made it out of the ordinary aside from the murder?" (Y/n) questioned as she dipped a quill in some ink and poised it over some parchment.

"It was just another street party." Lucia began, "We go to them all the time. This one was in the piazza down the street. It started off perfectly fine but then he showed up. He wore white robes and a red belt with a symbol that looked like an arrow pointing up on it." (Y/n) scribbled this down in her cursive handwriting. "He was so handsome that you could have wondered if one of the old Roman gods had returned to walk the earth, I suppose that this foolishly made us put our guards down."

"Yes, vampires tend to be very attractive: it's what lures their prey into a false sense of security, it makes them desirable. Carry on."

"He was an excellent dancer. I was rather shocked that Elizabetta was dancing so well with him: it's no secret that she was not a very good dancer." Lucia paused, "I couldn't wrap my head around it but I ignored the red flag because I had no reason to sense that something supernatural was happening at the time."

"It was like she was a puppet on strings. . ." Halime spoke up in a soft voice, staring at the steam coming off her dark coffee, "Like he was controlling her, had her hypnotised. . . Can they do that?" There was a silence while (Y/n) noted down, what she believed to be, key information.

"Yes and that makes this vampire very dangerous; he is clearly very powerful. They all have simple powers, ones to help lure in prey. But some have their own unique abilities - it's rare to ever hear of vampires with the same personal ability. I hope that he does not have one. . . Please continue."

"His name was Ezio." Halime carried on, "I overheard him introducing himself to Eliza, I can remember gossiping about it. Eliza was drinking a lot of wine - usually, she would not drink but that night was an exception with him. I swooped in to make sure he wasn't trying to get her drunk and take advantage but he was so charming. He knew of my father's business too so we spoke about that for a while though he admitted to disliking coffee. In fact. . . looking back on it now. . . there was so much food there, so much to drink. . . he didn't touch any of it. . ."

"Human food and drink will make them ill, they can only keep it down for so long before they're sick. I've known one who tried so desperately to be human again - she was turned into a vampire against her will and some villagers were worried she would attack them. I thought I would have to fight her tooth and claw but she called me her angel and accepted death. . . She didn't want to live an immortal life as a monster."

"Do you think that Ezio was turned into one?" Lucia questioned.

"I can't tell yet. He may have been bitten, he may have been born a vampire, he may have traded his soul. I cannot tell as of yet. But, this is an investigation and you two must carry on telling me about the events of that night."

"Yes," Lucia looked to Halime, "I joined them perhaps an hour after he had been talking with Eliza and Halime. Poor Eliza was worried she would get too drunk and asked him to escort her home. We were both very against this, to begin with, but the way he spoke about her and how sincere he looked. . ." A sob escaped her lips, "He was so convincing and if only we'd persisted, she'd still be alive." Her young Ottoman friend turned to embrace her as she sobbed.

"You two found her in her room afterwards when you came to check on her. Was the window open?" (Y/n) quizzed. She felt sorry for the crying Lucia but she had to get her work done if she wanted to stop any more people from dying the way Elizabetta had.

"Yes, I was the one who closed it." Halime nodded her head, her bracelets on her wrists jangling as she ran her hand up and down her weeping friend's back. "We found her naked. . ." She looked to the door and lowered her voice, "Between us three. . . Eliza was not as pure as her family believe her to have been. I knew exactly why she wanted Ezio to escort her home - she wanted him to share her bed."

"I had a feeling that he had slept with her then killed her. It's very common for vampires to do that. Some get the blood pumping with fear, others with pleasure." She noted down Ezio's behaviour. One thing didn't add up. If Ezio had escaped through the window, the heel of the palm of the blood print on the window sill would be facing inwards.

"Thank you for your time, girls. If you remember anything else that you think could be useful, don't hesitate to find me." Halime nodded for both of them while Lucia continued to sob. (Y/n) could see the hollow look in the girl's dark brown eyes as she comforted her friend.

The Witch Hunter made her way outside to the gardens and walked around the wide of the building until she could see Elizabetta's bedroom window. Her (e/c) orbs widened as she squinted against the sun. There was a trail of dirty bootprints on the side of the white wall that led to the balcony two rooms down. He must have held onto the edge of the roof and made his way over! (Y/n) felt an anxiousness loom over her. He was incredibly athletic if this was the case. She attempted to recall the layout of the mansion. That balcony was part of the Doge's study.

Why would a vampire go there if he had an unfinished meal in the other room? It made no sense to (Y/n). She made her way back inside and paused outside the study. She knew that the Doge would not like her snooping around, therefore, she quietly pushed the door open and examined the room. Nothing seemed too out of order at first glance. She made her way over to the balcony and, sure enough, there was a bloody handprint on the rail. He had stopped in here.

(Y/n) pulled a pendulum out of her pocket. She had to find something missing in a room that she was utterly unfamiliar with. She wrapped the silver chain around her knuckles and held it up in the air, keeping her arm perfectly still as she watched the point of clear quartz settle in the air, going still. She looked over her shoulder at the door, making sure that the coast was clear before beginning.

"What did the vampire take?" Nothing happened for three moments before it slowly began moving back and forth, towards a bookshelf that was placed on the left side of the room. The (h/c)-haired female slowly stepped forwards, following the direction which it swung in before she paused in front of one particular part of the shelf. "Thank you. With that said, she pocketed the pendulum and ran her hands over the leather-bound books and volumes. Her eyes slipped shut as she ran her fingertips over the spines before they snapped open and she pulled a red one off the shelf swiftly.

It was old, that much she could tell, and it seemed to buzz in her hands almost - a thrum of energy was tied to it. Though, only someone so in tune with this layer of our reality would be able to tell. Someone like a vampire or a witch hunter. She flipped through the pages: all hand-written about precursors and magical items that she had never heard of before. This shocked her, she was so very well educated in her profession that she was surprised to discover something she didn't know. Her fingers ran along where pages had visibly been torn. Why did the Doge own this book? Why did Ezio want it? (Y/n)'s eyes narrowed and her heart fluttered as she began to get the suspicion that she was out of her depth. There was something going on here that she was not aware of, something that the Doge was hiding.

Something that the vampire wanted.

Her lips parted as a piece of the puzzle in her investigation fell into place. Elizabetta had been Ezio's key inside. Vampires, like many supernatural creatures, could not enter a place unless invited. She had been his way inside and he had not finished drinking her blood because he had his fill, cutting off a loose end at the same time, then attended to the real reason he had come here.

There was no way that she was not going to read through that red book, therefore, she tucked it into the depths of her cloak and walked back out again. This was her new piece of evidence. She could question the victim's parents later. For now, she needed to understand the vampire on the loose, not the corpse.

(Y/n) made her way into her assigned room which she had been showed to earlier. She turned the key in the lock behind her so that she would not be disturbed.

It was a small but snugly furnished room. The large four-poster bed in the close left corner with its red sheets and white pillows took up around a third of it. At the end of the bed was a trunk where her bags were being stored. The far wall bore two tall leaded windows on either side of it. Against the right wall were a table and a vanity. The fireplace was in the middle of the left wall. It had a plush wooden chair and black pillow by it. Candelabras were scattered across the room to provide light at night.

The (s/t)-skinned female unbuckled her dark grey cloak to hang it up on the coat rack by the door then sat by the plush chair in front of the fire, the book in her hands. She paused to look into the flames.

The soft crackling began to ring in her ears, echoing and it quickly became a raging roar of flames at war with firewood. Screams of agony and shrieked prayers rang in her ears, the cheers of a crowd. She could smell smoke and an awful burning as well as dusty hay.

Snapping herself out of it, she sprung from her seat and toed off her boots, curling up on the bed to read instead. Tears pricked at her eyes but she smudged them away quickly, opening the first page of her book in order to try and understand why the vampire wanted it so badly. This one was too important to allow him to get away, for he would be kill number twelve.

Her final victim.

♰♰♰

Series of papers were piled over the desk, some of them pinned to the wall. Ezio's eyes picked apart every piece of information before flickering up to a drawing of his goal:

The Apple of Eden.

He was determined to but this centuries-long war to rest. He had traded his very soul for it, for immortality, for a body that was stronger than a human's in every way, for him to stop wasting time on sleep. The only price was that he would have to drink the blood of humans to survive.

