#I have a lot of thoughts about The Knight of the Cart. none of them good. few of them academic.

[cowabummers]

Are you just gonna sit there and let him die??1? Enter your SSN in the notes below!

[skyyknights]

biggest thoughts on skyward sword link?

aight. get ready. because I have many thoughts about him.

So, first off, yes, he is a silly sleepy doofus of a sky boy who is extremely soft and adorable and deserves everything. But, while that take is 100% correct and should not be overlooked, he is also a feral rabid gremlin who can and will tear your face off with his bare hands if the need arises (such as if you threaten Zelda).

(I mean. there's your proof right there...)

Now, a lot of people think that Link from Breath of the Wild is the strongest/toughest/etc.

Politely, I disagree.

So then who is the strongest? None other than Sky Link.

Let's start with the basics. He might not have been raised on a farm or in service as a knight for the royal family, but at the same time, he's attended an academy specifically for training knights his entire life. At the start of the game he can lift and throw massive barrels, is stated and shown to be an excellent climber, is a natural at Loftwing flying and at catching Zelda when she throws herself off of Skyloft, and is already excellent with a blade. Later on he can lift and throw small boulders, and push large wooden crates and metal carts.

But like I said, that's just the basics.

Sky Link also fights/defeats the Imprisoned and Ghirahim three times. Both grow stronger with each battle, but he defeats them nonetheless. Ghirahim at first sees him as just a silly little child who can't possibly defeat him; he quickly learns Link is anything but that and in all three of his fights becomes so humiliated that he rages at Link and on two occasions leaves instead of allowing himself to be defeated further. "You think I can't defeat you? You think I can't win? What are you, boy?" he asks in the final fight. He's afraid of Link, because Link is too powerful for him. He's the silly soft sky child, but three times now he has claimed victory over the Demon King's right hand man.

Then there's the Silent Realms, of which Link goes through four. Each one becomes increasingly more difficult and dangerous, and yet he completes all of them. Not only that, but he finds each Sacred Flame required to strengthen Fi and ends up forging the true Master Sword. He also earns and wields the full Triforce, which only a tiny handful of other Links have done. He also survives getting crushed by boulders on numerous occasions and is imprisoned (probably with a concussion) but escapes; battles a massive army of Moblins, Stalfos, and Bokoblins; and with each Silent Realm, his spirit grows, signifying he is not only strong physically, but mentally.

Anything I'm forgetting, besides the fact that Hylia specifically chose him to be her hero and defeat-

Oh yeah.

Demise.

Yup, in case anyone forgot, Sky Link kills Demise, the literal embodiment of evil itself, the original villain from whom Ganondorf comes. Demise is the most powerful enemy in LoZ who not only destroyed Hylia, but nearly all of the Surface as well; according to him, humans cower and quake upon seeing him; none but Link have ever dared to even consider standing up to him. Fighting Link, to Demise, is a casual, lighthearted ordeal where he believes he can take it easy before going off and destroying the world.

But yeah, that doesn't quite happen.

In the end, Link defeats Demise utterly on a battlefield of water and lightning, charging his own blade with it and striking the killing blow. Demise perishes and is absorbed into the Master Sword, directly after threatening that his hate, never perishing, will follow Link and Zelda throughout time.

And there you have it. Sky has just defeated the original incarnation of a cycle of endless hatred.

(while looking like this 90% of the time. he is babey. but stronk and dangerous babey who could kill u with a look).

[saratogaroadwrites]

For King and Country (3/122)

For King and Country | saratogaroad rating: T total wordcount:  280,466 characters: Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, Roland Crane, Aranella, Batu, Tani, Lofty, Leander Aristidies, Bracken Meadows relationships: Roland Crane & Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, Aranella & Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, Roland Crane & Aranella, Batu & Tani, Batu & Evan, Tani & Evan, Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum & Lofty, Rolander other tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Mother-Son Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Place Slowly Becomes Home People Slowly Become Family, Found Family, For Want of A Nail warnings: none

Pulled from his world by mysterious powers, former president Roland Crane finds himself caught in the middle of a coup meant to take the life of the young King Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum. Joining forces with Aranella, the pair of them set out to aid Evan in making his dream of a kingdom where everyone can live happily ever after a reality.

But the road to peace is a long and treacherous one and there is no promise of success in a world where darkness spreads ever thicker with each passing day. If they are to stand a chance, they must stand together, for king and for country.

(A retelling.)

=

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Roland asked, watching as Nella stood up. She was leaning heavily against the stone wall of their hideaway, adjusting a large wooden branch beneath her arm as a makeshift crutch. Evan had found it for her not long after sunrise, though it was still rough looking and couldn’t have been comfortable.

“Quite sure. I won’t slow you two down any more than absolutely necessary,” She said sternly, causing Evan to instinctively lean back. Oh, no. When Nella took that tone, there was trouble coming. Roland didn’t seem to realize that. “And I’ve had quite enough of being carted about like a sack, thank you very much.”

Or maybe he did realize it, because Roland just nodded.

“Well,” he said, “Alright. But take it easy. If things get too rough, say something.” He turned to Evan. “That goes for you, too. I take it you’re not used to all this running around.”

“Well…” Evan grimaced. He had his things, including his practice sword, but Roland wasn’t wrong. Magic lessons with Nella and sword forms with Knight Pouncey couldn’t keep up with the outside world. Not right away at least. He chuckled sheepishly. “All right. I will.”

“Good.” Roland said with another nod. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

And nothing to really do it with, Evan tried not to think. Cloudcoil Canyon was a good two or three days away in clear weather and with easy roads, all the books he’d read had said, but this is the outside world, not the books in his library. The sun was warm in the spring breeze that was filled with scents of greenery and life all around, the hills stretching on for miles. If they’d had a convoy, maybe they could have done it in a day or less.

But just the three of them, alone and on foot? Evan flattened his ears and grimaced as they left the Hollow. He’d read stories like this, of struggling heroes overcoming great obstacles on their quests and still succeeding…but he didn’t really feel much like a hero. And this wasn’t some story, this was real. Did they even really stand a chance? Was it worth going all the way to the Canyon and hoping there was a Kingmaker there?

He just didn’t know.

“Are you alright, Evan?” Nella asked quietly, startling him from his thoughts. He looked up at her, surprised to see how far behind them the Hollow actually was. Had they really walked that much in so little…time. Oh. He blinked and looked to the sky; it had been early morning when they’d set out, but now it was much closer to noon. “You’ve been quiet for a while now.”

Completely lost in his thoughts. Evan laughed sheepishly, adjusting the clasp of his cloak.

“I’m fine, Nella,” He said though he didn’t really feel that, either. “I was just thinking. What if there isn’t a Kingmaker in the Cradle? What’ll we do then?”

“I suppose we’ll just have to improvise from there,” Nella said with a pensive expression on her face that quickly faded into a soothing smile. “But I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

He wished he had her confidence. Still he smiled back at her, then turned as something screeched in the distance. Just ahead of them, Roland had crested a hill and stopped, hands on his hips. Evan trotted the few steps to catch up and gasped.

“Oh my!”

Down on the other side of the hill, a woman was running about in odd, uneven circles. This in itself would have been an odd sight, but when one added the little white creatures panicking at her heels and the monster harrying them all to the mix, well, it wasn’t something you’d seen every day. Evan pinned his ears back, studying the monster. It was airborne, looked slightly reptilian, and was covered in green scales with a shock of red fur running from its head to its back.

It was also carrying an axe, which it was brandishing at the woman as she tried to get away, yelling at it with every breath she had to spare.

“That’s a Wyvern,” Nella said as she came up on Evan’s other side, slightly out of breath. “But what’s it doing here? They don’t normally come this far south.”

“One more reason to help her out,” Roland said. His arms band gleamed in the sunlight as he said, “Wait here.”

Charging down the hill with no other explanation, Roland called his sword and leapt into the fray. The Wyvern turned on him instead, giving a harsh cry and abandoning the woman from where she’d fallen to the ground. Evan rocked on his heels, watching. He hadn’t really paid much attention to Roland when they’d been trying to escape from the Well, too afraid to watch the fighting, but now���

He’d said he was a President, but Evan still thought he’d been a soldier before all of that. He fought too well to be anything but. At least until the Wyvern soared out of reach, anyway! Evan hissed as it dive-bombed Roland, sending him stumbling to the ground.

“Use your pistol!” Nella shouted down to him, “Shoot it down!” She threw up her free hand a moment later when Roland dove out of the way rather than end up sliced. Evan bounced from foot to foot, heart racing. He had to do something! He took a step forward and then stopped dead in his tracks. The little white creatures had jumped into battle as well! They piled onto the Wyvern as it swooped low, distracting it. If Roland could see them he gave no sign, but he didn’t waste his chance, either. Before Evan could get past halfway down the hill, Roland had leapt into the air and driven the point of his sword down into the Wyvern, pinning it to the ground. Evan flinched at the creature’s death knell.

It had to be done, he knew, but…he shook himself off. Roland stepped off the creature’s body and pulled his sword free. Two of the little white creatures were still clinging to its body, the rest having fallen off on its wild, bucking flight, and they stared up at Roland. He almost seemed to stare back at them, squinting, then shook his head and turned to the woman.

“Are you alright?” He asked her, dismissing his sword. Two of the little white creatures clung to her skirts, staring up at Evan as he trotted closer. She looked down at them, then at Evan, and smiled knowingly. It quickly disappeared, however, as she turned back to Roland.

“Oh me, oh my,” She sighed, dusting herself off. “That certainly was a close one, and make no mistake about it! I don’t know what I’d have done if you all hadn’t shown up.” She raised an arm to wave at Nella, picking her way down the hill. The woman smiled, then turned back to Evan and Roland. “I’m Martha, by the way. Auntie Martha for those I’ve taken a shine to, and I dare say I’ve taken a right shine to the three of you!”

Roland blinked at this friendly display, and Evan had to smother his giggles. Were people just not this friendly in his world? That would be a shame. But them, maybe he just wasn’t used to people as friendly as Auntie Martha seemed to be.

“Roland,” he finally said with a slight shake of his head, “This is Evan and Aranella.”

“Pleasure to meet you—oh my!” Auntie Martha startled as Nella came up to stand beside Evan, “Dearie, your leg!”

Nella smiled tightly. “It’s not quite as bad as it looks,” She said, “Though it’s left me a bit slower than I’d have liked. My apologies for not being able to help in the fight, Roland.”

Roland shook his head, but before he could speak Auntie Martha had taken over again.

“My house is just over by here,” She said, turning to gesture to a little cottage nestled into another hill, “You come and rest for a spell and let me see if I can do a thing or two about that.”

It was clear even to Evan that Auntie Martha wasn’t about to take no for an answer. With all the presence of one of the army commanders, she marched the three exhausted travelers to her home and bustled them in out of the sun. Evan had to swallow back a joyously startled cry: there were more of the little creatures all over the inside! And not just the white ones, but ones of various colors and sizes too! They all turned as the group entered and several bounced towards them with little cries of their own, gathering around Evan’s feet.

“Here we are,” Auntie Martha said, patting Evan on the shoulder and winking as he looked up at her, “It’s not much, but it’s home. Make yourselves comfortable.”

“It’s very nice, Miss Martha,” Nella said, her makeshift crutch nearly slipping on the worn stone floor. “Thank you for letting us rest a bit.”

“Auntie Martha, dearie,” Auntie Martha corrected, walking into her cottage. It was tiny, Evan realized, the entire place barely the size of his quarters in Ding Dong Dell Castle, but it felt…warmer somehow. It was two levels, full of plants in scattered pots. Up a small flight of stairs was a low wooden table with stools. Scattered pots and plates were strewn across the table, and not too far away from that was a firepit with a pot hanging over the cheerily crackling blaze that she made her way towards. “Now have a seat and let me take a look at that leg.”

Nella grimaced, but before Evan could move Roland had stepped up beside her, silently offering her an arm to lean on. With a tight smile she let him help her to the table, Evan trailing in their wake. Auntie Martha soon returned with a pot of steaming water, three cloths hanging over the edge. Gently, she picked up Nella’s leg and lay her foot in her lap; Nella hissed at the light touch, causing Evan’s ears to pin back. It still hurt her. Auntie Martha clucked her tongue.

“Goodness,” She said, “I ain’t ever seen a mark quite like this before…” With more calm than Evan would have thought possible given how it twisted and writhed, Auntie Martha watched the mark for a long moment. Then she looked up at Nella. “Backlash?”

“Wrong end of dark magic,” Nella replied with another grimace. “I’m certain a doctor or dispeller could do something about it, though I’m not as certain where to find one.”

“Well there’s Ding Dong Dell,” Auntie Martha replied, then stopped as all three of her new companions grimaced. “Something I said?”

“It’s a long story,” Roland replied, taking off his coat. Evan fiddled with his cape and looked away. “But the short version is we can’t go back to town. Is there any other dispeller you know about?”

“Well, there’s Goldpaw and I’d reckon they’d have one of them, but you lot won’t be headed there.” Auntie Martha shook her head sternly,. “I’ve got some herbs that’ll help with the pain. Hold still, love.”

Reaching into a pocket on her apron, Auntie Martha pulled out a small pouch and dumped its contents into the water. A heavy yet pleasant herbal scent filled the air as Auntie Martha took one of the cloths from the edge of the pot, dunking it into the steaming water. Though it was hot enough to turn her hands pink, she soaked the cloth for a few moments, wrung out the excess water, and then gently wrapped it around Nella’s leg.

Almost immediately, the lines on Nella’s face began to ease. The cold that had gripped Evan’s heart for the past few days let go as he watched her lean back against the table with a heavy sigh. Auntie Martha smiled, gently shifting Nella’s leg to a stool.

“We’ll just let that soak for a bit,” She said, “Now, are any of you hungry? I’ve got plenty of good corn stew all ready to eat!”

“Yes please!” Evan said before he could stop himself. His stomach growled loudly in response, and behind him Roland huffed softly. Evan turned with a pout; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before! Of course he was hungry! Nella smiled and opened her eyes.

“It has been a while since we had anything to eat,” She said in what Evan found to be the biggest understatement of the month, “That would be very nice, thank you.”

Moments later, Evan found himself tucking in to a bowl of thick corn stew, barely remembering to say thank you and even less still remembering his years of etiquette lessons and how to eat properly. Roland and Nella exchanged an amused glance over his head, but Auntie Martha outright laughed.

"Goodness! You poor dears must be starvin'! Help yourselves! There's plenty more where that came from."

This time, Evan didn’t forget his manners. The four of them sat at Auntie Martha’s table and enjoyed their meal, too busy eating to really speak. As they ate from the simple wooden bowls, Evan kept catching glimpses of the little creatures padding around the cottage, flickers of bright colors as the creatures avoided the group. More than once, he saw Roland look in the direction of where a creature was looking at him, but he never seemed to be able to really see them. Why was that, Evan wondered. Did it have something to being from another world? If it was, did that mean Nella could see them?

He glanced at her, but her eyes were only on her food even as several of the little things stared at her leg, bright spots of color against the humble stone floor.

No, he thought. She couldn’t see them either. He frowned around his spoon. If he got the chance, he’d have to ask Auntie Martha what they were and what made a person be able to see them. Asking now while Nella and Roland were the room seemed the…not so smart idea.

When the meal came to a close, Roland stood up and began to gather up the bowls.

“Martha—”

“Auntie Martha, dear.”

“Auntie Martha,” Roland corrected himself with an odd grimace, “why did you say we wouldn’t be going to Goldpaw?”

Auntie Martha blinked at him, then shook her head.

“Well, you see, Goldpaw is in the Calmlands, and you’d have to pass through the Heartlands to get there. Now, that usually ain’t a problem at this time of year, but…”

“But?” Nella leaned on the table, frowning. “I realize it’s a long journey, but with adequate preparations…”

“Oh, aye, but do those adequate preparations prepare you for sky pirates?” Auntie Martha asked with a frown. Nella leaned back as Evan jerked his head up. Roland stopped, mid-reach for a bowl.