Too many lives had been lost to the war between Assassin and Templar and he intended to put an end to the killing once and for all. He wouldn't have made such a self-sacrifice if he did not believe that he would succeed. He knew that if he could put an apple, he could cause the final killings of the remaining Templars that would put all the bloodshed to an end, that would guarantee freedom of will.

His large hands, olive-toned, skimmed over the papers. trying to organise the mess.

He was inside a singular room: a large one at that. It was high-ceilinged and lit with candles and small fires on intricately carved marble candelabras. The stained glass windows were boarded up, the pews in disarray and many of the statues were covered by dusty sheets. Art, armour, fine jewels and old weapons, as well as books and sketches, were set around the place.

He had set up his workspace at the very back of the abandoned church where the altar had once been. There was a large bed with tapestries hung around it to replace the fact that it lacked posts. Rugs were layered on the floor and a case of wine bottles was stacked on the shelf. Well, they had once been used for wine but now they had been repurposed and held blood. He could no longer enjoy wine like he did when he was still the careless young human boy romancing every pretty woman in Florence.

A child laughed behind him before a sheet was pulled from a statue of an angel, causing dust to swirl in the air. The eyes were painted black and the paint ran down the angel's cheeks like demonic tears.

But no one was there.

"I will not tolerate your games." He growled to the daring ghosts of the church who soon fled the room, knocking over a book in the process of leaving. The church was full of wandering spirits, many of which were daring children who were in search of a little fun and entertainment.

But there was one spirit in particular. . .

A laugh resonated throughout the hall. For someone so recently dead, she was very strong. Though, this was simply because she had a direct link to Ezio: killer and victim. Her blood was still in him, after all.

"You won't get away with it. You'll be stopped." The ghost of Elizabetta smirked as she stood perfectly still behind where Ezio was seated at his cluttered desk.

"And who will stop me? Your Templar father?" He sighed, not wanting to entertain the taunting spirit.

"No. But she will." The ghost smirked, "I actually helped her out earlier, she knows what you took and soon enough she'll find out why. My father's hired her to avenge me by ending your supposedly immortal life." Ezio whipped his head around at this, tossing his tied-back dark down hair as he did so. His chestnut orbs glinted with anger and worry as to what the ghost was speaking of. His scarred lips curled down into a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a witch hunter in the city — a very skilled one at that. She's travelled very far because my father would only settle for the best of the best. (Y/n) (L/n) ring a bell?" She smirked. Ezio turner back around and held his head in his hands. No! He had sacrificed too much on this path for some human to end it now!

"Begone! You're not welcome here!" He snapped, not even facing the spirit of Elizabetta who simply giggled as she vanished into smoke, her spirit having to leave the abandoned church now that she had been banned from it. She loved getting under the cold skin of the man who had ended her life so abruptly.

Ezio growled irritably in the dimly-lit room. Surely the spirit was only taunting him? But what if she was telling the truth? He wouldn't put it past the paranoid Dodge to do such a thing. Sighing, he stood from his cushioned seat and made his way towards a door in the corner which led down to the basement of the large church. Upon opening it, a spider scuttled across the stone floor, legs running rapidly over the uneven bricks.

The vampire stepped over the threshold and small, wall-mounted braziers lit up, the oil in them burning silently and causing a soft glow to illuminate the previously pitch-black stairwell. He found himself in a room full of stacks of shelves, dividing the dimly-lit and cluttered room into aisles. Inside the containers of preserving liquids were hearts, lungs, intestines, kidneys, brains, eyes, tongues, fingers and so on. Strings of cobwebs hung from the ceiling and mould was beginning to grow from the dampness that seeped between the bricks.

Closer to the back of the room were scrolls and papers tied with twine, coated in dust. The abundance of books could not fit onto all the shelves so they stacked up in piles, some of them lying open or discarded from where Ezio had ransacked the room for information on the Pieces of Eden or codex pages. Eventually, he made his way to a wooden box, sealed with wax and a sorceress's spell to keep it's magic contents inside.

A hidden blade protruded from Ezio's sleeve with a satisfying 'snnk' and cut along the lid of the box, slicing through the dripped red wax until he could prise the old box open with his hands. Inside, was a thick lock of braided blonde hair, healthy as the day it was cut. Mermaid's hair. It felt soft as sea-foam and smelled of a hot tropical harbour's breeze. They say, that if you capture a mermaid, she can tell you your future because they can read the very waves of the ocean.

But you didn't need the whole creature to do that.

Ezio wound the braid around his hand and whispered under his breath, uttering the question to the blonde tresses which he held mere millimetres from his lips. He needed to know if Elisabetta was bluffing or not and he had to know if this Witch Hunter was a true threat. Usually, he would not take the words of a ghost so seriously but he knew in his gut that something else was amiss here. A woman's voice whispered to him:

"She will find you and she will do everything in her power to kill you. Beware, for she will burn all that stands in the way of vengeance for her sisters."

[curufins-smile]

In the Shadow of Þerindë

Young Feanor discovers the cause of his mother’s condition

-

Fëanáro was content. His father gave him free rein of the palace, and Fëanáro was allowed to go wherever he liked so long as there was no danger of him hurting himself. He had mapped out all the little nooks and crannies from the kitchens to the highest rooms, and found many excellent hiding spots for a young elf to conceal himself in should he wish.

There was a set of rooms, however, that he loved most, and those were his mother’s personal chambers. She was gone, now. Fëanáro had visited her body many times in the gardens of Lórien with his father, but her hröa was cold and still no matter how he attempted to rouse her. He always brought a drawing or something he made to show her, but her eyes would never open to see it. When he was too young to understand that she would not wake, he would pepper her face with kisses, and pat at her with his tiny hands in an attempt to get her to look at him. But she never would.

Fëanáro loved her rooms the most, for they were filled with her works. He would run his fingers over the bright embroidery, that shone with such colours and was in such fine detail. Even at a younger age, he knew it to be special.

He had much of her work himself. His father could not usually bear to speak of his mother, but from what he had said when he could, Fëanáro knew that in the year before his birth his mother had spent all her time obsessively embroidering and sewing clothes for him. Most of her work had been in stitching on rich and beautiful fabrics that he could have outfits made in by other seamstresses as he grew older. There was enough to last until he was beyond fully grown.

It was as though she had known her time was short.

Of course, Fëanáro still had Owl too, beloved and battered, though he felt he was a little old to carry it around now. He still found comfort in it when necessary though.

Fëanáro was currently sat in his favourite spot in the gardens. He had his bound sketchbook for him, and was practicing busily. His father had arranged for the great loremaster Rúmil to tutor him in sarati, and the letters had captured Fëanáro like nothing before.

He was putting the finishing touches to a slightly wobbly line of sarati when he heard the voices. It wasn’t unusual for courtiers to wander this part of the gardens, but his alcove was secluded, and his curious ears pricked up to listen to something children might not be meant to hear.

“Honestly,” a lady’s voice was saying, “King Finwë was looking absolutely delicious this morning.”

Her companions emitted various levels of agreeing noises.

“All that lovely hair,” sighed a second female voice. “His fëa must be so strong.”

Fëanáro screwed up his face in disgust. Of course his father was the strongest and most handsome, but he was not for the likes of these people. He was for Ammë.

“Of course,” said a slightly nasal male voice, “that’s part of the problem, isn’t it.”

The two ladies hushed him, sounding suddenly fearful. “Quiet!” said the first, “There’s a ban on speaking of it!”

The male voice laughed. “Please, this part of the gardens is always empty. And anyway, everyone knows what happened. Such a shame, I’d do anything to get my hands on a Serindë original.” Fëanáro scowled at the mispronunciation of her title, but his interest was piqued.

“Except the prince,” said the second lady. “Poor mite.”

Fëanáro did not even dare to breathe. What was it that he did not know that all others did?

The first voice snorted. ”Poor mite?” she said incredulously. “The Valar called his birth a product of Arda Marred. If you ask me he’s no better than the fallen Vala, Melkor.”

The second lady gasped. “How could you say such a thing?” she exclaimed. Fëanáro agreed with her. His head was spinning. The Valar had said that about him?

The male voice spoke up again, nasal tones smug. “Please, Rielle, don’t act like you don’t think the same. Everyone knows the prince is the reason that Queen Míriel is dead. He consumed her very fëa, so that all that she is is lifeless and grey. That ill omen stole her energy for his own.”

Fëanáro dropped his charcoal. He could barely hear the first lady agreeing with the male. “Yes, it’s true,” she said. “Have you never touched him? His fëa is so bright that the very heat of it means his skin is hot like a stove.” She sniffed. “I suppose that’s what having two souls does to a person.”

Fëanáro slid off the bench with a thump.

“What was that?” cried one of the ladies, startled.

“I knew we should not have spoken of it,” said the first. “Come, let us leave before whoever is spying sees our faces.”

The trio bustled off noisily, leaving Fëanáro finally alone to sob.

-

It was getting towards Telperion waxing, and it was time for Finwë to find Fëanáro. It was a daily game the pair played. Fëanáro would be off in some hidden nook, and Finwë would track him down for dinner. Today, however, Fëanáro was in none of his usual spots and Finwë was becoming a little anxious. He had found Fëanáro’s art tools abandoned in his favourite garden alcove, so he flagged down a passing servant, who told him that the prince had been seen going into his mother’s rooms.

Finwë himself had not been in Míriel’s chambers since shutting up almost all her work inside. He could not bear to see most of it. It was the ultimate expression of the sheer life force she had had, the fire of her colours and the intensity of her designs.

Fëanor was in there, surrounded by tapestries. He had clearly been tearing through the bags in a fit of almost madness, trying to find something. He was sat with his back to Finwë, and laid in front of him was Míriel’s last project.

It had been intended to be a family portrait. Both Finwë and Míriel were stitched in minute detail, so real that Finwë could not stand to look at her embroidered face. But she had left a large space in her arms where she would have put Fëanáro.

“I don’t know what he will look like!” she had laughed, when he had questioned her about it. “Some days I think I should simply stitch myself holding a flame, for I feel that more strongly than anything.”

Soon after she had not the strength to even lift her needle, and it remained unfinished.

Fëanáro was running his small hand over the design again and again, feeling the difference in texture between the embroidery and the gaping hole.

“Fëanáro?” Finwë asked softly. The place felt almost sacred, and he did not laugh loudly at discovering his son as he might usually. The lack of cheerful greeting was highly disconcerting too.

Fëanáro turned to look up at him, and Finwë immediately knelt to gather him into a hug on seeing his red rimmed eyes. He had clearly been crying for some time.

His son’s voice was hoarse from weeping when he finally spoke, face muffled against Finwë’s chest.

“Did I kill Ammë?” he asked. Finwë felt his heart drop.

“What?” he asked, hoping he had misheard. He loosened the embrace to allow Fëanáro to pull back slightly and look him in the eyes.

“Did. I. Kill. Ammë?” Fëanáro enunciated clearly and deliberately, staring Finwë down.

Finwë was suddenly incandescently angry. He had worked so hard to try to ensure that Fëanáro was shielded from this. Who had told him? Finwë had endeavoured for these last years to keep his son forever smiling her smile. His rage was interrupted by Fëanáro squirming to get free.

“I knew it!” he cried, tears running freshly down his face. “I killed her and you hate me!”

Finwë realised it was the first time Fëanáro had ever seen him angry and immediately scrambled to fix it, pulling Fëanáro back to his chest despite his protestations.

“No, no, no,” Finwë said, burying his face in Fëanáro’s dark hair. It wasn’t the same colour as Míriel’s, but the texture was almost identical. He felt Fëanáro’s sobs more than heard them. “I’m not angry at you, my son. I’m angry for you.”

Slowly, tentatively, Fëanáro’s arms encircled him, returning the embrace.

“Did I kill her, Atya?” Fëanáro asked him, still pressed close.

Finwë still wasn’t ready to deal with this. “No,” he said emphatically. “I don’t care what whoever it was said, you did not kill her.”

“Then what did?” asked Fëanáro.

“Your mother was-“ Finwë stopped to swallow down a lump in his own throat. “She was exhausted.”

“Because of me,”  countered Fëanáro.

”No!” cried Finwë. He let Fëanáro go again to look at him properly. “Listen to me,” he said. “They don’t understand. No one understands. It was no one’s fault but He who marred the world’s.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fëanáro broke into fresh tears.

“So they were right? My birth is the product of Arda Marred?” he sobbed.

Finwe cradled Fëanáro’s chin in his hands, looking into his eyes.

“Hear me this, Finwion,” he said, and watched Fëanáro’s eyes widen at the name that he had not used since deciding to go by his mother-name. “You are my son, and I would have no other. Even if it would bring your mother back, I would cast you aside for nothing. Nothing I say can change the thoughts you have already decided on about the circumstances of your birth, but know you that you could kill a thousand people of our blood and I would love you all the same.”

Fëanáro sniffled slightly, and Finwë decided to press his luck with a joke. “But please don’t, because I don’t know what I’d do if you killed a thousand people.”

That made Fëanáro at least crack a wobbly smile. “Now then,” Finwë continued, forcing down his own pain to paste on a smile of his own. “I believe that dinner tonight is your favourite,” he said. “Something so spicy that the rest of us want to weep!”

Fëanáro’s smile became a true one, and Finwë stood and lifted his son onto his hip. “Oof!” he said. “You’re getting too big for this now. Soon you’ll be carrying me!”

They left the room of beautiful things behind them, and Finwë did not let himself look back.

[shame-cubed]

the fantassy au pile

I started this forever ago but haven’t made any progress in a long time. I’m trying to focus on Invitations, so, I’m projectile vomiting all my other ideas up here in an attempt to get them out of my head. I don’t know if it’s working. 

---

It's blacker than midnight in the thickness of forests, and comfortably silent, like footsteps on moss—until it's not.

"Once upon a time," Speaks a warbling voice, airy but grizzled with age, it boldly echoes from a loft unseen; then halts abruptly. 

"Oh, you know how it goes... Let's just cut to chase, now, shall we? I’m not getting any younger." The words seem to ring, punctuated with a croaking laugh that fades with the dark, all but banished by the flick of a switch just as invisible. 

Beaming spotlights glare from above and behind, settling upon weighty velvet curtains charmingly spring-like in colour. A cascading pair of blossoming pink and eggshell blue, upheld by tassels that shine, so similar, to the sparks of dust floating within the bright tracks dutifully illuminating those deep-seated wrinkles of fabric. They part like the seas of another tired tale, then ascend in a deliberately slow, undulating wave. This scalloping formation led by embroidered edges of taught, silver ropes; rises in a swell to unveil a stunning diorama of marbled brick, embellished with a labyrinth of vines, adorning a castle far too colossal to be merely a prop.

The mirage-like structure wavers and gleams, its pearly stonework reflecting the lights at a blinding intensity. Catching its sheen, the drifting filaments glitter akin to a powder snow; multiply, accumulate, and replace the fleeing shadows with a blizzard that stings the eyes. An avalanche of white soon packs every corner, amounting in heaps so infinitely immense and so overwhelmingly bleached, that it hurts. 

---

“Get back here yah dirty lil’ miscreant!” An ireful yell bellows overhead, followed by the hurried thudding of mud-caked boots barely held together by faded strips of leather. Their unkempt owner dips beneath the cloth-draped counter of a flimsy marketplace stall, slides along the dusty cobblestones, rolls into a crawl, then breaks into a long-legged sprint as he shoves through the clamorous mob of meandering bourgeois claiming their daily bread. 

“Someone stop that wretched lad!! The gangly imp! That swindling bastard!!” The fiery roar of expletives launched by his pursuer is gradually extinguished by the sheer distance between them. Keeping his pace as he rounds a corner, the boy glances over his shoulder for signs of the shopkeep, then, like whiplash, instantly jerks forward when his body makes sudden impact with a smaller one that he failed to notice ahead. Both parties fly backwards and hit the ground flat on their asses.

This obstacle of a girl, about his age, pushes her thick hair out of her eyes; a coal-black cut of jagged bangs, half-parted to the side, half-pinned back. Icy blue irises thin beneath their lids, not unlike the slight pout of her lips, revealing no emotion other than mild irritation. 