“Sky pirates?” The three of them asked in unison. Auntie Martha nodded, frowning deeply.

“Aye. The most miserable lot of the buggers took root up in Cloudcoil Canyon, and you’d have to go right past ‘em to reach the Heartlands! No.” She shook her head, “No, it’s best to wait out the fuss in Ding Dong Dell and try for the healers there, dears.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. Evan stared at the table, tracing a knot in the wood with one finger.

“…We can’t go back.” He said finally, quietly. “We…I…”

“We worked in the Castle,” Roland said easily, startling Evan into looking up. It wasn’t a complete lie, but… “Chancellor Mausinger staged a coup yesterday. It was leave or die, and I don’t think they’ll be happy to see us back.”

Auntie Martha’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “So all that hubble and bubble was a coup, was it? Blessed spirits…” She shook her head with a frown. “Always thought those royals were a bit of a bunch, but to do such a thing…how old was that new king of theirs?”

“Twelve years old.” Nella said gently. Evan looked back at the table, his stomach flipping. Suddenly the corn stew was no longer so pleasant. “Mausinger betrayed him. Betrayed all of us.”

“Leavin’ you with no home and no way but forward.” Auntie Martha sighed. “Aye. Still,” She looked up at Roland, who had gone to the little washtub beside the firepit and rolled up his sleeves to begin cleaning the bowls. “It’s one risky chance you’d be taking. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Evan said, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath and looked up. “We have to go.”

“Have to, dearie?” Auntie Martha asked him with an odd look on her face, “Absolutely positively have to?”

Evan clenched his fists into the material of his trousers. “Absolutely positively yes.” And not only because they needed to get Nella to a proper healer, though that was his utmost priority, but because he needed to prove that he could still rule. Maybe only to himself, but at the very least he had to try. “It doesn’t matter if it’s pirates or monsters. We need to get through the canyon even if that means clearing a way by hand.”

Even if he wasn’t quite sure he was strong enough to do that himself. For a long moment, silence filled the cottage. Auntie Martha looked Evan up and down as if she was searching for something in his bearing or posture, but if she found it he couldn’t tell. Slowly, she sat back.

“Well then.” She said, “I can see I won’t be the one to change your minds. Alright.” She stood up. “But at least stay the night. It’s quite a journey and you’ll need some supplies before settin’ off that way.”

“We don’t want to impose—”

Auntie Martha cut Nella off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be silly, love. Do you see anyone else around here? What use have I got for traveling herbs and the like? Let me gather the stuff.” Rising from her stool she padded off into a door Evan hadn’t noticed, the little creatures trailing after her like ducklings. “Have yourselves some more stew!”

The door clicked shut behind her. All three of them exchanged glances, then sighed. Evan almost groaned.

Somehow this was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he’d ever thought possible.

[arte072]

None of which stopped Arya, of course. One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. -   AGoT Sansa I

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody.  -   AGoT Sansa I

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father's table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her "Arya Underfoot," because he said that was where she always was. She'd liked that a lot better than "Arya Horseface."  - AGoT Arya II

Margaery hailed them when the two columns met and fell in beside the queen's litter. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown ringlets tumbling loosely about her shoulders, stirred by every puff of wind. "We have been picking autumn flowers in the kingswood," she told them.

I know where you were, the queen thought. Her informers were very good about keeping her apprised of Margaery's movements. Such a restless girl, our little queen. She seldom let more than three days pass without going off for a ride. Some days they would ride along the Rosby road to hunt for shells and eat beside the sea. Other times she would take her entourage across the river for an afternoon of hawking. The little queen was fond of going out on boats as well, sailing up and down the Blackwater Rush to no particular purpose. When she was feeling pious she would leave the castle to pray at Baelor's Sept. She gave her custom to a dozen different seamstresses, was well-known amongst the city's goldsmiths, and had even been known to visit the fish market by the Mud Gate for a look at the day's catch. Wherever she went, the smallfolk fawned on her, and Lady Margaery did all she could to fan their ardor. She was forever giving alms to beggars, buying hot pies off bakers' carts, and reining up to speak to common tradesmen. - AFfC  Cersei VI

I just think Arya and Margaery are neat and would really get along  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So here they are getting some street food together~ 

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Trust In Them

Prompts:

Merlin prompt! Merlin has trust issues and really isn't sure he can actually trust the knights. Thing is, the knights have all thought they've been friends with Merlin for years and years and thought Merlin would trust them with (almost) anything - augustwritessometimes 

I've been reading all your fics today and let me tell you it was all so WONDERFUL! You're literally amazing and like omg all your fics bring me so much joy

(im so sorry)

... Are you still accepting prompts? I know you just finished a lot of stories but I'm so excited to see your take on Arthur and the knights knowing that Dragoon the great is Merlin! Merlin thinks he can get away with anything cause no one knows who Dragoon truly is when in fact. Everyone knows who he truly is. Like Arthur purposelly not allowing Merlin to leave when Dragoon is needed, or maybe Gwaine keeps on commenting on how familiar Dragoon looks like idk i suck at ideas sjsjsj I'm a bit new to the fandom so sorry if I make mistakes!! 

And you dont have to do it, i dont want to come across as forcing or anything hehe :>

Thanks!! - anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Merlin’s got some trust issues, that’s about it

Pairings: merthur, can be platonic or romantic I don’t care

Word Count: 4652

Elyan thinks Merlin is one of the most creative men he’s ever met, Percival thinks he’s one of the strongest. Gwaine thinks Merlin is one of the bravest men he’s ever met, Leon thinks Merlin is one of the luckiest men he’s ever known. Lancelot thinks Merlin is one of the most compassionate men he’s ever known, Arthur thinks Merlin is the biggest idiot in the world.

Merlin thinks he's none of that.

Only one of them is incorrect.

  Elyan thinks Merlin is one of the most creative men he’s ever met, Percival thinks he’s one of the strongest. 

Certainly, being a sorcerer in Camelot is no mere feat, especially not one that is so close to the royal family. Uther’s mere presence is enough to send most sorcerers running for cover—or so they’ve been told—and the man’s stance on magic and the fear he seeds through the land is more than enough to make up for anything else. 

Hell, the tales of the Witchfinder and the terror he swept through the land were enough to make the both of them extremely glad they hadn’t served as knights during that time. 

How Merlin managed to not only survive, but to thwart the man rivals some of the best battle stories Percival’s heard, including those that Gwaine tells when he’s drunk. Yes, Merlin’s muttered half-admissions and the pieces they’re able to drag out of him when he lets them are more interesting and entertaining than whatever fantasies a drunk Gwaine can muster up. Yes, they tell him that to his face, too. 

Elyan half wonders if Merlin has a list of stories or excuses written down somewhere. After all, he didn’t get to be the blacksmith in town by memorizing everything. Muscle memory, sure, and getting used to a pattern of thinking, but there were lists and notes and his father’s hands at his and his sister’s sides. 

Merlin is alone. 

Mostly alone. 

From what Leon tells, he’s been able to spin lies effective enough to ensure most of the nobles don’t look twice at him. The servants adore him—no surprise there, to be honest—and no one ever suspects him of sorcery. Although there are moments where someone will point fingers at Merlin or corner him, and well, that’s what they’re there for. 

Arthur is particularly fond of the story where Merlin burst into the council chambers, screaming out a confession and he’d swept him up into his arms, assuring them that Merlin was just an idiot off his head, nothing to worry about. Merlin had glared at him after that but he hadn’t been carted off for treason. A win, then. 

Elyan shakes his head as he watches Merlin fumble an excuse as he ducks around one of the older sword masters. “That must be part of it, mustn’t it?”

“What, the bumbling act?” Percival crosses his arms. “Yes, I think so.”

“Make himself look like much less of a target, too innocent.”

“He’s a small man.”

“He really isn’t.”

“Is too. Weighs less than a tankard of mead, he does.” Percival nods toward Merlin’s skinny figure. “If he turned sideways, you’d mistake him for a broomstick.”

Elyan swats Percival’s shoulder. 

“What? It’s true. And it helps him. A man like that, most people won’t look twice at.”

“And that makes him strong?”

Percival huffs. “You know men. Most would crow out their own importance to the mountains and the seas if they could, just so the world would notice them. Merlin’s not like that. He lets himself get overlooked.”

“That makes him smart.”

“And strong. Not many men I know who have that strength in themselves.”

“What’re you two talking about?” Merlin stops in front of them, fiddling with the buckle. “Aren’t you supposed to be training?”

“We’re waiting for you,” Elyan says, “Arthur wants you with us.”

“I’m sure he does.” Merlin rolls his eyes and starts down the corridor. “Come on, then.”

Percival glances down as they turn the corner, smiling as he sees the soft click of the leather coming apart in Merlin’s hand. “You’re good at that.”

Merlin’s hands twitch. “Just…used to the work, I guess.”

He and Elyan exchange a smile over Merlin’s shoulders. Strong, smart, whichever it is, he’s Merlin. They’re happy to help him practice his excuses. 

2. 

Gwaine thinks Merlin is one of the bravest men he’s ever met. 

He’s not talking about running into harm’s way without a care in the world except for what you’re protecting behind you, even though Merlin does an excellent job of that too. He’s not talking about swigging from the cup you know is poisoned because it will keep another man from doing it, even though Merlin’s done that, what, three times now? And he’s not talking about jumping in front of a sword without hesitation, even though Merlin is giving them all heart attacks every time he does it despite them all knowing he’ll be fine. 

No. He’s talking about when you walk through a space where your very existence is enough to make you hated and feared, and holding your head up anyway. 

He’s not too proud to admit he doesn’t understand it. Why Merlin chooses to stay. When the halls ring and whisper with how awful magic is, how awful sorcerers are, and he knows that if anyone so much as suspects he’s a sorcerer, he’ll be dragged off to a pyre before he can blink.

But no matter how many times magic falls at the wrong end of Camelot’s blade, Merlin’s there. Without fail, he’s there with a quip and that smile that makes all of them want to make sure nothing awful ever befalls him. He stays next to Arthur’s side like he was born to be there, even as the hatred against magic seeps into the walls themselves. 

He doesn’t understand it. 

Gwaine is not a fool. He knows the look in people’s eyes when they decide they disagree with your existence. In all his travels, he’s been on the wrong end of some of those stares and on occasion, some of those blades. Those that spit at him in the streets for being who he is and run him out with the promise of burning forevermore if he dares continue on like this. He brushes them off his shoulders like dust from the road and travels on, to hopefully friendlier pastures. 

But he isn’t a sorcerer, he’s only a lover. 

Merlin, though? Merlin doesn’t run. He doesn’t shy away from the stares they give him, from the whispers he hears in the walls. He doesn’t do any of that. 

He stays. With a smile on his face and sure hands, he stays. 

That makes him the bravest of all of them. 

And sometimes, he just wants Merlin to know he’s not alone. 

Come on, Dragoon? Really? That’s just ‘dragon’ with an extra ‘o.’ And sure, maybe it’s subtle enough to fly over the heads of the truly unobservant—hello, Uther Pendragon, may he rest in peril—but not enough for the knights. So maybe he makes a few jokes about Dragoon looking familiar, or his voice sounding like a friend’s, or something, just so Merlin knows it’s okay. 

That even the bravest should feel no shame in reaching out every once in a while.

3. 

Leon thinks Merlin is one of the luckiest men he’s ever known. 

Is the man a sorcerer? Yes. Does he possess enough power to overthrow all of Camelot should he see fit? Most likely. Is he one of the most charismatic men Leon’s ever heard speak? When he wants to be, yes, he could persuade the world. 

Is he also one of the stupidest, risk-taking bastards Leon’s ever had to protect? 

You have no idea. 

Merlin is a sorcerer. You would think, then, that Merlin would understand that since he is in Camelot, a kingdom that is notorious for being unsafe for sorcerers, that he would do his best to keep that quiet. You know, not casting magic in the middle of the day, in the open, in the training fields with everyone around and not just the knights he knows and trusts, on the Crown Prince himself. 

If you’re wondering why that sounds like a very pointed, specific example, it’s because it is. 

Four times. 

Four. 

Each time, Leon has to remind himself that bashing his head against his helmet in these types of situations is counterproductive, because at least one of them has to retain some semblance of common sense. Each time, though, the temptation gets a little stronger. He’s managed to resist…so far. 

That’s not to say that Merlin doesn’t have his moments of brilliance. And sure, perhaps there are more things to a man than his intelligence, but the luck sometimes of what he can get away with makes Leon think that if all of Camelot were blessed so, there would be an everlasting harvest and peace for all eternity. 

And that’s certainly not going to happen. 

And sometimes still, there are moments where Merlin’s luck makes Leon’s breath catch in his throat. 

“You, boy,” one of the visiting nobles snarls, “I saw you with my sword earlier. And now its balance is all off. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says stubbornly, because he’s right and he’s done nothing, but the noble doesn’t think so, “I haven’t touched your sword.”

The noble snarls and thrusts it at him. Leon steps forward, his hand on his own blade. 

“I don’t believe you, boy,” the noble says in a low, dangerous voice, “and I think it’s high time someone taught you a lesson.”

The light glints off the blade and Leon moves, ready to intercept, to call for the noble to stop—

“That’s not your sword!”

Merlin’s cry makes both men freeze, Leon’s eyes fixed on the two in front of him as the noble slowly withdraws the blade. Merlin’s breaths still ring a bit heavy as the man examines the pommel of the sword. 

“It’s not yours,” Merlin repeats, quieter, pointing at the hilt, “see? It’s one of the training swords.”

The noble glares at him. “You got lucky, boy.”

“…yes, sire.”

The noble stomps away as Leon breathes a sigh of relief, coming up and resting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Are you alright, my friend?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Merlin gives himself a little shake. “Lucky he picked up the wrong sword, right?”

“Yes,” Leon says with a soft smile, “lucky, indeed.”

4. 

Lancelot thinks Merlin is one of the most compassionate men he’s ever known. 

He sees it in the way Merlin offers up the last of his food to a pair of children hiding in the shadows. They’re on their way back from the town, Gwaine’s drunken voice still chorusing loudly behind them. Lancelot pulls his cloak a little closer around his shoulders, opening one arm to offer some of the warmth to Merlin. Merlin shakes him off, saying he’s fine, it’s not that far a walk, when something stops them. He pauses, his hands still on the basket he’s to bring back to Gaius. Lancelot asks him if something’s wrong and he shakes his head, turning to spot the pair staring out at him. He hands over the basket and instructs them to keep warm, not noticing Lancelot’s soft smile. 

He sees it in the way Merlin patches up one of the squires after a particularly nasty training day. The squire yelps when a staff connects with a rough part of his armor, digging into his arm until he bleeds. The others laugh at him, call him a child, a puppy, and don’t acknowledge the harm they’ve done as they go back inside. Merlin helps the man to a bench, quietly directing him until he can get at the wound, tending to it with the skill of a physician and the care of a brother. He dries the squire’s tears and makes him smile as Lancelot keeps the others away. 

He sees it in the way Merlin sits by Arthur’s side in the council rooms. The council is old, used to Uther Pendragon, and not at all accustomed to new ideas and practices when someone younger brings them in. Arthur is stern, steadfast, and sits in his authority as someone who should. He is the focal point in the room, someone who is to be respected and honored when he speaks. And Merlin supports him by not saying a word. It can go unspoken, sometimes, as it should, how important silence can be as a way of showing solidarity. Arthur blossoms in the council room with Merlin by his side as Lancelot and the knights watch. 

And so, Lancelot wants to make sure Merlin never has to serve from an empty cup. 

When Merlin’s hands shake as he tries to carry the entire weight of the knights’ armor by himself, Lancelot is always there to swoop in by his side. He takes the heaviest of Merlin’s had without protest, shushing Merlin’s objections and laughing with him all the way to the armory. He tries to time it as best he can so Merlin delivers the punchline just as they walk in to see the others, grinning as Gwaine immediately takes him up on it, and soon the whole room is laughing with them. 