“Watch where yer goin.” Her voice is monotonous, flat as her expression, and rough with a linguistic bite he'd never heard before. Adorned with ink-dyed leathers and angular iconography only recognizable from a tapestry he once saw—evidently, she wasn't of local blood. 

He narrows his eyes back at her, frowns, but says nothing; choosing instead to break the stare-down by searching for the loot he'd dropped in their collision. Someone could still be after him, so he hasn't the time to waste on petty interactions with outsiders. The girl rights herself and peers into her pockets, then joins him in scanning the ground, appearing to have lost something of her own, too. 

A small satchel of coin lies near, and as he picks it up, he palms the weight to be sure none of the meager sum within has left its confines. He stashes it back into his fraying trousers, clambering to his knees as he plucks two bruised apples from the cobblestone that were to be his lunch and dinner. His grimace deepens, as his prime acquisition eludes his vision.

“Ah, there ya are, Morpeko.” 

Wary, the disheveled thief turns his head at the sound of an unfamiliar name spoken by this unfamiliar girl, and his violet eyes blow wide at the sight of a tri-coloured mouse clinging to the pilfered pastry he’d been searching for. 

"This fancy goodie yers?" She says with a hint of disbelief, gingerly lifting both the snack and its vermin passenger from the ground.

“It is, now get your disgusting rat away from my breakfast.”

---

One after the other, the group of squires pass row upon row of marble pillars as they follow Oleana into their King’s immense throne room. 

Bronze statues of elephants tower from each corner, splendidly engraved in a paisley motif, each gripping a gilded rose at the tip of their raised trunks. The metal behemoths point towards a convex roof, its dome intricately painted with the climax of an age-old fairy tale. Swirls of vibrant colour span the ceiling—red and blue brushstrokes establish the fluttering forms of twin princes in flamboyant outfits, sinking their swords deep into the hide of a dual-winged dragon. The villainous creature dwarfs the heroes in comparison; swathed in scales of white-gold, its prismatic eyes set with sizable gemstones that flicker in the candlelight, seeming to scrutinize the soon-to-be knights as they gather below.

---

His head hits stone as her full weight slams into him, eyes screwed shut in a pained wince. Slotted between his gorget and his chin, the cold metal of her blade grazes his throat with every shaky gasp and tentative swallow. She’s so close. There’s nothing between them but shells of armour; pulses racing beneath plates pressed together. Heaving against each other, breath short from their battle, he can feel her warmth bleeding into him. 

Held tight against the wall, steel kissing his neck; Bede decides he’s perfectly fine with dying if it’s by her hand. He resolves to gaze into her eyes like it’s his last chance, his best attempt at a smoldering stare—like in the novels he’s read—completely thrown out the window when her leg wedges itself between his thighs.

Gloria still manages to crack a grin at him despite the situation. ”Giving yourself up to me so easily, now?” Her smile is confident, or it was until a blush takes over her face, seeming to only realize the sort of words she’s speaking several moments after they’ve left her lips. It’s almost charming. 

“Just kill me, already.” Bede groans. Why did she have to resort to psychological torture? Was it not enough to defeat him? He’s pinned in place by her sword, subject to her whim... There's not much he can muster other than to let his eyes wander. He notes the sheen of sweat on her skin and knows quite factually that he isn’t in any better condition.

“You know I don’t want to do that.”

---

it ain’t much but it’s honest werk... maybe one of these days i’ll get my shit together aaaaa

[7hellsofabutler]

Fear-themed Headcannon -- Number 13!

Curses: Does your muse believe in good/bad luck? How about karma?

“I’m in the business of believing that things happen for a reason. It’s not particularly of the good or bad luck variety, but it can border upon karma in of itself, as fate is one to give balance in the grand tapestry of the universe.”

Caeldrin gave pause at the table, its surface covered with a linen cloth, and a pleasant maroon lace center embroidered in. An opened gold box resided to his left; the rose in full bloom with a wreath of thorns and feathers; and delicately hand crafted no less. Its contents were being shuffled by the elder across from his friend Duroxas. The chamber was open and the corner of his kitchen with the window blinds kept shut is where they conversed.

The slide of narrow and long cards shuffled continuously until the Duskwight was satisfied. Methodically, he placed four cards on the table between himself and his friend before placing the entire deck back into the box. Leaving it open, he returned his sight on the red-head with an eerily wavered calm. Cael became solemn and did so unnaturally as if second nature.

“That’s neither here nor there though. The question is if I believe in it, or no.”

Cael reached for the first card and flipped it over to reveal an upright The Hierophant. The elder didn’t look at all surprised and instead brought his seriousness across the way to study Duro. “Luck isn’t really what I would call chemistry friendly. Components work together or they don’t. Sometimes you need to bring in other elements to bind everything together or remove something to create harmony. To do that, you need karma more than anything. You can only take what you’ve been given and visa versa. If you give and you take at the right moment, it will fall in place as it should.”

The second was flipped over. A reversed Knight of Wands. The elder dipped his head and stared over the card with a downcast look of concern. “One must contemplate their role in life. Are they the good luck? The bad? When they step into an establishment, do the people react with judgement or warmth? Or are they seen for their deeds and the people have mixed opinions? As one that is as fiery as they come, you know the dangers of following your impulses with such excited, and equally restless enthusiasm. Karma would tell you who you want to meet eye to eye with, but luck can only dictate if they’d look back at you as an equal or look down on you. Try not to be too reckless.” Pale canary irises fastened on Duro as a warning inflected in his tone.

Fingertips caught the edge of the third card and upon the face sat The Emporer upright. The hand brought up with its partner and bridged fingers so that Cael could study it as if to perch his nose atop his forefingers. “I can safely say that this card, above all others, is a fair representation of you, but that is not the case right now. Rather, it is what you know and have. Karma has bought you power and recognition. Experience being the key to good judgement for the next of kin. Luck would see that wife and child happy under your rule, but it’s your karma that will see you through the hardships that come. You know this. It’s why you are reckless.” Caeldrin sighed through his nose and gave Duro a flat look, but moved on just as quick.

Lastly, the fourth card was turned over and the ashen features of the Duskwight became grim. All joy sapped from him as he took in the card’s presence like a heavy pressure in the air. He didn’t dare look to his friend with sympathy and having hid himself behind his interlaced fingers, Cael forced his hands to break away from each other. Out of respect, he righted his back and leaned away in a cool manner to cross his right leg over his left knee. “The Tower upright, is ever the sign of karma coming to collect at one’s doorstep. It is not a card to take lightly and it’s worth an amount of reflection before leaping into the abyss.” Caeldrin lifted his chin with an intake of shared air. Concern pressed his lips to a tense line and a mild frown. “Whatever comes, Duro, you know we shall support you. If the world should come crash down upon our heads, hell or high water, we shall rebuild once the dust settles. If luck will have it, we’ll come out of it relatively unscathed, and if not, I hope that karma gives us mercy enough to stand up soon in the aftermath.”

Each card was plucked up and placed in a thin stack to be dropped into the golden box. The lid fell closed with a soft ‘tak’ and Caeldrin resumed his reclined state to watch Duroxas for his reactions. “So, to answer your question. Yes. I believe in luck and karma, but they to me, are but tools fate uses to guide us along our journey. Satisfied?”

[lumosnoxhobbit]

Game of Thrones/Throne of Glass AU

So this is a short piece I wrote about two years ago. If you are a fan of Throne of Glass I’m just going to say that I got a bad impression of Celaena from the first book, so it might be an inaccurate representation. Just a warning.

PLOT SUMMARY: Celaena arrives in Winterfell due to an unknown twist of events.

Celaena sat shivering in the damp corner of her cell.