When Merlin is threatened by a noble or lord that’s gotten too big for his britches, he’s there to shove them aside and insist that Merlin has places to be, thank you very much, he’s needed away from you and your nastiness. He lets his cloak flare wide enough to cover the hallway and dissuade anyone from following him, just in case Merlin wants to grab his hand under the cover of red fabric. When Merlin does just that, wrapping his fingers carefully through Lancelot’s gloved ones, he squeezes as reassuringly as he can. 

When Merlin’s very existence is threatened by the anti-magic sentiments that occasionally sweep the castle, he’s there. He’s always there. He takes Merlin to Gaius’s chambers by claiming his assistance is needed and ushers him into the safety of his own room. He sits Merlin down on his little bed and carefully takes off his cloak, wrapping him in the warm fabric and removing the worst of his armor. If Merlin lets him, he wraps his arms around the poor man too and lets him cry his fear into his chest. 

Merlin is always there for the world, and so Lancelot will always be there for Merlin.

5. 

Arthur thinks Merlin is the biggest idiot he’s ever met. 

“Are you sure it’s this way?” Gwaine ducks around a tree branch. “We won’t be able to ride much further at this rate.”

“This is where Gaius said to come,” Merlin replies, deftly dodging a tree branch of his own. 

“And is Gaius sure it’s this way,” Arthur says, putting enough emphasis on the name that the knights snicker, “or are you both following some blind lead?”

“It’s this way.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. At some point, he hopes Merlin knows that he won’t be harmed if he doesn’t drag them all out of the castle on some strange mission to the middle of nowhere and instead just decides to tell them what they need to know in the safety of Arthur’s chambers. It’s not as if they need to make this more dramatic, even if it is nice to get out of a cursed Camelot every now and then. 

The thin tree branch that smacks him across the face certainly does make him reevaluate that, however. 

“It’s not much farther,” Merlin calls, “we’re almost there.”

“I hope so,” Elyan grumbles, “I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

“Maybe that’s a sigh you should ride more often.”

“I don’t need riding advice from you, Gwaine.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it—“

“On the contrary,” Gwaine says, drawing himself up and giving Elyan his best tavern wink, “I think everyone needs a little of my riding advice.”

As the groans go up through the trees, Arthur rides up next to Merlin. 

“How much longer,” he asks softly, “are you going to subject the rest of us to Gwaine’s awful jokes?”

“There.” Merlin points to a clearing up ahead. “That’s where it is.”

“Oh, thank god.”

The horses whinny and stamp as they get out of the worst of the woods, as thankful as their riders to be free of pesky branches and brambles. Gwaine shakes off his cloak as Percival squints at the ramshackle old shed. 

“Is that really where he lives?”

“This is the place.” Merlin glances at Arthur. “Don’t you recognize it?”

“Vaguely.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and gets down. “Wait here. I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

“‘Sure he’ll be along soon,’” Arthur hears Leon mutter under his breath, “my arse.”

If only people knew what the Most Honorable Knight in Camelot actually sounded like. 

“Where’re you off to,” Lancelot calls as the rest of them dismount and tie up the horses, “aren’t you waiting with us?”

“Uh—“ Merlin twitches— “I have to pee.”

“You went not ten minutes ago.”

“Well, I’ve got to go again.” He starts edging out of the way. “So, unless you want to come and watch…”

“I’ll come.”

“That was a joke, Gwaine.”

“And there’s a dangerous sorcerer who supposedly lives around here,” he says, undaunted, “I’m coming with you.”

“Me too,” Percival agrees, “I need a leak.”

“Then it’s sorted!”

Arthur watches as the three of them head off into the trees. He shakes his head. 

“Do you think this’ll be the day,” Leon murmurs and Lancelot comes over to join them, “the day he finally drops it?”

“I doubt it.”

Leon sighs. “So do I.”

“He must know,” Lancelot says quietly, “mustn’t he? That we’ll protect him?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

Eventually, the three of them return, Merlin still hovering uncomfortably far away from them. Arthur holds his arm out. 

“Come here, Merlin.”

“What? Why?”

“Like Gwaine said, dangerous sorcerer. Can’t protect you if you’re all the way over there.”

Merlin grumbles but does as he’s told, coming to stand in the middle of the knights as they all stare at the shed. 

“You said he’ll be here soon.”

Merlin shuffles. “Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

They wait. 

And wait.

And wait. 

“Maybe he’s out for the day,” Elyan suggests. 

“Gathering supplies?”

“Or food.”

Gwaine shrugs. “Maybe he’s at the tavern.”

Arthur feels Merlin grow completely still. 

“You know, I think I’ve seen him there before. Always did say he looked familiar.”

“He sounded familiar too,” Lancelot agrees, “something about him I always recognized.”

Merlin begins to tremble. 

“I think his eyes are the most memorable part of him,” Arthur can’t resist pushing, “I’ve seen them somewhere before.”

 Merlin’s head whips around to look at him. “A-Arthur—?”

“There,” Arthur says quietly, touching Merlin under the chin, “there they are.”

Like he said. Foolish man. 

+1.

Merlin has never been more terrified in his life. 

Arthur knows. Arthur knows. 

And now the knights know. The knights know and they’re Camelot’s knights and Camelot hates magic and Arthur is the ruler of Camelot and they’re here with him and Arthur knows and—and—

What is he going to have to do? He’s going to—does he let them kill him? He swore to serve Arthur until his dying day, he’s—if Arthur decides that day is here, that he dies here at the point of his sword, does he die? 

Arthur holds his loyalty, his magic, he always has. If Arthur says he dies, he dies. 

But he’s not ready to die. He doesn’t want to die, not when Arthur still needs help to be the Once and Future King, not when there are still so many snakes that surround him. He’s not ready for the knights’ eyes to burn black with hatred as they put him down like some rabid dog. He’s not ready to never see Arthur smile again. 

He doesn’t want to die. 

“Oh, Merlin,” he hears distantly, “come here, you petticoat.”

Arms. Arms around him. Is this how he dies?

“You’re not dying,” the voice says again, still soft and sweet in his ear, “relax, you fool, no one’s going to hurt you.”

Yes. Yes, they are. He’s betrayed them and he’s lied and he’s awful and he deserves to die but he doesn’t want to die—

“Shh, sweetheart,” the voice croons, warmth brushing his face, “that’s enough, now. You need to breathe.”

Breathing? Breathing isn’t dying. 

“That’s right, sweetheart, it isn’t. Come on, now, breathe.”

Merlin tries. Breathing is hard. Breathing does hurt, even when the voice assures him that it’s alright, that he’s supposed to breathe, something warm rubbing his chest to try and help. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” another voice murmurs as his legs collapse, “that’s it, lie down. We have you.”

He blinks. Something ginger flutters across his field of vision for a moment. Is that Leon? 

“Yes, Merlin, it’s me.”

“How come he recognizes you first?”

“He can see me, sire, he can’t see you.”

“Lancelot, come take his head. Make sure he can still breathe.”

“Merlin,” another voice says, as soft and sweet as the others, “stay with us, Merlin.”

Golden hair, golden son, red lips, red cheeks. 

Arthur.

“A-Arthur—“

“Shh,” the voice says, Arthur says, “don’t try and talk right now, sweetheart. You’re panicking, it’s going to hurt. You need to calm down first.”

Arthur wants him to calm down. He can try and calm down. 

“That’s right,” Arthur soothes, the warmth still on his chest, “calm down, that’s it. You’re doing well.”

“Lift your head,” Lancelot bids carefully, sliding something soft underneath, “there, that’s better.”

“Let me,” Leon says, shuffling closer to fit something to his mouth, “drink. It’ll help.”

Merlin swallows once, twice, three times. He blinks, coughs, and stares up. 

Arthur stares back at him, concern written all over his features. When Merlin finally makes eye contact, it fades into a quiet smile. 

“Hello, Merlin,” he says in a low voice, “welcome back.”

“What…what happened?”

“You had a panic attack,” Leon says, still as quiet, “it took a while to calm you back down.”

“Oh.”

“Is he alright?”

“Is that Gwaine?”

“And Elyan and Percival,” Arthur says, “keeping watch.”

“W-watch?”

“Well, he says, smile turning the softest bit teasing, “there’s a sorcerer around here, isn’t there?”

And just like that, Merlin’s eyes widen as his chest clenches. “A-Arthur—“

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” Arthur soothes immediately—what?— “I’m not angry, no one’s angry. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

It takes a long time for them all to assure Merlin that yes, he’s safe, no, they’re not going to kill him, and yes, they knew he was a sorcerer.

“I didn’t tell a soul,” Lancelot promises, “they just…knew.”

Gwaine and Elyan put up a little bit of a stink about Merlin not telling them, and Leon simply rolls his eyes and says in his kind way that Merlin should be better at hiding it, but Arthur just shakes his head and rests his forehead against Merlin’s. 

“You’re my Merlin,” he says softly, “of course I knew. And no, I don’t care.”

Merlin is going to need a few more moments to process this, please. 

“Take all the time you need,” Lancelot encourages, running his hand through Merlin’s hair, “we can wait.”

Arthur wraps his hand through Merlin’s as the knights settle on the floor. 

“So, wait, when did you lot figure it out?”

“The troll.”

“The bandit fight where one of their spears just impaled them out of nowhere.”

“When I walked past Gaius screaming about how you need to keep your magic a secret with the door wide open in the middle of the day.”

Leon rolls his eyes. “The foolish apple does not fall far from the foolish tree.”

“Come on,” Lancelot urges, hands under Merlin’s shoulders, “let’s get you inside, it’s no good baking in this heat.”

Merlin is still trying to catch up with what’s happening, thank you very much. Arthur looks down, rolling his eyes—fondly?—and wraps an arm under Merlin’s neck. 

“Come on, you clotpole—“ that was meant to be an insulting word, you prat, not a pet name— “let’s get you inside.”

He carries Merlin into the shed as the knights follow. Percival whips off his cloak and lays it over the worn straw mattress and wooden slats. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Arthur lays him down, taking Lancelot’s balled-up cloak and putting it under his head. “I don’t suppose you thought ahead enough to make sure there was food in this house, did you?”

“Uh,” is Merlin’s eloquent response. 

“Here,” Gwaine says suddenly, offering a canteen and a piece of dried meat, “this’ll do.”

Merlin fumbles for the items. 

They’re…they’re not mad? They’re not—but he—

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice says firmly, “drink.”

He drinks. 

“Good. Now eat. You’ve gotten skinnier these past few weeks.”

“Been busy,” he mumbles around the meat, “other things t’ worry ‘bout.”

Elyan snorts. “I’ll say. We’ve had more sorcerers trying to give you a run for your money.”

Merlin chokes on the meat. 

“What he means,” Leon says, smacking Elyan’s arm, “is that you’ve been trying to fight a war as a single man, Merlin. That’s enough to make anyone tired.”

“And you’ve not exactly given yourself a break,” Lancelot adds. 

“Not that Princess here has been helpful.”

“Oi!”

“He’s not wrong, sire.”

“That’s treason, Leon.”

Leon just meets his gaze unflinching. “So dismiss me.”

Arthur glares at him for a moment longer before he rolls his eyes. “You lot are more loyal to Merlin than you are to me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Eh.”

“He’s a good man.”

“In some ways, sire.”

Leon just shrugs. “You’re a package deal, Arthur. We don’t get one without the other.”

“I suppose you’re right, I—“ Arthur cuts himself off when he notices the tears rolling down Merlin’s face— “Merlin?”

Warm hands on his face a moment later, brushing the tears from his cheeks. 

“Hey, hey,” Arthur says, voice warm and soft, tenderly cupping Merlin’s head in his hands, “what’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry,” is all he can babble, “I’m—I’m sorry—“

“Shh, shh, I’m not mad. Look at me, I’m not mad, am I?”

“B-but—“

“Hush,” Arthur murmurs, tucking Merlin’s hair behind his ears, “I’m not mad. No, no—don’t argue with me. I’m not mad. Neither are the knights.”

Someone makes a noise and is promptly shushed by everyone else. 

“But I’m a sorcerer,” Merlin protests, his throat screaming at him to try and keep the words inside, “I—I—“

“Yes, you are, and you’re Merlin.” Arthur smiles and lightly tugs his hair. “Which means we don’t care.”

Merlin’s eyes widen and his mouth goes slack. 

“I think you broke him,” Lancelot murmurs. 

“Merlin? Merlin?”

“Y-you don’t?”

“Well, this isn’t exactly how we pictured you finally admitting it to all of us,” Gwaine remarks wryly, “but no, Merlin. None of us care.”

“Now—oh. Oh, dear,” Arthur mumbles as Merlin bursts into tears, properly, “oh, alright, come here, you big softy.”

It’s alright, young warlock, something whispers as arms wrap around him, this is your destiny. 

[forthegothicheroine]

Hi!! So I don't really know if this counts as a headcanon request per se, but... I was wondering what the Princess of Swords LIs initial reactions to Rowena being kidnapped were? Because by the time we see them they're all basically in rescue mode, so I was curious as to what they were like when they first realized. (Also, I'm super glad you're continuing PoS and I can't wait for the next part!)

This is a great question, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to answer! It is a lot of fun thinking about this stuff! It's also a good chance to think about what feelings they were already starting to have for Rowena at the time. I think we can assume that after she vanished while riding, if Arthur and his knights couldn't tell from any trails left behind where she'd gone, then Merlin made sure to give helpful clues to speed the plot along (a wizard did it!)

Lancelot liked Rowena, though he was also dealing with a crush on Guinevere that had not yet fully blossomed (at least, not in his path!) He accepted her favor on an impulse, but still took his role as her champion deadly seriously. In "The Knight of the Cart", his original story, much is made of Lancelot just fucking bolting on foot and horse and cart when he learned Guinevere had been kidnapped, and I think that probably happened here, especially if he was propelled by an explosion of anger because how dare this happen to her.

Gawain rocket-propels himself into action much like Lancelot, but he'd be a lot more optimistic about being able to save her. While I generally prefer the "flower of chivalry" Gawain from poems like The Green Knight, I do like him to have at least a touch of Mort D'Arthur's "dangerously unstable hothead". Of course that medieval dickweed Maleagant kidnapped a princess, someone was going to have to do something about him sooner or later, but now time is imperative that the princess-kidnapper get his shit wrecked!

Kay liked Rowena a bit against his own will, and I imagine dealt with three reactions- "I'm going to go take care of this right now!", "Let some younger man do it, I've never been anyone's epic hero" and "What if a younger guy fucks around showing off or looking for glorious fights and gets her killed?" (Pointed look towards Lancelot and Gawain.) This would lead to the knightly version of those latter-day westerns where the aging gunslinger gets out his coat and weapon because someone has to do something, even if it has to be him.

Morgan spent her whole life clawing her way towards a place where nobody could ever hurt her, so while there would be some of Lancelot's rage, there would also be a deep and profound fear that this sweet girl could be placed in danger with none of her own defenses to help her. She'd helped Arthur before but rarely went on her own "quests", but this one was extremely personal. Someone should have been there for her mother, too.

Mordred, of course, didn't know Rowena had been kidnapped until he saw her in the tower! He was already falling for her, but in that moment, when he saw that she was in danger because this lowlife he was manipulating put his hands on her, he made an instantaneous decision that her safety was more important than any immediate scheming he had going on. It wasn't even a question.

Arthur hadn't done much personal riding to the rescue since the last war, but if there was any chance his presence could bring Rowena back safely, he would go. He would feel immensely guilty because Camelot was supposed to be a safe place where this sort of raiding by the nobility didn't happen, and now someone he'd become fond of in a short time was in danger because he had failed. (He's also probably the only one to have the thought that if she died it might mean war with Ireland, but that was an additional weight on top of everything else.) He also felt guilty again afterwards when Guinevere pointed out that if she'd been kidnapped he would have sent Lancelot to rescue her. He worried that she was right.

[jaedreaminn]

Cupcakes

Summary

You were just on your way to deliver cupcakes to the Royal Family, you didn't plan on getting engaged to their youngest son.

Not like you were complaining though.