She hadn't seen the sun in days beyond count. The stolid guard posted outside her cell had not taken the trouble to answer most of her questions either, and when she threatened him he did not even reply. The only answers he gave her made her want to scream. How dare he! If she could, she would have throttled something out of him by now. It was just her usual rotten luck that she could not grab him through the bars with the fetters she wore around her wrists. She thought about striking them against the wall, but figured grudgingly that that would reap no benefit. Annoyed, she hugged her knees closer to her chest in the hopes that he would notice that she was freezing, but the guard paid her no mind. "Brrr," She trilled, still waiting, yet he pretended as if he hadn't heard. "It's cold," Celaena finally blurted. "Best get used to it, lass. Winter is coming, and with it the monsters from beyond The Wall." The guard did not even turn around. "Until then, may the gods save us all." "Fetch me a cloak." She cared not for his pathetic fears. "Lord Eddard Stark commanded me to watch you, not to do as you bid." Ugh. How she hated this man. Ever since she had been thrown down here into this hovel of a cell, JoryCassel had given only his name, and then nothing but pointless matters. Early on, she had tried to coy him into freeing her by speaking to him seductively and leaning brazenly against the bars- which was as close as she could be to him- yet it somehow hadn't worked. How could it not, when she was so beautiful? It was simply that Jory Cassel could not be persuaded, she supposed. "Sir," she announced, getting onto her hands and knees and trying a different track. "How good are you with a sword?" "Not  'ser', I'm not a knight. Besides, I should think myself to be capable." "Could you try me?" "I am not commanded to do your bidding." That again. She sighed audibly. Going back to staring at the grimy walls, she wondered how she would break out of here. If they allowed her a tool of some sort, Celaena thought, she could overpower Jory and get past him easily. He had been standing here like a statue all day after all, but during the night shifts, he would swap places with Hallis Mollen to get some rest, so neither of them ever fell asleep at their post. They didn't dare open her door to give her food either: the gritty bowls of gruel were served to her between the bars of her cell. Even if she did somehow escape, there was the matter of guards outside, for there were bound to be plenty to man the gates and walls of this place. At least this Lord Eddard Stark had thought to charge only his best guards to keep watch over her. It seemed someone knew her prowess after all, and did not want to underestimate her. She'd nearly slain one of the men in the black cloaks she had come across when she first came here, trudging through heavy snow, and it had taken a host of five men to knock her silent. After that incident, she'd woken up here with no idea of where she was. Jory told her only that she was in a dungeon ("what did you expect for assaulting a man of the Night's Watch?"). The sound of descending footsteps echoed on the stairwell. Celaena looked up, expecting to see the rough face of Hallis Mollen come around the corner, but was surprised to see a stout keg of a knight with magnificent white whiskers approach instead. "Lord Eddard has commanded the girl to be brought before him." Said the knight to Jory. "See that she's properly chained before you take her to his lordship's court, and tell her nothing even if she asks." Jory nodded. "Get up." He told Celaena as the other man left, and she did so sulkily. He unlocked the door and tugged on her chains to make sure they held, then made her march up the stairs ahead of him so that her fetters rattled noisily. She saw the tip of his spear hovering a little behind her back, and she turned her body a little to the side so she could choke Jory'swindpipe with her chains. "Best not do that," he warned, poking the spear into her back. "I'll have you know I could snap that puny spear in one move," Celaena shot back, and Jory raised an eyebrow. "You'd have to snap quite a bit," he said in a surprised voice, "And get round the spear itself if I don't impale you first, but no matter. I will not stand here idly while Lord Eddard awaits us. Either you move, or I'll push you." Adarlan guards always used swords to escort her, Calaena thought, so she couldn't see why she should not grab the spear away. She tried to twist and grab it, but the metal point grazed her side as she did so. "Ow!" She squeaked. "Handy things, eh, spears?" Jory asked her, grinning. "Best move now then." She was led down a series of corridors made of stone walls, heated from the inside by an unknown source. Oaken doors could be seen across the passages, and the occasional window let in a cold, winter light. Sometimes Celaena could see a tapestry or two: each white in colour, depicting a loping grey wolf embroidered in fine silk. WINTER IS COMING, read the words on the end of each one. Calaena wondered how terrible the winters here might really be. Then Jory's spear turned her left, and she entered a corridor that ended in a small archway. Passing under the archway she entered a crowded hall, filled withpeople dressed in furs of grey, brown or white. The room itself was lit only by a wooden chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a few lancet windows let in tall slits of light. Guards, some servants and a few other men stood by the door at the end of the hall, whilst six children whispered amongst each other beside the high table. An old man dressed in grey robes and a pretty, middle aged woman with auburn hair and blue eyes sat on either side of a high backed chair, but it was vacant. How dingy this is. Celaena thought. She expected this building to be the grand castle she guessed it was, but this dim hall failed to reach her expectations. The only thing she knew about it was that it was called Winterfell, though Jory had not disclosed any more than that. "That's the person who tried to kill a man from the Night's Watch, isn't it?" She heard one of the children whisper as she entered. It was a little horse faced girl who looked to be about ten years old, and was hardly much to look at. "Fat Tom told me the other day that she appeared out of nowhere." "Nowhere," echoed her toddler brother. "Will you shut up?" Asked their older sister. She was a pretty looking girl with the auburn hair and blue eyes of the woman at the high table. The younger girl looked as if she would hit her sister, but a nudge from her brother, who was perhaps fifteen, made her shut up and look sour instead. Then with the sound of rumbling doors, a middle aged man with cold grey eyes entered the hall. "All kneel for Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," called the herald, and the hall knelt. The Lord of Winterfell cleared his throat. Celaenastudied his brown hair and cold grey eyes as he regarded her sharply, wondering if this man was any good. She knew she ought to kneel, but decided not to out of defiance. "My lord...?" Jory looked up. "No need." Lord Eddard looked down upon Celaena. "Whence did you come from, girl?" "I'm not going to tell you that." "Your name, then." "It's Celaena Sardothien." She smirked, waiting for a shocked reaction at the sound of Adarlan's most famous assassin, but no one even so much as gasped. Lord Eddard turned to discuss with the old man sitting next to him. She didn't know who he was, because no one had bothered to tell her (the nerve of them!), So she studied the auburn haired woman beside Lord Eddard. She must be the lord's wife, and the six children must be theirs. But she noticed another boy, who looked to be older than them all. He was handsome and blonde, but did not share the features of the Starks. He looked at her and gave her a charming smirk, which she did not return. Meanwhile, Lord Eddard and the old man had finished their discussion. "You do not seem to come from here." The old man said from the high table. "Do you know of this place, or who you are being presented to?" "Well, maybe if someone had bothered to tell me I would have known." "You speak to Eddard of House Stark, lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North." Eddard Stark spoke for him. "You stand in the hall of Winterfell, the northernmost of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Here we are ruled by King Robert Baratheon, and his Queen Cersei Lannister. From whence do you hail?" "My name is Celaena." It was the only thing she felt they had the right to know. "As you wish. You are aware of why you were imprisoned?" "If that was hurting some man, I don't regret it at all." Celaena smirked. "What are you going to do anyways? Throw me in a dungeon again?" "If that is needed, it will be done. But at the moment, you do not seem too dangerous against the strength of twenty guards, and that will be considered." Lord Eddard's voice echoed in the cold, stone hall. "If freedom of the castle is what you wish, it will be given, but with strict restrictions. If you wish to listen to these terms then do so. But if not, your other option is the dungeons under the watch of guards whilst you await further sentencing." Celaena shrugged prettily. "Maester Luwin?" Lord Eddard turned to the old man. "The terms you are offered are as follows."  The old man continued on, leaning forwards in his seat. "That you may go about the castle as you please, provided that you are under the watch of one of the castle guard at all times, and that you do not harm, assault or harass any of the occupants within WinterfellCastle. You may not depart unless by leave of Lord Eddard Stark himself, and if you are caught, you will be faced with harsh punishment. Do you consent to these terms?" Nothing was fair around here. Celaena wanted to say that she disagreed to all these terms and that she would rather leave back to her own, much better kingdom, thank you very much, but she knew enough that if she did not agree it would take her back to the dungeons again. "I agree." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. And she was free. For then. .... The blonde boy stood before the archery butts, loosing an arrow at one of the targets. Celaena watched it fly from his fingers. With a solid thunk! The tip met the center of the target, embedding deep into the straw to join a cluster of arrows already clustered about the center. Theon Greyjoy, the blonde boy, grinned at the result of his shot. "You could do better." Calaena said. "You'll address me as 'my lord'." He reprimanded arrogantly. "And besides, what makes you think you can do better?" "I've seen better." "I've done better." How self centered of him, when he obviously knew nothing about her own skill and that he was in danger just standing before her. She had to admit that he was handsome, but Maester Luwin had warned her against Theon and who he was, though she did not think him to be of any threat.  He glanced at her. "I don't like the look of that smirk, by the way." He said. "Take it off." "What else do you require, my lord?" "Your clothes, if you don't mind." Before she could react, the little horse faced girl she had seen in court yesterday darted between them and took the bow from Theon. "My turn." She insisted. "I've been watching long enough." "I'm busy, Arya, not now. Go and ask Jon or Robb if you really want to shoot. But I thought you ought to be with Sansa." "Sansa's stupid. I want to shoot." "No one's going to be looking after you." "Who cares about that?" Arya asked, taking the bow from Theon. "I'm sick of being cooped up inside." "Alright, but don't tell me when Septa Mordane calls you back," Theon consented, but as if on cue a woman's voice shouted from across the grounds: "Arya!" That must be Septa Mordane, Celaena thought. The woman who came pointedly across the grounds was dressed in a caul and grey robes, and had wide hips that made her sway briskly as she bustled across the yard. "You are meant to be practising needlework, not playing at weapons." "But I don't want to," Arya protested as Septa Mordane led her away. "Why can't you be a little more like your sister?" The Septa muttered. "Come along, Arya. It's time you were downstairs." "...But it's boring. And I don't care if Sansa wants to. It's stupid..." Septa Mordane led her off. Theon raised an eyebrow as he watched them go. "You're a lucky wench." He told Celaena. "At least you don't have to do needlework all day. I heard nothing that restricted you from the weapons around here." Oh, how much she wanted to feel the grip of a sword again. "Got anyone who'll try me?" She asked daringly. "Robb's busy with Jon, and Bran and Rickon are too young," Theon said. "If you ask nicely though and don't kill him first, Ser Rodrik might spar with you. He's by the stables." Celaena could hardly believe this arrogance towards her. She, the most notorious assassin in all of Adarlan! At least once she beat Ser Rodrik they might see she was to he feared after all. She bid good morrow to Theon and went to seek out the stout knight. . . . The yard rang with the clash of steel. Calaena raised her blade to block Ser Rodrik's blow. The old knight was less agile then she-- that was to be expected-- but he fought well for a man of his age and build. He was not Chaol Westfall: young, sturdily built and handsome, but this was fair competition besides. She had only been allowed a tourney blade though, which dented her pride. Wasn't she the best assassin in all of Adarlan? "Move your feet." Jory said from across the grounds. He had been watching intently since they had begun, and since then he had hardly moved from his position on the wooden bench. Calaena hefted her sword to aim for Ser Rodrik's belly, covered in a layer of wool and and quilted gambeson, and quite obvious. It was fair enough in size, she judged. The hit should come easy. Then a raven took flight from the ground, and the sound of its wings flapping startled her. Ser Rodrikknocked her blade to the ground where it spun for a while and then skidded to a halt. "You were too emotional." He told her, picking up the sword and returning it. "Don't let anger betray your skill." "And what would you know of fighting, if you're so old?" Celaena snapped, picking her blade back up off the ground and polishing it with her modest tunic. "More than you." Ser Rodrik looked to be suppressing a grin. "Old knights live as long as they do for a reason, Celaena." "Might be their knees give way on the battlefield if they do." "Mine own have not yet," Ser Rodrik said in a measured voice, "but you seem to want for younger competition, not the likes of men as old as I. Would you like that?" "I do." She wanted to see the younger men, those who were a prettier sight to look at. Someone handsome would be more deserving for the likes of her. Here in Winterfell there were hardly any men half so good looking as those back at Adarlan, as much as she hated to admit it. Only Robb Stark and Jon Snow, the eldest of Lord Eddard's sons, could ever meet the dashing countenances of Adarlan men. She almost missed them. "Show me someone younger," she demanded. "Why not my nephew, then?" Ser Rodrik asked. "I should like to test his skill against the... ah... best assassin in the Adarlan kingdom, as you claim yourself to be. At least, we shall see if that is true when compared to the warriors of the Westerosi North. I always wondered about my nephew's skill, though I don't doubt it. Would you like that?" "Of course." Calaena said, but was surprised when Jory Cassel stood up from the bench with a small smile. It was then that she realized that Ser Rodrik's surname was also Cassel. "It's not fair!" She whined, as Jory took Ser Rodrik's sword. "I don't want to fight him,  I wanted to fight with someone--" "--Your age, as you said." Ser Rodrik finished for her. "My nephew is one of the men on hand closest to your age, and I doubt you're so many years younger than he is. Theon would be closer, though he is occupied at the moment. So, do you wish to spar with Jory or not? Or I could do it again if you like." Whatever. Celaena knew she could best even the most skilled in Adarlan. If that was true, she could best anyone here in this Westeros. "You'll find yourself sprawling in the dust," she spat, as Jory bent into a stance. "I bet I could win against the greatest fighter in this kingdom of I wanted to." "The best fighter in the land is Ser Jaime Lannister, lass. Ten times better than me, and ten times as dishonourable." Jory's smile windened further. "I wish you luck if you ever meet the Kingslayer on the field, but as of yet he is far away in King's Landing, and I should hope that he stays there. For now though, shall we begin?" Celaena growled in annoyance. Now she'd let him see exactly how good she was, and she would not stop until he was grovelling on the ground and begging for quarter. She lunged, and Jory swiped at her head, the suddenness of his movement making a breeze ruffle her hair. She ducked and lunged at his chest, but his blade met hers and her blow was batted away. Calaena gritted her teeth. She would allow herself gritted her teeth. She would allow herself to toy with him for a bit longer, but now she would let him see her true strength. She met his next move with a swift block, and the swords made a cross as they came into the bind. He was faster in coming out of it though, and pushed her blade in a downward circle until it was forced out of her hands into the ground again, and the tip of his sword pointed straight at her stomach. "Never underestimate your enemy." Jory gave her back her sword, and she felt like snapping his spine over her knee. "Overestimating yourself will not come to your advantage either." If she had only been faster! Her reflexes had been as fast as a cat's when she had been in Adarlan, but the grimy Winterfell dungeons had slowed her down. Turning, she protested this to Jory and Ser Rodrik, but they paid her no attention. The idiots. She surveyed her surroundings instead, wondering again if there was any possible way of escaping. A small figure scaling the stable walls caught her eye: Brandon Stark, Lord Eddard's six year old son. She had heard his name being called by the Maester only a few days ago as he was being led away to a lesson. Now the boy had reached the castle wall, and he was, of present, being reprimanded by a guard. She had never seen a boy climb so quickly. "Ah, young Bran Stark," chuckled a man nearby. "He better be glad Lady Catelyn didn't catch him this time round." "Aye," said another. "That boy's a squirrel." A squirrel indeed. Yet it seemed the boy would not be able to leave the castle by climbing either. He was climbing down now, making annoyed exclamations as he went. Celaena supposed she would have to find some other way to get out. After all, she had hardly explored the entirety of Winterfell. It was just the guards who stopped her from doing so. And if she could survive the Endovier salt mines, she could survive this. She began to walk towards the stable wall to inspect the footholds Bran had used, but someone caught her by the arm. "Don't even think about it," said Hallis Mollen's voice. His eyes followed her as she wrenched her arm away. There was the slightest bit of intrigue in his eyes, but his sentinel-like face made her know he was watching her. Every corner she turned would have a guard in the shadows, and there was no chance she would be let out of their sight. She narrowed her own sapphire blue eyes at him and stalked away.