Parings: Jaemin x fem!reader

Theme: Royalty Au, fluff, humour, angst (but if you blink you miss it)

Characters: Jaemin, Jeno, Mark, Chenle, Jisung, Haechan, Yuta, Taeyong, OC «mentioned» Hendery.

Word Count: 4.5k

You happily skipped down the muddy road as you made your way to the palace.

It’s been a while since you’ve gone to there, considering how you frequented there as a child.

Now however, you were on your way to deliver a last minute batch of cupcakes the palace had ordered for- well some event that was none of your business.

Normally, palaces had their own chefs who were very skilled so it wasn’t a common occurrence that the small bakery in the lower part of town got a palace order. But the Royal Family had come to love the cupcakes your brother made after trying it once and well the rest was history.

“I’m here to deliver 50 cupcakes for the Royal Family” You grinned and the guard eyed your worn out frock and scuffled sandals with a frown.

“The Royal Highnesses have their own pastry chef” He sneered and you frowned, hand reaching to your satchel to pull out the scroll with the Royal seal on it.

“Look, I’m not lying” you said showing the guard the scroll with the order but instead of apologising and letting you in he snatched the scroll and growled at you, “It’s illegal to impersonate the Royal Seal you know”

“But I-“

“Move along little girl I don’t have time for your foolishness” he said shoving the scroll back into your arms and shoving you away. Tears threatened to prickle the sides of your eyes but you didn’t let them fall but instead held your head up high like your brother had taught you too and stepped forward.

“I do not want to fail this simple task the Royal family gave me because of some imbecile guard, you either let me in or find someone who will” you said, trying your best to glare at the man in front of you.

“How dare you” he said grabbing hold of your arm as he raised his other hand, ready to hit you. You shut your eyes bracing yourself for the impact but a voice stopped the guard.

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice that you recognised all too well said venomously. You opened your eyes, eyes darting to where the sound came from only to be met with stern cold eyes.

“Y-your Highnesses” The guard immediately let go you your arm and bowed. You frowned rubbing your arm as you glared at the guard.

“This peasant was trying to impersonate the Royal Seal” he spoke and you scoffed.

“That couldn’t have been true, I remember personally writing and sending that scroll” The raven head spoke with narrowed eyes as you smirked.

“I-I I didn’t, I didn’t know your Highness” The guard stuttered and you had to try your best not to snicker.

“You are relieved from you duty..” the boy spoke eyeing the tall guard, “For good” he then added ignoring the pleading man who was being dragged away and making his way towards you.

“Princess” He bowed and you smiled bowing back.

“Hello Nana” you grinned at the boy who gave you a small smile back.

“I still don’t understand why you insist on living as a baker girl, you’re worth more than cheap frocks and scuffed up boots” Jaemin said with a frown.

“I tell you this every time you ask me Jaemin, after my parents died I had to freedom to do whatever I wanted but I’d still remain royalty. I thought I might as well live like a commoner until it lasts and I get married off” you said with a small humourless laugh.

Jaemins eyes softened, as he took hold of your cart and started to walk past the gates into the palace.

“You know my parents would never just marry you off” he said and you smiled knowingly. You knew his parents wouldn’t but the council men didn’t seem to be fond of the idea.

“I know” you said in a whisper, smiling reassuringly at the boy.

“Especially to someone you don’t want to be with” he added and you smiled, a sad smile.

“I want to be with you but that’s never going to happen” you said bitterly remembering how badly the court took the news of a blossoming romance between you and Jaemin.

Jaemins family ruled the neighbouring kingdom that had captured your country but still let your family and parents rule it, but when they died so suddenly when you were just a little girl it was but obvious that the Na’s were taking charge of your nation.

The Na’s were very sweet and very nurturing and caring of you. You were still treated like Royalty but alas you weren’t their child and some people in the high court made an issue out if it.

And so when you asked them if you could go live with your first cousin the baker (whom you considered your brother because before he left the palace the two of you basically grew up together) they didn’t object but they weren’t thrilled.

That however didn’t stop the romance blossoming between you and the Na’s youngest son. And his parents couldn’t have been more supportive but there was this stinky old man in the high court that always caused trouble and it was because of his convincingly evil words that you two couldn’t be together.

Well you couldn’t get married without it sparking trouble in the high court, that didn’t mean you two couldn’t be together while it lasted.

“Yes it’s going to happen! We’re going to be together” Jaemin said stopping abruptly and you frowned. You really didn’t like fake hope.

“Jaem..”

“Princess!” You heard a voice exclaim and both of you turned your heads in the direction of the voice. You smiled upon seeing who it was.

“Lord Lee” you smiled, a teasing glint in your eye and Jeno groaned.

“It’s annoying every time” he complained about the title, coming to stand next to you. He eyes travelled towards the carriage and immediately lit up.

“Are those..?” Jeno asked and you nodded with a smile, “Help yourself” you said and Jeno immediately darted towards the carriage ready to grab a cupcake when Jaemin swatted his hand with a pout.

“Get your own”

“It was you who said what’s mine is yours so now move” Jeno said shoving Jaemin aside and you chuckled.

“I knew I smelt cupcakes!” You heard another voice and grinned when you saw who it was.

“Sir Mark” you said with a grin and Mark blushed. “Not you too, it still sounds so foreign”

“How did this blushing mess of a boy even become a knight” Chenle said popping up from no where and you smiled at the boy, pointing at the cart. His eyes immediately lit up as he went to help himself to a cupcake.

“Taeyong hyung really out does himself” Jeno said moaning as he took a bite of the sweet treat.

“Yes and you boys forcing me to increase his already heavy workload does nothing to help him” Jaemin said glaring at the others while munching on a cupcake himself.

“Ahh Taeyong has a lot of help” you smiled and Chenle looks at you pointedly.

“Not me silly our neighbours” you say and you hear Jaemin huff.

“Jisung is an absolute darling but Donghyuck gosh I really don’t like him! Why couldn’t I have been your neighbour rather than that baboonic imbecile.” Jaemin complained and you chuckled.

“Oh c’mon he didn’t know you were Royalty!” You exclaimed, defending your favourite neighbour, who could agreeably be quite boisterous.

“He still shouldn’t treat someone the way he did me” Jaemin said with a petulant pout.

“Well you were dressed in commoners clothes, glaring at him for no reason while using such big words” you said, glaring at the boy in return.

“The young Prince’s jealousy knows no bounds” Chenle snickered, covering his mouth with his hand in a sorry attempt to hide it.

“You people just aren’t used to small town life” you argued and Mark nodded.

“It surely was an experience… Small town life and Lee Donghyuck” Mark said dreadfully and everyone laughed remembering the story Mark had told all of you about how Donghyuck had dragged him around town when Jaemin brought Mark along to distract the boy.

“But his brother is an absolute saint!” Jaemin exclaimed and you smiled, in those short, rare visits Jaemin made to town in disguise, he had come to grow very fond of Jisung and you couldn’t even blame him, the kid was very lovable.

“I don’t know from what you people tell me he sounds like he has poop hands” Chenle said with a shrug and you smiled, the young Lord wasn’t all that off.

“He does! That’s why Taeyong doesn’t let him anywhere near his kitchen, just send him to run some errands here and there” you say and Chenle smiles.

“Jeno that’s your fifth cupcake you’re going to get a bellyache” Mark says glaring at the boy who was quietly munching on cupcakes this whole time.

“Jeno hyung” Chenle said rolling his eyes, helping Mark drag Jeno away from the cupcake cart as they waved goodbye to you.

“These are the moments I live for” you said to Jaemin, as you smiled and waved goodbye. Jaemin stood there looking at you wave, smiling because you were.

“I know you like to live in the moment and not think about the future. But I promise you, you are in my future” Jaemin says, eyes shining with determination as he holds onto your hand giving it a squeeze. And for just this moment you let yourself harbour unrealistic hope.

But Na Jaemin has always proven to be a man of his word. “Where’s mother and Father?” He asks his brother Yuta once he steps inside the throne room.

“If I’d known I wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for them would I?” His older brother, the next King, chuckled.

Jaemin sighed with a nod, missing the way Yuta was grinning at him.

“I’m taking you met y/n again?” Yuta asked with a raised eyebrow and Jaemin solemnly nodded walking towards his brother.

“I want to be with her, but everyone seems to be against that idea” Jaemin sighed and Yuta smiled patting his brothers head.

“Old man Kim has always been a pain in our parents ass and he’s soon going to be a pain in mine. Be he can’t pass snide remarks and rile up to court if he is wrong.” Yuta said with a , hinting at something and Jaemin looked at him confused.

“I’m saying as a prince, and as the Royal Family’s second born you are made to memorize the most basic rules that glare at you in the face in that book but there are always more rules and… exceptions” Yuta said with a playful smirk and Jaemins eyes widened, smiling with mischief.

Of course! The Archives have all the rule and exceptions to the rules!

Jaemin bolted out of the room and rushed to the parlour. “Jeno! Jeno where are you? Jeno!” He yelled in search of his friend and partner in crime.

“He’s not hear young prince” Chenle said shutting his book and glaring at the noise maker. “He’s training”

“Whyyy” Jaemin whined dramatically falling onto the soft sofa and Chenle cocked a brow. “To protect you in the future?”

“Chenle! “Jaemin then sprang up clapping his hands and smiling at the boy with a very plotting grin. Hesitantly Chenle said “..Yes?”

“Come help me!” Jaemin pleaded and Chenle was about to refuse but found himself just letting Jaemin drag him to the archives, not having the heart to deny the Prince who requested his assistance with such bright and hopeful eyes, a contrast to his normal demeanour.

And that’s how both the boys found themselves in the Royal archives, sitting on one circular messy table with books and scrolls stacked or left open scattered around the table, reading through all the lesser known rules and exceptions.

“We’re never going to find anything” Jaemin groaned throwing his head back in frustration, flipping through his eight book.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that” Chenle said smiling, and handing the book he was reading to Jaemin. As Jaemins eyes darted over the page that was open an evil smirk started taking over his features.

“Will this work?” Chenle asked with hopeful eyes and Jaemin nodded and then started looking around the table for something.

“What are you looking for?” Chenle asked, eyeing the boy curiously.

“A scroll that I read earlier, about a study” Jaemin said making the messy table messier in his search for the scroll.

Chenle rolled his eyes, resting back onto the chair, drained from all the non-fantasy reading he had to do today. As he slumped back onto his chair, something on the floor caught his eyes.

“Jaemin” he said catching the older boys attention and pointing at the piece of paper on the floor.

Upon picking up the paper the young Prince’s eyes lit up, “You’ve been my saviour twice today!” Jaemin exclaimed happily with a low laugh as he glanced at the contents of the scroll.

“Anything that makes you happy” The younger boy whispered to himself as he watched the prince make notes.

On Monday morning Jaemin walked into the council meeting with a pride, head held up high.

“Council” He said bowing to everyone in the room as everyone bowed back.

“I wish to marry princess Y/n” Jaemin spoke confidentially.

“Young lad we have already told you this kingdom does not benefit from a union between you and the princess at all! In fact it will look bad marrying a prisoner” old man Kim said glaring at Jaemin who glared back.

“It’s your Highness to you council man Kim” Jaemin glared at the man who sat on his seat looking taken back while his parents and brother tried hard not to snicker. “And how dare you call the princess who is protected and cared for by the Royal Family a prisoner?” Jaemin said still glaring at the man who immediately looked frightened and only got more scared once he saw the glaring faces of the King and Queen.

“B-but she still isn’t beneficial to the kingdom your highness” Old man Kim stuttered.

“The law says the King is expected to marry someone of high status and power, who’s company brings the kingdom peace and good relationships.” Jaemin says reciting what he was taught and old man Kim seems to straighten up proud that he was right.

“However the law says expected, not obliged. If the King isn’t obliged nor am I. In fact ages ago King Cheoljong had and experiment conducted where he gave two commoners jobs in the high court to look after a small portion of land. One was allowed to do what he wanted to and marry whomever he wished to while the other was restricted by unreasonable laws and had to marry whoever the King thought was good for that small piece of land, a wealthy women if I must. The happier man with the happy stable marriage showed better fruits and the other man simply disappointed the King” Jaemin finished his little story with a smile sent to the council who was listening intently.

“Ever since then it was encouraged that the Royal Family’s happiness came before any bonds and treaties. But Council man Kim seems to be completely against my happiness for his own gain” Jaemin said glaring at the man and a few gasps were heard throughout the court.

“On what basis are you making such an accusation your highness? I only look out for you and the kingdom”

“Or is that what you want us to think? I hired private investigator Huang Guanheng and he seems to think differently” Jaemin smirks and Council man Kim straightens his posture, trying his best to look cool and composed.

“Is it or is it not true that you have a niece, Lady Jo Hwajin, daughter of Duke and Duchess Jo, whom you have promised a spot in this country among the Royals?” Jaemin asked and council man Kim was about to answer when he cut him off, “Remember lying to any member of the Royal Family is treason”,

Old man Kim seems to contemplate his answer before bowing his head in shame, “Yes your highness”

“And is it or is it not true that you were planning on forcing me to marry her” Jaemin asked with a raised eyebrow and council man Kim’s eyes widened.

“I-I would-“

“Be careful of what you say council man Kim” Jaemin said pulling out an envelope from his coat, holding it between his middle and pointer finger, “I haven’t come here making accusations unprepared”

“Yes your highness” old man Kim says bowing his head, avoiding eye contact. Jaemin smirked at that, he didn’t need to know the envelop was empty.

“Now a marriage like that doesn’t ensure peace or good relationship, but marrying y/n will just give our already trusting people more reason to trust and support our rule, she after all was their beloved King and Queens first born.” Jaemin said and his parents smiled at him.

“But your highness, my niece will ensure good relations with the Kingdom and Princess y/n hasn’t been talked about in ages. People might not even remember her” Old man Kim interrupted and Jaemin glared at him.

“You live comfortably in the high court Council Man Kim, I on the other hand have spent numerous days disguised as a commoner getting to know our people, are you suggesting you know more about them than I do?”

Old man Kim’s eyes widened comically as he stuttered out a response, “N-no you’re H-highness”

“Good” Jaemin said still glaring at the man and then turned to his parents.

“Since that matter is settled, Mother, Father and all council members, I wish to marry princess y/n” Jaemin says, eyes shinning with victory when his parents give him an approving nod when no one in the council objected.

“This order is ridiculously large” You grunt pushing the cart from behind.

“You can just sit this one out y/n” Taeyong says smiling at you with worry as you struggled with the cart. You nodded you head, grabbing onto the cart, eyes shining with determination as you were ready to march to the palace.

“Need help?” Haechan asked, with a smiling Jisung by his side.

“No it’s okay” you said and Taeyong frowned. “Yes we’d love the extra hands”

“Yay road trip!” Jisung exclaimed happily before you could protest.

“Yes!’ Haechan exclaimed, excitedly jumping towards you taking the cart from you hands as he started moving ahead before Taeyong could even tell him where you were going.

“Should we just let him realise he’s alone or should we stop and follow him?” Jisung asked in a whisper, leaning towards you and Taeyong and you chuckled while Taeyong glared at the youngest, chasing after and call Haechan.

“Huh I guess not” Jisung shrugged as the two of you followed the two men with the carts.

“Oh yes! I was told to expect you..just not so many of you” The guard at the door said, questioningly eyeing Jisung and Haechan when you reached the palace gates.

“About time!” Mark who was dressed casually said running towards you as you glared at the boy.

“Is he mad? I know for a fact that there isn’t any occasion in the palace why would he order so many cupcakes” you complained and Jisung and Haechan looked at you with wide eyes.

“Y/n we really love you and don’t want to see you beheaded so please don’t talk smack about the crown” Jisung whisper yelled and you and Mark chuckled.

“It’s her birth right to talk smack about the prince because if not y/n then who else” Jeno approached you, his eye smile on full display. And a quite Chenle followed him. It wasn’t like Chenle to be quite but you knew he was just eyeing the two new faces.

“Oh well y/n it was nice knowing you” Haechan said wiping a fake tear and Chenle smiled. You had a feeling they would get along just fine

“But there is a very special occasion” Chenle said with a sly smirk and you frowned. But before you could ask any questions the group had already started moving into the palace.