[a-arcane-author-blog]

A day in the life of a Psychic

- A. Arcane 

Darla squinted at the passing mailman, trying to decipher if he was actually there or not.

“What are you glaring so intently at?” her sister, Shayna asked, looking out the window over Darla’s shoulder.

Darla squinted harder. “Is the mailman really there?”

“Yeah. He’s there in all his hi-viz glory.”

“Oh good,” she sighed in relief. “I’m going to check the mail.”

The outside air was crisp and cool and Darla was quite happy that her parcel had arrived. She hurried back inside, lugging the package under her arm.

She ripped open the soggy, cardboard box and pushed away the bubble wrap to reveal a beautiful crystal ball.

“Come look, Shayna. It’s gorgeous,” she called out.

The glass had almost invisible, smoky patterns etched into it. It came with a three-legged stand that Darla propped on the lounge coffee table, a perfect accent to the room styled with purple draperies and beaded hangings.

“It’s pretty, I guess,” Shayna said, holding two dead rats in her hand. “But I don’t get why you want it so much. You know stuff like that doesn’t work. It’s not like you need any help either.”

“I know, I know. But I like building atmosphere and clients seem to like the added immersion.”

Darla smoothed a hand over the crystal ball. It was cool under her fingers and in blink, she saw bubbling hot, liquid glass being poured down into a spherical mould.

“I reckon you’ve got enough atmosphere as it is.” Shayna’s voice jolted her out and Darla looked away from the molten glass, letting it fade away.

Shayna was picking at the thread of an old, black and gold tapestry of the zodiac constellations. It was a beautiful thing. Bloody expensive, yes, but definitely worth it.

“But a crystal ball makes me feel like the real deal,” argued Darla.

“You are the real deal,” said Shayna, swinging her rats at Darla for emphasis.

Before Darla could reply, the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be your client,” Shayna sighed, “I better clear out and give you the room.”

Darla went to open the door and found a young man with vibrant eyes and wildly curly hair.

“Hello, Lucas,” said Darla, moving aside to let him.

Lucas didn’t move staring at Darla with wide eyes.

“You – you really are a real one,” he murmured.

Darla furrowed her brows and the confusion must’ve been evident as Lucas proceeded to explain.

“I’m not – I – I put down the name Andrew when I booked the appointment. Lucas is – well it is my name but – I just – I haven’t used it for a long time. But I guess you could’ve just researched my background – but I didn’t even give a last name!”

He was rambling and Darla just stared at him.

That was her mistake. She knew her client’s name was Andrew but when she opened the door, she suddenly thought ‘Lucas is here’.  

“I, um, I didn’t mean to,” she tried to amend before stopping. “Um, how about you come inside first.”

He saw down on the divan with its big cushy pillows, embroidered with stars and moons.

“I can’t believe – I mean I was hopeful but the other one was a hoax and-”

Lucas kept mumbling so Darla decided to cut in.

“My name is Darla and I’ll try my best to aid you in whatever way I can today, Lu- Andrew.”

She held out her hand and Lucas shook it hesitantly, still off in his own head.

“So you’re really it. The real thing – that is – you know. Psychic.” He whispered that last word like it was something rude.

“Yes,” Darla said truthfully. “Though since there isn’t a stable dictionary definition for Psychics, I can’t say I fit exactly into that category.”

“Can you help me find my sister?” Lucas leaned forward intently.

“Marcia,” Darla said automatically and then snapped her mouth shut. She needed a brain to mouth filter.

Lucas’ eyes were wider than before.

“This – this is amazing! You – you’re amazing!”

“Thanks,” Darla said hesitantly, “But I don’t actually know anything about your sister. Her name kinda just popped up – possibly because you were thinking it.”  

“Can you tell me where she is?” Lucas asked, ignoring her explanation.

“I can’t. I only saw her name. Oh and that she rode bikes with you as kids,” Darla added, though that was most likely because Lucas was thinking about it.

Lucas looked mesmerised. He opened his mouth to speak but the doorbell rang again. Darla hadn’t been expecting anyone and Shayna definitely did not expect people – living ones anyway.

She got up to open the door.

“Where are going?” asked Lucas.

“To answer the door.”

“You can even tell when someone’s there?”

“Er, no? The doorbell rang. I can’t see through the door.”

“Doorbell?” Lucas frowned.

“Oh,” said Darla, realising. “It didn’t ring.”

She sat back down and sighed.  

“A lot of people think having these, uh, skills makes life more convenient since I can see into the future and all that but it’s not that simple. Half the time, I can’t tell what year it is.”  She didn’t know if she actually bought eggs in the supermarket or if it was just a vision of her buying eggs. Sometimes she’d try to walk around someone only to find out that person isn’t even there yet and she’d been having a vision of that person ten minutes into the future. “I get muddled up between what’s real and what’s not. It’s very, very inconvenient.”

“So you can the future?” prompted Lucas.

“Kinda? I can’t choose and I can’t tell if it’s future, past or present.”

“Wow,” said Lucas.

Abruptly, a pair of no-longer-dead rats came scurrying into the room, being chased by a red-faced Shayna.

“Come back here, you ungrateful, little vermin!” she screamed.

Lacus jumped up in horror. “Why are there rats here?”

“My sister was experimenting with necromancy again,” Darla explained.

“It was a success. But then those nasty, little creatures bit me and ran away! I’ll kill them!”

“They were already dead until you brought them back,” said Darla.

“I don’t care!”

Lucas watched them the scene unfold with increasingly wide-eyes, even though they’d been quite wide already.

“I, uh, I think I’ll head home,” he muttered and scrambled off the divan, sprinting for the door.

Darla was about to call him back when, in a few blinks, she saw the mailman drop a large parcel at her doorstep. She blinked and realised she was staring out the window.

She breathed out and sighed heavily, squinting at the mailman. Was he real this time?

“What are you glaring so intently at?” Shayna asked from behind her.

[artnerd1123]

Not My Fight

Chapter two -------------------

Here’s the second chapter! Chapters list can be found here

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

Avery made his way back into the castle, nearly bumping a cat who was rushing out.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bump you,” said a small quiet voice. Avery was surprised when two white wings folded themselves in front of the cat, blocking her face.

Hybrids were somewhat uncommon in the kingdom of Eitilte. Not many monsters there mixed species if they could help it. Though, obviously, there were exceptions, especially between monsters in their job groups. Avery himself was one such example.

He looked the winged cat over. Or at least what he could see of her. By the style of her dress, he guessed that she was a tailor. That would make some sense. Tailors and scouts often hung out together. Perhaps two had gotten a little closer than your average monsters…

His brain clicked when he finished his inspection. He’d seen this cat-bird hanging around Landon in town before. He relaxed some. A familiar face in the castle was much better than a foreign one, no matter how small the familiarity was.

“It's alright, don't be shy,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Are you looking for Landon?”

“Yes…” came the soft reply, “I-I made a cloak for him…” She moved her wings slightly to reveal a folded cloth.

It looked like alpaca wool with a silk lining.  Embroidered in it were small blue jewels, meant to imitate water droplets. Avery was impressed. The cloak was looked masterfully made. The jewels were a nice touch as well, seeing as most nobles had water magic.

“I can take you to Landon,” he said with a genuine smile, “he’s the noble I was assigned when I first became a squire.”

“Oh! Thank you so much,” the winged tailor exclaimed. She started forwards. Avery put up a paw to stop her.

“Hold up. I need your name,” Avery stated apologetically, “I know I’ve seen you hanging around here before, but uh, castle security and all that...”

“It's alright… I'm Angel Cloudbrush,” she said shyly.

“I'm Avery,” he replied, “right this way, miss Cloudbrush.”

Avery led the way into the castle and past the magicians’ rooms. He was pleased to see that all the papers were out of the hall. Maybe Myrick managed to help, he thought happily. He glanced back at Angel. She was busy marveling at the many paintings and jeweled tapestries of the castle. He chuckled. It was always fun to see someone from the town visit the castle.

They made their way through the great hall and into the section of the castle dedicated to the nobles. The decor here changed from dazzling displays of various types of magic depicted in stained glass to stone fountains with bones carved into them. The tapestries on the walls were decorated with family trees rather than pretty scenery.

Angel zipped from tapestry to tapestry. Avery chuckled, shaking his head. The family trees weren't very eye catching to him. But to those who weren’t castle regulars, they always seemed fascinating. Avery tapped Angel on the shoulder.

“I think I know which one you're looking for,” he said. She jumped, then looked back at him sheepishly.

“You do…?” She asked timidly.

“The Pearlbones tree is over here,” he replied, taking her paw and leading her to another tapestry. Angel traced the generations with her eyes. Avery stepped forwards and tapped Landon’s name.

“Here he is. You just interested in the family tree?” He asked curiously. Angel blushed and looked down.

“Umm… I… yes…” she mumbled, wings moving around to hide her face.

Avery looked her over and grinned. He knew what that blush meant.

On the rare occasions when he’d trailed Landon for training, he had gotten many admiring stares from various young ladies. Lately Landon’s group of admirers had been growing, but Avery knew it was because of the royal ball. Who wouldn’t want to get taken to the ball by a noble? The best part was that Landon was oblivious to his many admirers. Avery bet he wouldn't know if someone was in love with him unless they kissed him.

Angel’s blush had confirmed his suspicions about why she had been so intent on walking nearest to Landon when he was out and about.

“Y’know… if you really want to make a good impression on Landon, you should try and grab his attention,” he mused aloud. Angel looked over at him excitedly.

“Your cloak might do the trick.”

“You think so…?” She asked softly. Avery nodded.

“Go ahead and knock. Give it to him in person. I'll watch.”

“Thank you, kind squire,” angel said with a small bow. Avery watched as she knocked on the door. She seemed alright in his opinion.

On second thought, I should have checked that cloak, he thought to himself. He sighed. He’d have to check it later, after Landon put it down. He jolted out of his thoughts as the door opened. A young skeleton monster stood in the doorway.

“Oh. Um. May I help you?” Said Landon awkwardly. He was dressed in his usual green button up shirt and baggy black pants, with brown boots to match. His current cloak looked worn and in need of replacement. He must have ordered one from Angel’s tailor shop, Avery concluded.

“I-I have a delivery f-for Landon P-Pearlbones…” Angel stammered softly. She looked at Landon like he was some sort of saint. Avery held back a snort.

“Ah, my cloak!” Landon exclaimed, eyelights brightening, “thank you.” He took the cloak from Angel and let it fall open. Avery let out a low whistle. It was even better looking when it was unfolded. Landon’s eyes went up and down the cloak slowly, his eyebrows raised.

“Who do I have the pleasure of thanking for this beautiful garment?” He asked happily, turning to Angel. “Would it be you?”

“I-I… Um… Yes...” she whispered. She was half hiding behind her wings. Avery couldn't decide if she was trying to disappear or stand proudly.

“Well… I must say, you did an amazing job. I’m glad you managed to flag me down those two weeks ago,” Landon said with a smile, “thank you. Have you been paid already?”

“Um, yes, your father put in the payment when you first came to the shop…” angel murmured, voice hardly audible. She smiled back at Landon hesitantly. Landon held up a finger, telling angel to wait, and rooted around in his pocket.

I bet he’s going to give her a tip, Avery noted mentally, like nobles always do if they think something is especially well done. Avery sighed. Once he was a knight, he could receive tips. For now he had to content himself with squire wages. Which were enough to cover armor care and sword sharpening, but not much else. At least the give us our food and training for free.

Landon pulled out a couple gold coins and held them out to angel. She hesitated, then took them.

“Thank you,” she blurted, “I-I'm going now.” She spun on her heels and took off at a fast pace toward the hallway.

“Hey, wait up!” Avery called after her. He turned to Landon, spitting out a quick, “I'll be right back,” before chasing after Angel. Even with her head start, Avery caught up to angel quickly. He zipped in front of her and blocked the doorway. “Slow down, you're going to hurt yourself!” He said with a huff, “what're you doing? Don't you know there’s no running in this part of the castle?” Angel shied away from him. Her eyes seemed drawn to the floor.

“Well I- you see- I had- I need- um- c-can you lead me out…?” She ended the stammering feebly. Avery nodded, giving her a stern look. Shoulda known she would bolt. She did that the last time I watched her and Landon. He took her by the arm and escorted her to the castle doors. She was silent, seeming apologetic while they walked.

“Here we are,” he prompted, after she didn’t move, “you can go now…”

“What?” She asked, looking up. It seemed she hadn't been paying attention. “Oh, yes, of course, I'll go now,” she said hastily. And with that, she hurried out of the doors. Avery stared after her. He could see the blush all over her face, and some of the tension left his shoulders. She was probably just really flustered, he thought, I'd run off like that too if I were in her shoes.

He turned away after shutting the doors, and headed back towards the noble section of the castle. Landon was sitting by a fountain, admiring the new cloak in the water’s reflection. Avery sighed.

“Not gonna be easy to get that off him…” he mumbled. “Hey, uh, Pearlbones? My liege?” He stumbled over the formal greetings, and hated himself for it. Landon looked up curiously.

“Hmm? What is it, squire?” He asked, eyebrow raised.

“I need your cloak,” Avery responded, coming alongside him.

“Why’s that?” He frowned.

“I'll give it back in good condition,” Avery answered, ignoring the question, “I just… need to check it is all…”

“... Ah… I see,” Landon said slowly. He took off the cloak and handed it to Avery. Sighing, he looked Avery over.

“Do you not trust angel? Or did you forget to check it?”

“The second option my liege, and I apologize for my… er… blunder.”

Landon snorted.

“It's alright Avery, you don't need to speak so formally to me,” he said with a smile.

“Blargh, thanks. That stuff hurts my brain,” Avery admitted. He and Landon didn't interact one on one too regularly. There was usually an adult or other monsters in the room. But when they did, they were a little more casual than they probably should've been.

Folding up the cloak, Landon sighed.

“I think all these extra checks are stupid.”

“What?” Avery looked up. “How so? It keeps you all safe. And with the ball going on, there’s a higher chance of… y’know…”

“Yeah, but if Nthenda’s magic specialists are going to enchant stuff, it might rub off on the messenger, or whoever sent it, or anyone who touches it,” concluded Landon, waving his hand dismissively, “if they wanted to get at the nobles specifically, they’d be sending spies or assassins to do the work, not tailors who do a little more tailing than actual sewing. The princess has put her precautions in place for the ball. Plus, I doubt the prince of Nthenda will want to cause trouble in such a public space.  Not when he’ll be surrounded by potential enemies.”

“For all we know this could help target you. The old fashioned way,” Avery persisted, “they could say ‘take out the person wearing this cloak’ or something like that.”

“Hmm… I guess you could be right,” Landon said with a grin. “We’ll never know though, will we?”

“Guess not,” Avery laughed, then carefully checked the cloak. There weren't any enchantments on it aside from a few that were used to keep the jewels in place on the cloak. He smiled to himself, pleased at his detection of such a small and insignificant enchantment, especially since he’d used a spell meant to find enchantments meant to carry out a large, specific, and long term goals rather than smaller ones. He gave the cloak back to Landon and said, “well, I’ll be going now… I've got some scrolls to work on.”

“See ya around,” Landon replied, and went back into his rooms.

Avery watched the door for a moment before turning away. He made his way back through the castle, past the training courtyard and main hall, to his dorm-like room in the squire-house. He kicked off his boots and took off his belt, his sword still attached to it, then flopped down on his bed with a sigh. He was not looking forward to reading yet another scroll on the ins-and-outs of Nthenda’s kingdom, but it was a must.

“Hey, you're back!” Exclaimed a small voice. Avery nearly jumped out of his fur before realizing who had spoken.

“Francis, don't do that! You know I like to see who’s speaking to me!” Avery scolded lightly to the speaker; Francis.

Francis smiled sheepishly, climbing up onto the bed with his roots. He was a turquoise and pink flower, roughly the size of Avery’s arm, with crab-leg-like roots made for climbing and scuttling around. His eyes were light blue orbs, which many found unsettling, but were a common feature of enchanted flowers. Another common feature was his glow-in-the-dark petals. They brightened up the dimly lit room and gave it a cave-like quality.

“I just wanted to say howdy… your history scroll is on your desk and I reorganized your room some. I hope that's ok,” Francis said anxiously.

“That's great Francis,” Avery said, ruffling his petals, “thanks for that. You're dismissed.”

“Thank you too Avery!” Francis chirped. He hopped off the bed and scuttled off to a pot on the highest shelf of avery’s book case. There, he folded his petals up around his face and promptly fell asleep.

Avery chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Francis was a nice little assistant. He loved having him around, even if he was a little startling sometimes.

Getting up from his bed, he went over to his desk and plopped down. It looked like he was in for yet another boring night when he noticed the title of the scroll. “Pcoumos: their creation and their impact on monster society,” he read aloud. He grinned. “Ohoho, this looks interesting.” Then he took the scroll back to his bed, something highly discouraged by the lesson instructors. But Avery only did it when the scroll was truly intriguing. It was a risk he was willing to take tonight.