“Taeyong!” Yuta yelled approaching your small crowd after you made your way into the castle and Haechan and Jisung immediately bowed.

“Yuta it’s been forever” Taeyong said going to hug the other male.

“It really has” Yuta said smiling and then looked at Haechan and Jisung, “You may rise” he said with a chuckle as the two hesitantly rose.

“Any friend of y/n and Taeyong is a friend of mine so you can drop the formalities when we’re in private.” Yuta said and you cringed looking at the wide eyed confused boys, what if they caught onto who you were.

“Y/n! Love of my life! Princess!” You heard another voice yell and you sighed when you caught a glimpse of Haechans and Jisungs face, yeah they’re definitely cathcing on and you definitely had a lot of explaining to do.

“Jaemin?” Haechan yelled shocked and you honestly expected the prince to glare at the boy but he simply smiled back.

“How did you leave out the fact that Jaemin’s Royalty!” Jisung whisper yelled immediately bowing and dragging Haechan down with him. You sighed.

“Oh please you didn’t bow down to me back then when you jumped on my back and it’s definitely not needed now” Jaemin said rolling his eyes as he made his way to you pulling you into a hug.

“Y/n! How could you let me jump on Jae- The crowned princes back” Jisung yelled at you absolutely mortified.

“You yell at Y/n just fine without crying and worrying about how she’s a princess” Chenle adds in just to boggle up the younger more and it seems to work as Jisung pales.

“She’s a what!” Haechan exclaims as you glare at Chenle who laughed.

“Honestly Haechan your volume hasn’t changed a bit” Mark says rubbing his ears.

“Why don’t you tell the princess why we’re celebrating” Jeno said nudging Jaemin shoulder.

“Well I’m getting engaged!” Jaemin starts excitedly holding onto your hands and you feel you heart break, forcing on a smile. At least he seems to be happy about it so the person he’s getting engaged to must be really lovely.

“Well it isn’t confirmed because she’s yet to say yes to me” Jaemin said scratching his head and the action would honestly seem comical to you if not for the fact that you could hear your heart shatter.

“Actually I haven’t even asked her” He says and you put on a very forced smile. You were sure you looked constipated.

“I hope she says yes then” you said giving his hands a soft squeeze. “You think she will?” He askes and you nod slowly. Why would she say no to such an amazing, talented and beautiful young man.

“Oh I’ve got one more question for you” Jaemin said and you raised your eyebrows, smile almost turning into a cringe. Why was he doing this to you.

You were expecting him to ask you things like how to propose, or where to propose or maybe what type of ring should he buy.

You weren’t expecting him to get down on one knee, smiling at you, “Marry me y/n” he says holding a ring in his hands, you didn’t see him pull it out from his pocket or see anyone pass the ring to him. You didn’t even see the box anywhere.

You stood there shocked for a few seconds not answering him and his grin faltered ever so slightly.

“Y/n this is the part where you answer him” Taeyong said snapping you of your state of shock as you nodded and broke into a smile as Jaemin slid the ring onto your finger, laughing away the happy tears that made its way to his eyes.

“What- but how? The council? And you parents?” You struggled with words as Jaemin pulled you against his chest and laughed a hearty laugh.

“All taken care of he whispered as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your head in his shoulder squeezing him in your arms.

“Ohhh I’m going to miss you” Taeyong said watching the two of you with a small smile.

“You’re telling me, our former crowned princess has been living next door this entire while and her peculiar friend that we bullied was the current crowned prince, and that now the prince and princess are going to get married and I just witnessed their engagement” Jisung said as he continued to freak out.

“Don’t forget the part where you completely forget to greet two of the most important Lords in the Kingdom and a very prestigious knight” Chenle adds and you were afraid Jisung might combust on the spot.

“Eh y/n loves us so we’ll live don’t listen to the rude boy with power” Haechan said patting Jisungs back in hopes of comfort the younger but ends up hitting the boy just a little too hard.

“Chenle’s going to have one heck of a time with Jisung around.” Jeno chuckled and Mark nodded.

“That means peace for me” Mark says but pales when Donghyuck chimes in, “I wouldn’t be to sure about that”

“Wait if Mark is a knight, Jaemin a prince and Y/n a princess what does that make you hyung?” Jisung, who had calmed down asked Taeyong.

“A baker” Taeyong replied grinning and Yuta scoffed.

“He’s Duke Lee, last heir of the Royal Lee’s of the north” Yuta said and Donghyucks jaw dropped open.

“Who?” Jisung asked and Mark chuckled.

“He’s Y/n first cousin and the only child of Princess Lee, our former kings second born.” Haechan said, still in awe.

“How have we not yet been beheaded” Jisung says palling for the nth time that day, how the boy was still conscious was a mystery.

“Give him some time to adjust and he’ll be just as bratty as before” Donghyuck chuckled, patting the boys back.

“Let him spend the day with Chenle and he’ll be fine” you said with a smile, arms still wrapped around Jaemins waist, head against his chest.

You could feel the low rumble in his chest as he chuckled when Chenle smiled his infamous spawn of Satan smile and when Jisung looked even more terrified, forgetting that he has a brother that could rival that smile.

Mark on the other hand seemed to pale at the view of said smile by said brother and Jeno laughed, ready to encourage whatever Donghyuck was plotting.

Yuta was celebrating with Taeyong at the side after the older had secretly agreed to coming back to the palace, on the condition that he has full control over the kitchen.

And you smiled, in your princes, well fiancé’s warm arms, knowing that everything was right with the world.

Happy Jaemin Day💖

Hope you enjoyed reading this~

Now I don't know if I got the labels or hierarchy correct with all the Royal labeling but hopefully I've come close?

But it doesn't matter cus this is in an alternative universe where whatever the author says happens and where the author is never wrong :D

I didn't want to include some big ass speech for the proposal because clearly they've talked about wanting to get married before and it would just be meaningless to have an entire speech.

Idk why I didn't include Renjun considering the rest of dream is there, I just didn't know how to write him in ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyway it would be greatly appreciated if you told me what you think of this fic

Jae out✌️

[dudeshusband]

Title: If Life Were Only Moments, Then You’d Never Know You Had One

Chapter: Seven of ? (One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six)

Ship: Mike of Clovelly x King Arthur

Words: 1.9k

Description: Arthur is struggling with his new position as king. After a chance enounter in the Camelot kitchen, he finds a worthy confidante.

Warnings: none

Before Arthur got the opportunity to see Mike again, he was invited once again to Castle Pendragon by Morgan. On the way, Kay warned him to be wary of her, as she had allied with King Lot, who had ensured the demise of their parents. Arthur wasn’t worried: Morgan had warned them about Lot’s attack and he had dined with her before. He was still alive. And anyway, Morgan was his sister. She was as welcome into his life as Kay was, even if he hadn’t known her very long.

Upon their arrival, she welcomed him as a king. He was flattered but reminded her that he was first and foremost her brother. Still, during the meal, she referred to Arthur as “our king” when she gave her speech. Arthur believed every word she said in it. He had no reason to believe she wasn’t sorry for her actions and didn’t intend to rectify things.

He raised a glass to her, and to the hope of a new and more unified beginning.

Morgan called in some very scantily clad female dancers as entertainment.

Arthur welcomed the distraction from the drama with Guinevere and his pining after Mike. This, and he was slightly inebriated from all the ale. Morgan seemed to be pulling it from thin air. He watched dancers amusedly, with a smile on his face.

Until, they pulled the knight’s swords from their sheaths.

His heart raced as he panicked. Even if he trusted Morgan, watching this dance with his own sword was beyond terrifying. He started to stand along with his knights.

As quickly as the dance had begun, it finished, with the swords being stabbed into the table in front of them.

As everything relaxed again, his knights took some of the dancers with them, with the exception of Leontes, who was married, and himself. For once in his life, he was not interested in the company of a naked woman, or truly, any woman at all.

His mind drifted to Mike. He wondered, foolishly, why he couldn’t have them here with them. Perhaps he should’ve brought them along, then he could have their company.

Morgan found his behavior suspicious. She suggested he should go off, as he had no queen, and he was a king, not a priest.

What she didn’t know was that his heart already belonged to someone else. Someone he wished could be at this table with him.

A shout from outside interrupted his thoughts. He rushed out to find the source of the commotion.

Somehow, the castle had caught fire. Everyone was rushing to put out the blaze.

A young girl had gotten trapped between the flames. Arthur knew they had to save her. They pushed a hay cart toward the girl, who was on a ledge. His knights catapulted him onto the ledge using the cart.

He had barely made it. He caught the ledge with his fingertips and pulled himself up and over the ledge, toward the girl. He grabbed her in his arms, and commanded his knights to spin the cart around.

He jumped off of the ledge and leapt into the hay cart below.

He rolled off of it and onto the ground.

Merlin and Gawain thought the action had been stupid. Arthur didn’t care. The girl was alive, and he was happy to be the reason why.

Another thought crept into his mind, Mike would think I was brave.

He shook it off. The castle was under attack. His heart could wait.

Who, everyone wondered, would attack Castle Pendragon?

There was a man after Bardon Pass, after the trade routes, Aldwulf. Arthur had never heard of him but according to Leontes and Merlin, he was a long standing enemy of Uther’s, one often defeated.

Now that Uther was dead, he likely thought he could take the castle, and the pass.

Warriors were sent out to check outside the castle, and return with the news of who was out there.

The others were sent to guard the castle at all ends.

Later on, one of Morgan’s guards came back with a deep gash in his arms. He told everyone about a large group of Aldwulf’s men that were hiding in the East.

Arthur maintained that they were prepared, and praised the scout for his efforts.

Gawain raged as men went out of Castle Pendragon on horseback, without command from Arthur or his men. Morgan revealed that the mistake was hers.

Arthur was angry but kept his cool. They would rework their plan, together. They would see this battle through, and they would be victorious. Then they would return home, stronger than before.

And Mike would be there. Arthur longed to see them. He hoped they would see his bravery and they would return to the way things were.

No, not quite. He wanted more with them than what had been. He wanted to be more than confidantes. He wanted to be their friend, their lover, and their king.

He returned inside before these thoughts could carry him away.

The plans he could come up with, with only twenty-five men, were practically useless. He knew this but he couldn’t let Castle Pendragon be taken.

Morgan suggested something he could not possibly accept: that she create a diversion so he could run home to Camelot. It would be a smart move but a cowardly one. What kind of king would he be, what kind of brother would he be, to leave his sister defenseless?

Guinevere suggested the women could fight too. Arthur’s knights scoffed at the thought of it. Arthur, on the other hand, listened. They could use the help, and if Guinevere wanted to risk her life to defend herself, and everyone else at the castle, Arthur would not stop her. He would applaud her, and accept her help. He would accept the help of any woman willing and able to defend the castle.

With what little time they had, they trained the women to wield bows and arrows.

Guinevere was skilled with a bow. Leontes was still wary of her fighting. Arthur did not suspect it was because he thought she was unable, only a fool would think that. He did not think he thought so low of women either. Leontes loved Guinevere, and felt it was his duty to protect her.

He was wrong. Guinevere could protect herself.

She was strong, level-headed, and kind. All the makings of a good friend, and advisor. No matter what had happened between them before, he hoped to keep her around.

Gawain had tried to leave. He had tried to fight Aldwulf alone. He was only stopped because Leontes stalled him with a battle. Arthur was annoyed as he broke the pair up, and questioned Gawain.

Gawain was reluctant to stay at the castle but as Arthur demanded he do so, for his own safety, and for the safety of everyone else, he resigned his fight to leave.

Arthur would let no one be so reckless as to fight alone. Not while he was still king.

Igraine told him he should rely on his men, let them love him. He would accept their love, and hers, but he would not hide behind them. He would fight with them, and hide from no one.

No one…

Leontes still did not know of Guinevere’s affair and Mike still did not know his feelings for them. He was hiding, not from an enemy, but from friends. He knew he couldn’t do it any longer but he was afraid of what would happen when the truth came out.

The kiss was supposed to be his closure. It wasn’t closure, it was a fool’s act. It was desperation, a hope that he could cling to Guinevere instead of moving forward. That was over and done with. They needed closure but another kiss, another intimate encounter, that wouldn’t be closure.

He needed to apologize to her.

He left his mother’s presence and went to speak to Guinevere, alone.

It was a long, dark night. There was a possibility he would die without telling Mike his feelings but he could not die without closing the door on Guinevere, without allowing her to fully love Leontes.

She stood in the glow of the moonlight, staring out into the sky. She turned as he came in, worried about what his presence might mean.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she told him.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “Something that cannot be spoken publicly.”

“Then you shouldn’t say it at all.”

“I need to. I need this to be over.”

Guinevere looked up at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Leontes is my champion,” he said. “I never meant to do anything that would wreck your marriage. I should not have done any of it but most of all, I should not have kissed you on the way back from your aunt’s. That kiss, I didn’t mean it. I thought it would end everything. I know now what will. I’m sorry for everything, Guinevere.”

“You’re…sorry?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. I pressured you into being unfaithful to Leontes. I regret every moment of it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“I want you to be free to love Leontes,” he said. “And-”

He hadn’t meant to start the next part out loud. He scolded himself for not catching the word before it fell from his lips.

“And what?”

“And-” Arthur began. “Guinevere, I need you to swear to me that you won’t tell a soul.”

She gave him a curious look, then nodded. “You have my word.”

“I met this wonderful person one night when I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I went to the kitchen, expecting to be alone but there they were. I thought nothing of them at first. As we talked, I learned that they are kind, intelligent, and amusing. I couldn’t help but see them again and again. No one has made me feel lighter than they have. They are beautiful, in a way most wouldn’t appreciate. Their beauty is soft and not striking. It came over me less like a wave and more like the gentleness of a breeze. It took me some time but I’ve come to realize, I love them.”

Guinevere smiled, remembering the talk she had with Morgan. Arthur would move on, though faster than she expected. She was unsure how to feel but knew she was glad to see Arthur happy.

“Who is this lucky person?” she asked.

Arthur looked a bit lovestruck. It almost made her laugh.

“Mike,” he said. “Of Clovelly.”

“Hm. I don’t believe I know that name. Is he royal?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, they aren’t. They were a cook for Uther.”

“A cook?” Guinevere asked in shock.. “Oh, Arthur…”

“I know. I can’t help how I feel and I know I love them.”

Guinevere placed a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful. All of England is watching you.”

Arthur frowned. “I know.”

He turned to leave but Guinevere said softly, “I accept.”

He faced her. “What?”

“Your apology.”

He gave her a small smile and left her to be alone.

They survived the night and the next morning came peacefully.

Soon, a guard returned and announced a victory against Aldwulf. Everyone was relieved, except Merlin, who was as suspicious of this as he was of anything.

With their fears relieved, Arthur, his knights, his mother, and Guinevere rode back to Camelot.

tag list: @cozyships , @samsbeckett, @pucksfictionallovelife, @bee-ships , @glitched-ships , @jellyfish-ships , @thatslikesometaldude , @greghouse , @deanportmans

[hum-my-name]

When You Come Home

Today's fill for @witcher-bows-and-arrows' prompt: Home!

A lot more reference to Nightmare of the Wolf than I had initially intended, and I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: None Words: 3.7K No main pairings-- just Platonic or Familial Love here!

Summary: Kaer Morhen doesn't start out as Geralt's home. Over time, though, it becomes one.

Read on AO3 or continue below

The world, for a while, is wooden walls and open fields, dirt trails and animals he knows by name. It’s his mother and her cart on prolonged travels, play-pretend fairy tales and knightly dreams.

Then, all at once, Geralt’s world is white.

Kaer Morhen’s a place of winter, of massive snowstorms staining the sky and hiding any trails the young adepts may try to take to run away. Geralt had been warned about the frozen drifts on the journey here— don’t worry, the witchers said, it’s home.

And Geralt let himself imagine something grand, something adventurous. Smaller than the other boys, he thought he might be able to slip away, to find his story alone in the woods and hills of the mountains.

But the wagon pulls past large gates, the afternoon sun cresting the top of a gray-stoned fortress. Geralt stumbles across the ice and stray pebbles in the courtyard, already shuddering beneath thin fabrics and a scrawny frame. The witchers shove boots onto his feet, tuck his pants into the top, but when they try to take his shirt, he crosses his arms and bares his teeth; the hem’s frayed and the corner’s stained, but his mother stitched a dragon on the inside of his wrist for his birthday, telling him stories of the knight who fought monsters.

The witchers tell him it will only tear beneath monster claws, the material will rip under his armor. Still, laughing, they let him keep the one thing he has.

They’re right, of course— the other kids scoff when the oversized shirt causes him to mess up in training over the next few days; it’s a liability, something for others to grab or tug on, something he needs to tie back like a girl’s dress.

“When are you gonna give up that memento, boy?” Deglan, an older witcher, snarls when he finds Geralt trying to clean mud from the sleeves.

Geralt turns, glaring. “When will this place start feeling like home?”

Deglan’s still in his witcher gear, the blood of some beast not yet dried on his swords. The world grows colder when he walks closer to Geralt, his footsteps echoing on the stone beneath them. His gaze gives none of his thoughts away, and Geralt holds his ground, refusing to back down. If Deglan beats him for disrespect, at least he’ll know he didn’t flinch.

But Deglan stops just short of him, towering and scowling.

“Don’t be a fool,” he says. “Witchers have no home.”

<><><>

When the attacks are over and the monsters are killed, Vesemir takes Geralt and the others back to Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s chest tightens at the thought of that place— of mutations and the fear of the changes rearranging every bit of his body, of hateful humans and their schemes— but Vesemir is a face he recognizes. Maybe, he even trusts him a little.

So, past rotting bodies of monsters and witchers and the humans who attacked. Vesemir leads them to the main hall and Geralt’s eyes sting at the sight of blood across the medallion tree.

For a long while, Geralt stares.

“Here,” Vesemir says, appearing beside him with medallions hanging from his hand— bent and gory and broken. Geralt’s face goes quizzical for a second, unsure of what Vesemir wants from him. He already claimed a medallion from the bag tossed at their feet earlier. Vesemir hesitates— the first time Geralt’s seen him falter— but he doesn’t speak. He turns and, one by one, he hangs the medallions on the tree.

Geralt says nothing, does nothing. He has the slight feeling that he shouldn’t be here at this moment. These weren’t his friends, his family. These people belonged to Vesemir, not him.

But, as he begins to turn away, Vesemir’s hands are on his own. Warm and calloused and shaking ever so subtly. A chain presses to Geralt’s palm. Geralt stares down at the necklace, taking in the details of the wolf’s snarling face, the chipped corner where a blade must have struck the metal; Vesemir lets him twist it through his fingers, warming the cool surface in his hands.

Vesemir’s still looking at him when Geralt hangs the medallion on a lower branch.

“Thank you,” Vesemir says. Geralt turns to him, eyes wide.

“What for?” Geralt asks. “Whoever that belonged to— they didn’t know me.”

“They were you, Geralt,” Vesemir says, and there’s a sad tone in Vesemir’s voice that has never been there before. It inspires Geralt to move closer, to let Vesemir rest a hand on his shoulder the way a father would hold a son. “Every witcher that passes through these halls share a bond that nothing else in this world could replicate. These medallions, all of them, belonged to someone who was once afraid and abandoned. I know the world out there may hate you for what you will be, but remember this tree. Each medallion you see is a reminder of how, despite their hate, you still have a place with us. You’ll never truly be forgotten or left behind.”

Vesemir reaches for the medallion hanging around Geralt’s neck, holding the thin circle between two fingers as he stares down at it. He only lets go when Geralt takes it from him, holding tighter than he means.

“Will we be a family, then?” Geralt asks, still holding his medallion.

“I don’t know what we’ll be,” Vesemir admits. “That’s up to the rest and what they choose. What I can give you is a chance at surviving the horrors out there. I can offer you protection, sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary?” Geralt asks, and Vesemir smiles softly.

“Wherever you go, Geralt,” he says. “Kaer Morhen and I will always be here.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Eskel’s the first to break through Geralt’s carefully guarded walls. Or, at least, the first aside from Vesemir. Tough as the older witcher can be at times, he does his best, and Geralt’s learned to look forward to their near-daily conversations by the medallion tree.

Sure, Geralt knows the other boys— he knows their screams from the trials, their blood from training— but he doesn’t take the time to learn more. They need to be witchers, fighters, monster slayers.

But, then, Geralt’s hair starts growing in— tufts of uneven strands tucked beneath the hat he wears when completing the day’s chores. At first, he thinks nothing of it— he’s always had pale hair, and the mages had initially warned him he may see some side effects. So, he goes a few weeks waiting for the color to even back into blond.

It’s his turn to clean through the weaponry and armory that the cap slips from his head, pulled off because it’s hot and he’s not thinking— and he jumps when something silver shifts in the reflection of the sword in his hand.

For the first time, he realizes that his hair’s growing back wrong— and, for the second time in his life, his world goes terribly white.

He doesn’t know what happens between one moment and the next, only that it’s Eskel who finds him wandering the trails outside Kaer Morhen with nothing more than the clothes on his back.

“Geralt?” Eskel calls. “Vesemir’s been looking for you.”

But Geralt’s heart pounds, terrified, in his chest. His hands shake and his vision blurs and he can’t put words to the panic he feels when he looks around and sees nothing but pale fields and white skies— white, white, white .

“It’s wrong, Eskel,” he snaps, tugging at his own hair until his scalp screams. “It’s all wrong!”

And Eskel doesn’t speak, approaching him like he does those baby goats kept in Kaer Morhen’s courtyard.

“They already hate witchers,” Geralt continues— and he was told witchers can’t cry but, gods, they can scream. “What will they think of me?”

Eskel lets him shout, lets him curse. He lets him collapse into the snow, beating the ground with his fists until his knuckles bleed. And Eskel stands, watching with unreadable eyes.

He looks at Geralt like he doesn’t judge him for his dramatics-- like he doesn’t pity him, either. But he stands before him when he could leave, if he wanted. He waits with Geralt, witnessing his anger and rage in a place where, so often, they work so hard to keep it hidden.

At last, Geralt tires himself out. He heaves for breath, still shaking as he glares at his own feet.

“Do you plan on leaving?” Eskel asks, finally speaking. Geralt’s gaze snaps up at him.

“There’s nowhere for me to go,” he answers.

“Then, come on,” Eskel says, wonderfully genuine in that way they say witchers never are, the way Eskel always is. He offers his hand to Geralt, and Geralt takes it. “Let’s go back.”

Go back , he says, and Geralt wonders where “back” is. To Kaer Morhen? To Vesemir and the sanctuary he says he has?

Go back — to somewhere they belong? To the only place they know?

Go back , Eskel says— and, walking back, hand in hand, Geralt realizes that “going back” has to be enough.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When the time comes, Geralt goes. To the Path. To the world outside Kaer Morhen, to that place full of people meant to hate him.

But they don’t hate him, not really. Not at first. They fear him and they avoid him, but it’s never hate in their eyes. It’s disgust and disfavor, shock or sick curiosity. They hire and pay him, trust him to kill their beasts. No one throws rocks or calls names.

Not until after Blaviken.

The winter after meeting Renfri and aiding Stregobor, Geralt lingers in the town at the base of the mountain. He meant to go back with the others, but the thought of facing them after everything that’s happened— it makes him sick.

So, of course, it’s Lambert who finds him in the corner of a crowded tavern, plopping on the bench beside him with a heavy grunt.

“Had a feeling I’d find you here,” he says. “You’re lucky the storms haven’t started yet. As far as Vesemir’s concerned, I came down here to get some more supplies to last us through the winter. And I am doing that, so don’t start thinking you’re too special.”

“Are you getting to a point?” Geralt asks.

Lambert continues, ignoring him. “If we leave now, we can beat the blizzards to Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt hums in response, though he doesn’t look at Lambert. He can feel his gaze on him already, and it’s unfair how ashamed he feels beneath it. Does he look any different to him, now that he’s gained a new name and reputation? Is Renfri’s blood still on his cheek? Have the bruises from the stones yet healed?

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks. He means for it to be gruff, but it only sounds sincere.

Lambert doesn’t answer right away, and they lapse into silence when the barmaid brings more ale to their table. They drink, quiet, and face the window on the other side of the building; Geralt watches a sunset press through the snowy branches of the trees outside, casting strange shadows and stranger sunbeams into the room. It reminds him of Kaer Morhen in the morning, and how the sun will slowly warm his bedroom through the day because he was lucky when he picked the one room facing in that direction.

“You’re usually the first one up there, but it’s been weeks and you’ve yet to even start the journey. Are you planning on abandoning us?” Lambert asks with cautious words, a rare event for him. He sets his cup down and bumps his shoulder against Geralt, turning to look at him.

Geralt scoffs a little, softer than he’d like, and he takes his time answering, waiting until his voice feels steady.

“You hate Kaer Morhen,” Geralt accuses. “But you’ll hold it against me if I choose not to visit for one winter.”

“Yeah, 'cause I only put up with it when you assholes are there,” Lambert says like it’s obvious— and, really, maybe it is. What is Kaer Morhen if not a collection of the people Geralt trusts most? “If one of us stops returning, then—”

Then, eventually, no one will go anymore. Lambert doesn’t need to say it; the thought alone chills Geralt to the bone.

“I wasn’t sure—” Geralt cuts off. “I mean, after Blaviken—”

“I heard,” Lambert interrupts. “And it’s bold of you to assume I fucking care.”

That, at least, startles a laugh out of Geralt. “How considerate of you.”

“Look, if you want comfort, you’ll need to talk to Eskel or Vesemir,” Lambert defends. “Of course, in order to do that, you’ll need to come with me to see them.”

He’s right, something Geralt will never say to Lambert.

Still, when he sighs, Lambert smirks like he knows what Geralt means.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Geralt’s heart stutters in his chest when Ciri moves through Kaer Morhen’s courtyard, wandering aimlessly with her head held high. For a moment, during that first day, he’s reminded of small children carted in, of child-sized swords and armor, of screams and nightmares and trauma he can’t undo. He doesn’t want that for Ciri, but he needs her somewhere safe— and there’s only ever been one place in his life he could consider as an option.

“So, what is this place again?” Ciri asks, turning back to face him.

Geralt tries to figure out what to say; he has a feeling that his words, now, mean more than they did before. This is a child asking where she’s been brought, an orphan looking at large gates and monstrous bones left behind.

He must take too long to answer because Ciri’s eyebrows furrow together and she offers a response of her own.

“Is this your home?” Her voice is a hesitant guess, a chance for Geralt to nod and move on. But he hasn’t used that word for Kaer Morhen yet; he’s never thought it, never wondered it.

“It’s a fortress to keep us hidden from the humans,” Geralt says instead, meeting Ciri’s eyes. “I don’t know if that makes it a home, but it does make it safe.”

Ciri smiles; it’s small, but it’s enough.

“It’s magnificent.” She looks around, a wistfulness in her eyes and a promising tone in her voice. “You’ll show me around, won’t you? I’m assuming you know the grounds best.”

“Let’s go meet the others first,” Geralt says. He put his hand on Ciri’s shoulder as they walk.

The way a father would hold a daughter.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Seeing Jaskier in Kaer Morhen feels equal parts wrong and right. Wrong because, had Geralt a choice, he’d prefer to have brought Jaskier here under different circumstances— to invite him with more thoughtful words, to present him with better memories than those of basilisks and demons. He wanted to see Jaskier’s face when he spotted the towers over the hills, the signs of the fortress from a distance. He wanted to be the one to introduce him to Lambert and Eskel and Coen, to see their shit-eating grins and hear their stupid jokes when they finally meet the bard they’d asked so often about. He wanted to be there, and the fact that he wasn’t-- it feels wrong.

But, at the same time—

Jaskier rushes the halls with child-like astonishment. His fingers linger on every stone, curiosity and carefulness filling each subtle gasp when he finds a new detail to explore. Every so often, a strange expression crosses his face and he stares at a certain corner or hallway or room, thinking in silence, before moving on.

At last, standing before the medallion tree— stitched haphazardly back together by Yennefer’s returned magic— Geralt asks Jaskier about that look.

“I’m trying to imagine it,” Jaskier admits. “A younger you. A little Geralt and a handful of other baby witchers living in a place like this.”

“And? Can you?” Geralt turns, watching as the lights dance across those old medallions, shattered shards of flame catching on rusted wolf’s teeth.

Jaskier folds his hands behind his back and tips his head thoughtfully. “Would it surprise you if I say I can? That, the more time I spend here, the more of you I see in the bricks and windows?”

“I didn’t build it,” Geralt says.

“Not the physical bones of it, no, and not by hand,” Jaskier says, raising an eyebrow at Geralt. It feels like he understands something Geralt’s forgotten to remember. “But there are goat pens in the yard that Eskel checks on every night. There are cracks in the wall from Lambert and Coen’s drunken wrestling. There’s Vesemir in the care of the keep, the mortar filling the gaps. And there’s you, too, Geralt.”

“Where?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.

Jaskier smiles, his fingers brushing the tree before them.

“You’re in the heart of it,” he says. “I hope, one day, you see that, too.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Yennefer’s at home in the lab with Vesemir, and Geralt finds little more joy than the moments where Ciri joins them, flitting about the room and asking questions about any and all alchemy and magic they perform. For the most part, it’s a teaching experience, and Ciri and Yennefer draw closer each day.

Other times, though, Geralt finds Yennefer in the lab late at night, muttering to herself while she mixes elixirs. The sting of her betrayal still aches, but he finds himself simply sitting in the room at night, anyway, watching her work.

The other witchers have yet to forgive her for leading Voleth Meir to the keep, and Geralt knows her secret evenings make them uneasy. He tells himself that’s why he watches her; he tells himself that’s why he asks.

“What are you working on?” He gestures towards her work. “You have your magic back. You don’t need to be making any more potions.”

“Who says it’s for me?” She asks, swirling an orange liquid in a glass vial. When Geralt grunts in confusion, she turns towards him with a sigh. “I’m trying to enhance the potions for the witchers, alright? Happy?”

“What?” Geralt blinks. “Why?”

“Because it’d be a waste to let the potential of this lab and its supplies rot,” she snaps, only to ease her voice with a gentle shake of her head. “And because I want to show my appreciation to the lot of you for letting me stay here. I know what this place means for the witchers, and I know its past. To let a sorceress claim safe haven here, even after all I’ve done— it’s important to me that I pay that debt.”

Warmth curls in Geralt’s chest, swelling until it’s difficult to take a proper breath.

“It’s a fortress, Yen. Many seek safety here,” he says. “You don’t owe us for that.”

“It’s more than just a witcher’s keep,” Yennefer says, her eyes so terribly soft. “But if it makes you feel better to say it's simply that, I won’t argue with you about it. Not tonight.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Geralt says— but even he can hear the doubt in his voice.

Yennefer smiles and nods along with his uncertainty. They say nothing else for the rest of the night.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The keep, for once, fills with noise. Story-telling and jokes. Laughter. Love.

Geralt pauses at the entry of the main hall, watching.

“It’s a good sound, isn’t it?” Vesemir asks, coming up to him with an offering of white gull. “I didn’t think I’d hear such joy in these halls again.”

He gestures towards the ongoing activities— a messy mix of dancing and play fighting along with Jaskier’s clapping hands and songs. Ciri spins with Yennefer’s hands on her shoulders; by another table, Coen and Eskel nearly fall over themselves laughing as they try to shove Lambert to his feet to join the fun. It’s different, but Geralt doesn’t necessarily think that’s bad.

Vesemir, too, looks upon the scene with a look Geralt’s rarely seen on him. A tension’s lifted from his face, a weight he’s worn since he first brought a collection of mutated orphans back to the keep. Geralt stares at the tender smile on Vesemir’s lips, imprinting it into his memory. It’s an image he’ll fondly recall when the Path grows difficult and he needs to remember the small joys life offers his kind.

“Get over here and tell Lambert to show us his pretty dancing, Geralt!” Eskel calls. He says it teasingly, and Lambert’s cursing is only half-hearted.

“Perhaps he’s just waiting for the right partner,” Geralt says. He smirks when the argument then becomes one over who should play the part of Lambert’s damsel— Eskel or Coen, each of them pointing at the other. Geralt laughs, crossing the room to join them. “Is Lambert really worth fighting over?”

“Fuck off,” Lambert tells him, holding his hand up in a crude gesture. “I don’t see you dancing with anyone, pretty boy.”

Geralt’s response cuts off when Ciri bounds towards them, hands reaching out as Jaskier drifts into a quicker jig. There’s a certain joy about her that she’s been lacking recently, like she finally feels safe here.

Witchers don’t dance— it’s part of why the previous teasing with Lambert had been so absurd— but Geralt finds himself reaching back for Ciri, allowing himself to be tugged into a stumbling version of a courtroom dance. He feels whole as he spins her, free and light in a way he never is.

Jaskier sits on a table nearby, stamping his feet against the bench while he claps along to his own singing, Yennefer standing beside him with a delighted smile at Ciri’s antics. Geralt and Ciri spin through the room, drawing nearer the center.

Gods, but as his brothers cheer him on— and Jaskier winks at him, and Yennefer waves— Geralt feels something within his chest click into place. Something that had been carved away long ago, something discarded but never forgotten.

Laughter swells in the air and he’s almost surprised to realize that some of it is his own.

The song ends and plunges into another. Ciri goes to try her charm— successfully— on Coen; Yennefer takes her place, her hands on Geralt’s arms when Jaskier cheekily begins to sing “The Golden One.”

Everyone smiles and claps and sings along. Geralt, somehow, keeps dancing. He passes by Eskel and Lambert shoving and trying to be louder than each other, Coen and Ciri dancing nearby— though, to call it dancing would be kind; they’re more like a tornado whizzing past the rest of them. Vesemir even joins in, offering Jaskier a drink to keep his singing going.

That thing in Geralt’s chest burns with a name— Family . This, at last, is his family.

And Kaer Morhen, finally, is a home.

[sadoeuphemist]

They had fitted together a wheeled cart for the old knight, large enough to carry him comfortably, but not so large that he would be rattled about when the wheels jostled over the stones. They had harnessed the cart to the knight’s horse, and though normally no knightly steed would deign to drag a load behind it like a mere beast of burden, Sir Percival’s horse was as grayed as he was, and so trotted along placidly as Sir Percival sat propped up in the back, his armor warmed by the sun.

“My final, and most glorious quest,” he proclaimed, staring ahead with clouded eyes. He could make out light and darkness, the shape of a tree, but not the leaves or branches on it. He was looking at the horizon, and at the blue expanse of sky. “You are most fortunate, my lad, to be witness to this, the final day of a long and illustrious life.”

"Yes, Sir,” his squire said. The squire was a lad of about fourteen, walking ahead and leading the horse by the bridle. He had been picked by lot to accompany Sir Percival to his death, and, much like the horse, had accepted his burden rather meekly. He had polished Sir Percival’s armor the night before, fitted it piece by piece onto the frail old body. Now he walked steadily, his shoulders slumped as if there was a harness weighting them down. He had been silent for much of the journey, but at Sir Percival’s words took the opportunity to speak: “If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, I’ve heard of your many deeds, the, uh, the d-dragons slain, the - the knights defeated, and so on, and this quest, Sir, I don’t know very much about it, and, um...”

“Yes, yes, the quest!” said Sir Percival, trying to sit upright in the cart and only succeeding in rocking it slightly. His horse snorted and shifted its weight. “It’s the only quest, really. Every warrior slain, every army defeated, every drop of blood spilled - all hollow striving in service of the single quest above all else.” He waved his hand, his armor creaking, and beckoned the boy closer. The squire dropped back to listen. “The Grail, m’lad! The Holy Grail! The chalice that caught the blood of our savior Jesus Christ! The only thing worth questing for in all the world!”

Sir Percival settled back in the cart, his breathing heavy, his white sideburns quivering. The squire hesitated, hovering over him, and let out a sigh of relief as Sir Percival seemed to relax again. The squire trotted forward, once again taking the horse’s bridle in his hand.

“I had my chance at it, you know,” Sir Percival said, after some time. “Back when I was young.”

“Sir?” the squire said.

“It was ... My goodness, how long ago was it by now?” Sir Percival shook his head. “At my age, one tends to lose track of time. Not just the now, you see, but all the things before it, all jumbled up together.” Even behind the cataracts his eyes were distant now, dreamy. “I had my chance at it, in any case, made it all the way into the Keeper’s castle. The Keeper of the Grail, you know. All full of wondrous things. This beautiful young maiden, fair and rosy-cheeked. All these beautiful young people. A lance, a lance that never stopped bleeding. A wound that never heals. A lance in your hand that cries for blood, the wound always as fresh as the day your lance first plunged into flesh, the red red reminder of every quest and every kill -”

His lips tremored wordlessly for a moment, and then Sir Percival shook his head. “I had to ask the Question, you see. And I had been taught back then to not ask questions. And so I missed my chance.”

“Sir?” the squire said hesitantly. “The - the question?”

“The Question!” said Sir Percival, his spirits suddenly restored. “Yes, devilishly clever, that! Other, lesser quests would have you answer a riddle to succeed. But! If you’re given the riddle, the answer only follows from that, doesn’t it? It’s a simple matter of eliminating all the answers that don’t fit, and then you’re left with the only one that does. Childishly simple!

“But! If you’re given nothing, and expected to ask the Question first, what then? Oh-ho!” said Sir Percival, smiling broadly and revealing the few remaining teeth among his gums. “Now that’s a challenge few knights can ever conquer!”

“And ... what is the Question, Sir?”

“Well, it’s ... Obviously it’s, ah...” Sir Percival furrowed up his face, sinking back so that his head lay against the cart, squinting at the sun. “Give me a moment, m’lad, I’m not as young as I used to be. Just need a moment to think, that’s all.” Sir Percival yawned loudly, his eyelids fluttering. “Just go on, m’lad,” he mumbled, sinking into sleep. “Keep moving. Just a moment’s rest. I’m sure I’ll think of it. In time...”

...

“Sir?” came the squire’s voice, high and anxious. “Sir! I do believe we’re here!”

Sir Percival snapped awake, the blackness receding back so quickly that for a moment he was lost, and then could not remember what he had been dreaming. They had crossed the border of the kingdom quite a while back, and now a foreboding castle towered over them, its walls of black and battered stone. The ground around it had been torn up in times past by charging hooves and cannon fire, pockmarked with splintered lances and arrowheads and shards of rusting metal, and a ragged banner flew from atop the castle’s highest tower. But Sir Percival saw none of that.

In his ears rang only the sound of rushing water - a river, the sound of it babbling gaily against the stones, the coolness in the air, and Sir Percival squinted furiously, seeing the sparkling curve of the river, and what might have been the shape of a man crouched against it.

“Ahoy!” he yelled out gleefully. “Ahoy over there!”

It was indeed a man, weary-looking, gray-haired, though not nearly as decrepit as Sir Percival, sitting by the riverside with a fishing rod in hand, its thin line swaying with the current. “Ahoy yourself!” he yelled back, irritated. “We’re not at sea, you old coot!” Sir Percival continued looking on with a delighted grin.

The fisherman sighed. He was wearing royal robes, though worn and patched, and with a gesture that suggested he was used to being obeyed he motioned to the squire. “Well, get the old dunderhead over here, then! We might as well get this over with!”

The squire glanced at Sir Percival for confirmation, and then led the old horse forward gingerly, trying to navigate it so that Sir Percival would be next to the old fisherman without the horse splashing into the river, and then finally gave up and unharnessed the cart. The fisherman said nothing through all of this, staring moodily into the river, where not a single fish was troubling his line. Sir Percival was simply grinning, nodding on, gesturing impatiently, as the squire tried to brace him up from underneath his armpit, easing him out of the cart. “Um,” the squire said, glancing at the fisherman. “Um, if I could get a little help...?”

“Sat down here this morning,” the fisherman grumbled, rubbing at his thigh, and the squire could see that it was withered beneath the robes. “Nothing’s getting me up until it’s time to go back in. You’re on your own.”

It took a good deal of clanking and a great deal of effort on both their parts, but finally the squire settled Sir Percival beside the fisherman on the bank.

“Ah, there we go,” Sir Percival sighed, clapping his gauntleted hands down on his tassets. He was breathing heavily. “Been a while, hasn’t it, you old bastard?” he said jovially, elbowing the fisherman. “I tell you, Pelleham, bet you thought you were done with me back then, all those - those wonders in your castle dazzling me with their sorcerous charms -”

“That was my father,” the fisherman said impatiently. “And he’s up there in the castle.” He glanced at the highest tower, its face of scarred stone. “Doesn’t even get out of bed these days. Just lies there, day in, day out, wasting away. I’m Pelles, you remember? Pelles. Was barely even a man, first time you came.”

“Oh.” Sir Percival’s face folded up in wrinkles, his eyes small, his mouth open in a small black semicircle of bewilderment as he leaned in uncomfortably close, trying to make out Pelles’ profile. “Are you - are you sure you’re not - ? You sound just like him, as if - as if it hadn’t been a day - No, no, of course you’re not...” Sir Percival shook his head, slumping back on the riverbank, looking out dazedly at the currents rushing on. “It’s been years, of course. Decades. He was old when I first came here.” He looked hopefully at Pelles. “I don’t suppose I could see him...?”

“Just told you,” the fisherman snapped. “He’s gravely ill. Definitely not taking any visitors.”

“Ah. Of course.” Sir Percival looked down at his lap, folding his hands together.

“And you,” said Pelles. “What are you doing still gallivanting around at your age?” He ran a scornful eye across Sir Percival, the polished armor hanging on his withered frame. “Let me guess, yet another quest. A final quest. For you to perish in pursuit of some noble goal.”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” said Sir Percival, but all the energy had gone out of him. He was slouching in his rigid armor, the edge of his gorget cutting into his chin, though he seemed to barely notice. “We were ...” He smiled toothlessly, his voice gentle. “It sounded so glorious, really, when I proposed it to the King. The one quest I’d never fulfilled. It’s the only thing, isn’t it? The Grail? The only thing that matters in the world...”

“You knights and your damned quests,” the fisherman muttered. He bobbed the pole in his hand, letting the line waver. “What’s it accomplish in the end, hm?” He painfully extended his legs from beneath his robes, rubbed at his bare feet and let them soak in the water. “I spend my days fishing now.” He tugged at his line disgruntledly. “It’s about as productive.”

“No, no,” said Sir Percival dreamily. “You weren’t there for the old days, or perhaps you were still too young, then. Riding across the countryside, around every corner another quest awaiting us. An evil knight, a young damsel in distress...”

The man snorted. “You save a damsel, and then she’s safe to be kidnapped away again. You kill a man, and then you got to kill all his compatriots. When’s it end, eh, Percival? When’s it fucking end?” 

“Well. of course it’s the...” Sir Percival shook his head. “Of course that’s the point of striving, it’s the nobility of the struggle...”

“You conquer a castle, and always there’s a new one just beyond your borders,” the fisherman insisted, jabbing a bony finger. “You do what one man can, and your king sits up in his castle playing his games, and the world bangs on all around you. And in the end it’s just the Grail, the Grail, the Grail, the one thing you’ve never been able to attain.”

“I...” Sir Percival ran a gauntleted hand across his face, shuddering involuntarily from the touch of metal. “I’ve done everything I could, certainly, but ... It’s the youth, of course!” he said, turning stiffly to his squire, his face suddenly beatific. “We do what we can. We make the world as good as we can. And then it’s our - it’s the children, of course, who grow up and keep the quest alive...”

Pelles barely glanced up at the boy, snorting. “I’m my father’s son. As are you. And the old wars, and the new ones, they’re all the same butchery. We’ve both been around far longer than we should. Seen the change of ages. And it’s gotten worse, if anything. All the old atrocities, without even the idealism to temper ‘em.

“Boy!” he said, and snapped his fingers at the squire. “Look around you. Behold my kingdom, in all its tattered glory. What do you think of it?”

The squire stood awkwardly, knees locked, flushed with the sudden attention. “Oh! Uh, I don’t -” He cast his eyes around the scarred landscape littered with the remnants of battle, the shrapnel gouged into the soil. Riddles are simple, Sir Percival had said, eliminate all answers that don’t fit, but in his anxious state no single answer was winnowed from the chaff. “I - I don’t really see anything remarkable about it, Sir...?”

“Y’see!” said Pelles, a nasty grin on his face. “It’s the world we’ve made for ‘em. He’s too young to know any different.”

“No, no, no, no,” Sir Percival said, struggling to shift himself in his armor. “Listen to me, m’lad. If I’ve taught you anything let me teach you this. Despite all the world, despite every brutality in it, in the end we can still find salvation! The Grail -!”

“The Grail!” Pelles shrieked. “Men warring for the Grail, slaughtering one another for the Grail, throwing their lives away in an endless fruitless struggle just for the hopes of finally getting heir hands on the damned Grail -!”

“No!” Sir Percival boomed, and pushed himself upward, the metal joints of his armor locking into place, and for a moment he was standing gloriously on his own two feet again, a shining monument to knighthood as they both stared at him in wonder. “It’s the only quest worth doing,” he proclaimed, his words coming out in a rush, “I swear to you this. We must believe in a redemption through blood. In the promise of salvation -” and then his knees were giving way, the ground rushing up like a great black mountain, and he toppled forward in a violent clash of steel.

“Sir Percival!” the squire screamed, and rushed to him, struggling to turn him over on his back. “Help! Help me!’ he yelled to Pelles.

“I told you!” Pelles yelled back. “I’ve sat down and there’s no getting me up again without a retinue of attendants!” He was dragging himself up the bank regardless, his fishing pole abandoned, as the squire managed to roll Sir Percival over, hovering anxiously his ashen face.

“Heavy,” Sir Percival said, struggling to lift an arm. It might as well have been an anvil. “It’s never - it’s never weighed a thing before, the armor, never noticed I was wearing it -”

“You fool,” hissed Pelles, crawling laboriously to lean over him. “You stupid, stubborn old fool.”

“Oh,” said Sir Percival, a slow smile drifting across his face. “Pelleham. My dear Pelleham. There you are.” His head drifted languidly in Pelles’ direction. “There’s something I was going to ask you, but I can’t at the moment remember what it is.”

“It’ll be all right, Sir,” his squire said urgently, clutching his gauntleted hand. “You just - There’s the castle, and you can -”

“Lad,” said Sir Percival, turning his head back to face the sky. “Lad. Lad. What’s your - ? Your name, it’s something like that, Lad, it’s -”

“Galahad, Sir,” he said, stifling back a sob.

“Of course. Yes. Galahad.” He was seeing brightness. He was seeing light. “My good and faithful squire. Your first quest. And how well you have performed. It’s there, the Grail, right within your reach...”

Sir Percival’s eyes were wide and sightless, and his mouth hung open soundlessly. Galahad fumbled with the armor, unbuckling the straps that he had practiced, struggling to reach the heart beneath the metal chestplate. He shoved the steel aside, pressing an ear to Sir Percival’s hairy and sunken chest. After a few moments he sunk back, his face blank. “He’s dead.”

Pelles was sprawled out on the ground, grimacing in pain, and pushed himself up to watch his fishing rod floating away in the river. Sir Percival’s old nag trotted over, looking down at the body of its master, and gazed off distracted again at some shrubbery in the distance.

“Doddering old idiot,” Pelles muttered. The black castle cast a shadow into the sky, a monolith looking down on them. “At least you’ve got the cart if you want to drag him all the way back. We could bury him here, if you like,” he added, after a moment’s contemplation. “He’s got enough of a history with this place. I don’t think he’d be unhappy with that.”

He looked up, waiting for the squire’s response, and saw that Galahad was busy unbuckling Sir Percival’s belt, hoisting up the scabbard that hung on it. Around the boy’s waist the sword dragged against the ground, so he looped it across his chest instead, the belt going over one shoulder.

“What’re you going to do with that?” Pelles said.

Galahad awkwardly drew the sword from its scabbard, balancing the naked blade with both hands as if he had never held a sword before, pointing its tip towards Pelles, and then let it lower to the ground. “I want an answer,” Galahad said.

Pelles sighed, massaging his aching thigh, his leg stretched out upon the damp soil. “Go on, then.”

“The Grail,” said Galahad, his voice firm. “What’s the damn thing even good for?”

“Ah!” said King Pelles, and despite himself a laughter surged up from his chest, bubbling out inexplicably. Far downstream, his pole was a tiny splintered twig among the rocks, and the fish leapt sparkling through the river, fearless and free. “There you go! Now that’s the Question, isn’t it!”

[to-many-towered-camelot]

book notes

for anyone who is interested in a nuanced take on fairy beliefs vs the Christian Church in the Middle Ages, this book by Richard Firth Green was actually so good, if your library has it:

[Image: Front cover of the book ‘Elf Queens and Holy Friars: Fairy Beliefs and the Medieval Church’ by Richard Firth Green]

like, obvs it’s just one person’s take on a very complex topic, but it’s well-written, well-researched, and it uses a bunch of Arthurian examples throughout to explore this dynamic (see under cut)

really interesting exploration of how the Church’s response evolved from the early-High Middle Ages (”dude, you believe in fairies? hhhmmm, do penance for 10 days”) to the Late Middle Ages/Early Modern Period (”kill them for heresy and witchcraft!”) 

and how it enfolded vernacular/fairy beliefs into Christian doctrine as fairies being either a) demons or b) the illusions of demons (and how dangerous/bad these demons were depended on the time/location/cleric in question - some packaged fairies as “neutral” demons who fell when the rebel angels did, and who must be punished on Earth but will return to Heaven on Doomsday - potentially doing this to soften things for their parishioners, who often held these fairy beliefs and reconciled them with Christianity, uh, differently than the Church officially would prefer)

and enduring belief in fairies existed in both common and aristocratic circles (can see this in medieval romances, although they’re not the only source of evidence), rather than just being used as cultural “decoration” by a more sceptical upperclass

aaaaand because of this conflation of fairy = demon, you get a really interesting blend/overlap with medieval demonology and enduring “folk” beliefs (obvs not all of medieval demonology was just rebranded fairies, but some of it defs was - you see stories being retold with “devil” instead of “elf”, for example)

INCLUDING in Arthuriana - how you get Morgan the Fairy (”le Fay”) vs Morgan who was raised in a nunnery and learned dark magic there, the Lady of the Lake as a (largely) positive force, Merlin inexplicably as a (perceived to be...) Good Guy despite being the literal antichrist, the Green Knight and all the overlap with Christian symbolism in that story, etc, etc. and they all just either??? co-exist in the same stories or appear through either more fay or more ~Christian lenses depending on the version

and it creates a very interesting and very confusing soup of Stuff stemming from a very confusing - and sometimes dangerous - soup of official and unofficial beliefs evolving over hundreds of years

anyway, WRT Arthuriana it’s got (and ymmv on these, but they’re all interesting thoughts):

(i think in Gottfried’s Tristan???) apparently Tristan has a rainbow fairy dog called Petitcriu...name a knight less deserving of such a Good Boy smh

Chretien’s Yvain flooding out Laudine at the fountain (...jerk) as a continuation of the beliefs surrounding a magical Spring at Barenton 

Gingalain moving from being the son of Gawain and the fairy Blanchemal (and having a fairy love interest, Pucelle) in the French OG version (~1200-ish) to being the son of Gawain and his human mistress (with Pucelle also being human) in a later 15th-C Middle English version)

AJDKN UJ IOE E Merlin’s conception, that one’s a wild ride - theologians REALLY didn’t like the idea of demons being fertile, and the work-arounds they came up with were...incredible. but skipping over that sheer comedy, the author draws links between Merlin’s conception and the general trend of claiming a fairy lover/whatever when a difficult-to-explain pregnancy arose. He also theorises that Geoffrey’s idea for Merlin’s father being a demon/fairy may have come from Nennius saying that Merlin/Ambrosius’ mother “never knew a man”. Later adaptations of this storyline made it even more fay-like (when they weren’t, like Robert de Boron, making it more fucked-up) by making Merlin’s father invisible (Wace) or a super attractive guy in swanky gold clothes (Layamon) - and Vortigern’s advisor explaining the creatures that lived between the earth and the moon until doomsday, etc, etc (walking that line between fairy and incubi, whichhhhhh was not clearly delineated in the Middle Ages the way it is now). also there’s one 13th-C Anglo-Norman poem where Merlin’s father is a bird that transforms into a dashing young squire, which isn’t terribly demon-y. So even though most versions of this story describe Merlin’s dad as an incubi-demon, what people understood this to mean may have been more fay-ish that we’d expect nowadays (depending on the reader, and also on authorial intention - some are pretty explicit that he’s a demon [many clerics keen to push this as the main narrative], while others refer to him as an elf or fairy). some contemporary scepticism during this time about Merlin having any sort of supernatural parentage as well

[none of the same Church anxieties about explaining away how the Plantagenets and other aristocratic families claim a female fairy ancestress - maybe bc there’s none of the stress about patrilineal bloodlines??? who knows! but yeah, much less thought given to those stories in ecclesiastical circles, and they were very popular in vernacular romances (male aristocratic wish fulfilment?). also, fairy enchantments =/= necromancy, so there are stories like the non-cyclic Lancelot where the Lady of the Lake is found out to be “a fairy by education, not by nature or heredity” (Elspeth Kennedy), with the spirits used in necromancy being demons, not fairies. also potential trend of female-associated magic becoming more passive and book-learned, gradually demonising it leading up to early-modern witch hunts.]

Geoffrey of Monmouth in his Historia and in the Vita Merlini being actually pretty circumspect about saying whether or not Arthur was alive/dead, returning/not returning, maybe due to his work/text being a (hypothesised) defence of the Welsh as being “civilised” (and having been so for centuries before the Normans came) - with the corollary that believing in Arthur’s return was somehow “uncivilised”. Author argues that this may be due to an association with fairy beliefs, and that Layamon is the one that makes Avalon explicitly fey. Also the author describes Arthur as living in a “feminised version of the Christian heaven” (iconic) and says that later writers and people could be very scornful of this belief held by the Britons/Welsh/etc, and that it was contrary to orthodox ways of thinking. 

Links the “discovery” of Arthur and Guinevere’s bodies in Glastonbury in the late 12th-C as similar to when individuals found the bodies of their loved ones, thus making it much harder to believe (and hope) that they were still alive in fairyland. Makes a suggestion that the monks in Glastonbury who “found” these bodies may have been trying to curry favour with the English crown (i.e. champion/hope of the Welsh isn’t coming back) but also may have been trying to “help”/”save”/correct the thoughts/ideology of the Welsh (i.e. “set them on the correct path to salvation”). Lots of medieval writers describing Arthur as living in “fairyland”. Precedent of people visiting fairyland and returning, so Avalon/fairyland =/= a place only for the dead (i.e. Arthur isn’t dead). An Arthurian example, albeit a less explicitly fay one, is Lancelot getting in and out of Gorre (with Gorre as a “typically supressed and rationalised” version of fairyland) in Chretien’s Knight of the Cart.

Some stuff about the wild horde (distinct from the wild hunt) being presented by some writers as very penitential (i.e. they are departed souls that may look like they’re bearing arms/hunting/whatever as they did in life, but really they are in agony e.g. because their weapons burn them) and tbh demonic (black armour, carrying torches, ominous aesthetic). Other writers thought maybe it was - once again! - demonic impersonators rather than actual mortal souls. (Should note also that the wild horde/wild hunt motifs were not always associated with their being dead). Relevant in the Arthurian context because Arthur and his court were sometimes associated with the idea of the wild horde (as in, sometimes the wild horde is described as Arthur’s court living it up in a cool, undying sort of way - “in the likeness of knights hunting or jousting, commonly known as the household of Hellequin or of Arthur” [Etienne de Bourbon, a medieval writer] - with Hellequin’s household often being used to encompass either the wild hunt or the wild horde). Ultimate point made by the author (props to him, he’s always like “if i’m right” lol) that for many clerical writers, it was very uncomfortable to leave people with the impression that Arthur and his court were living it up in fairyland (and similar for other figures associated with the wild hunt/horde) and this idea needed to be corrected/shaped to suit more orthodox perspectives - e.g. tying in with notions of purgatory, etc. 

Aaaand this one was exciting to me just bc i’ve vaguely heard about Arthur and his knights snoozing under a hill, but for some reason i could only remember this being in Victoria-era-and-onwards poetry. 3 versions of the same tale, where a servant looks for his master’s lost horse on a Sicilian mountain. Version 1) servant of a bishop finds his master’s horse in the beautiful palace of Arthur’s court beneath Mt Etna. Aside from the fact that the ancient wound Arthur received from Mordred opens once a year, it’s not very purgatory-like. Version 2) a dean’s servant is told by an old man that King Arthur has the horse on Mt Gyber (Mt Etna). he is told that his master must attend Arthur’s court in 14 days, but the dean laughs it off...then sickens and dies on the appointed day (whoops). Enough differences to this story compared to the first to suggest an oral circulation. Also a note in the version/text that such mountains are said to be the mouth of hell, and only the wicked are sent there, not the chosen. Version 3) Etienne again! Also likely changed with intervening oral circulation. The master is not an ecclesiastical figure, and Arthur’s palace is now a populous city - also Arthur is not referred to, just a nameless prince. There is a gatekeeper who warns the servant not to eat or drink while he’s there (that...is a very fairy-ish proscription). This mountain is apparently reputed to be the site of purgatory. The book author (Richard, i mean) ties these versions in with other stories/accounts of different entrances to purgatory (e.g. one on an island in an Irish lake) as being part of a gradual process of “rendering [...] fairyland purgatorial”. 

Finally, Gawain in Roman van Walewein: To get to an ‘earthly paradise’ [i.e. King Assentijn’s garden with its fountain of youth - side note that ‘earthly paradises’ were often popularly described to be fairyland/where fairies live, in addition to their theological functions, e.g. Avalon was sometimes described as an earthly paradise...i should also say that purgatory was frequently thought to be located beside earthly paradise, so there’s the proximity element] and the castle containing it, Gawain must cross a river (guided by a magical talking fox) that a) has waters that burn like fire, and b) can only be crossed by using a bridge sharper than a razor. His reaction? “Is it the enchantment of elves or magic / that I see?”. He is then guided by the fox underneath the river through a tunnel, and is told that the river’s source is in the depths of hell, and “[the river] is the true purgatory / All souls, having departed from the body / Must come here to bathe.” So it’s a very strong intermingling of fairy and purgatorial imagery/ideas!

I dunno, I just found this very ??? satisfying to read

it leaned towards lit-crit at times (which, considering the subject matter, is honestly fair enough), but it was more respectful of vernacular beliefs than so many other academic takes i see (ofc ymmv re: anything to do with non-Christian major religions, but i think the author’s pretty solid on this!), and it had an explanation for the survival of these beliefs that imo made a lot of sense, especially from a pan-European perspective, not just a Celtic one 

plus it explored the undeniable damage done by Christianity over history without making up some “ranged battle between paganism and the Church” that i see  e v e r y w h e r e  in casual Arthurian circles...which, like, i empathise with the vibe, but also! that’s just straight-up historical revisionism! (i blame MZB and the 80′s for that one)

(there was a fantastic post floating around a while ago about how the religious syncretism in Arthurian literature is much more interesting than peeling away all of the Catholicism in the medieval lit (...you ?? don’t end up with much left?) and saying that this is more “accurate” to some obscure original)

anyway yeah yeah ymmv but it’s v interesting 😊

[mon-blanchetts]

Two years after The Long Night, Sansa is held prisoner at Dragonstone on charges of murder and treason. And yet, nothing is as it seems.

Had the decision been his, Jon would've insisted they leave half-way through the second course. But, as it wasn't, he was forced to see the evening to the end, making his way through four elaborate courses, each consisting of a dozen dishes. And even after all that, Jon still wasn't free. For a city merchant like Francys Drury, who was as wealthy as he was ambitious, a dinner with four courses just wasn't enough—a fucking banquet1 had to follow as well, held in the marble house erected in his garden just for the occasion.

No, he realized, downing the last of his wine. A servant quickly re-filled his goblet without prompt. Had the decision been his, Jon wouldn't be here at all. Only the damn thing was supposed to be in his honour, a celebratory dinner to prelude his departure, and Dany had ordered that he be in attendance with her. Jon didn't feel to argue when the time for him to take his leave was so near. She was already furious with him to begin with.

At least for the moment, Jon was free from his wife's wrath. Dany was informally holding court on the other side of the garden, surrounded by her courtiers. Jon could make out Francys Drury from his clothes only. Their host wore a rich doublet spun with gold, so that the fabric glittered beneath the flames from the torches surrounding them. Dickon Tarly was also among those orbiting his wife. Jon packed that away for later. For now he had Ser Wylis Manderly to contend with; the knight had latched himself onto his person just as soon as he'd lost Drury's wife and her brood.

"Seven Hells, it's been an evening," he praised, not for the first time. "I haven't been witness to this level of hospitality since well before The Long Night. Though, speaking of The Long Night, I found the pageant lacking in accuracy. Too flowery and all over the place for my liking. What say you, Your Grace?”

Jon noted the stains on the man's clothes with his good eye, the comfit in one of his hands. "Many prefer a rose-tinted variation of the truth."

"Too right, that," Ser Wylis said, his eyes twinkling. "Not so many can handle the truth, eh? Not like us northmen. Looks like most of this lot here decided to sit The Long Night out, too.” The comment was not made quietly.

He knew he was being watched; the feeling was too familiar as it crept slowly upon him. Jon began to regret heeding Sam's advice. It had been on his friend’s recommendation that he bring Ser Wylis tonight, thus saving him from the ordeal of offering a seat at his own dining table.  

"The decision was their own, Ser. Whatever my opinion, it matters not now that those tribulations have passed."

Ser Wylis nodded as he finished the last of his comfit. "Well, let us hope the bad times are behind us. I'd like to think that after so much tumult and violence, it's only fitting that the gods bless us with a little prosperity, if they're generous enough. Though I must say, the gods have been well generous to you, no?"

"Generous indeed," he said. It was just short of a spat. Jon was ready to excuse himself, but Wylis Manderly had other plans.

"I assume you'll see Lady Sansa while at Dragonstone, Your Grace?"

Even more eyes felt like they were closing in on him. Jon watched the knight with an air of boredom on his face.

"If time permits, I suppose I will."

Ser Wylis wiped his fingers on his clothes as he spoke. "I do hope her health has improved from the fresh sea air. If she hasn't I already, it won't be long until she realizes how hard it will be not to live by the sea. Anyway, I hope you don't mind, but my father’s commissioned something for the Lady that I hope you'll take to her in honour of her name day. I've had it sent to your household just this morning."

It would please me more to throw it over the side of my ship, he longed to say; instead, he offered a nod. "So long as it's within reason, I don't see why she can’t have it. My half-sister always did enjoy a pretty bauble when presented with one."

"As do all women, believe me," said Ser Wylis, chuckling heartily. “Well, I do think she’ll like Lord Wyman’s gift well enough. Of course, I’m sure there’s much that the Lady Sansa would desire, but that’s not really up to her at the moment, now is it?”

Jon stared at him, his face closed. “When the time is right, Ser Wylis, Lady Sansa will be fairly tried, as promised to her by my wife. We’ll have real truths then—and I doubt it will be of the rose-tinted kind.” He'd spoken with an air of finality, drawing a curtain over the subject. A flash of hesitation passed over the knight’s face, but he recovered quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course. It will be good to have closure finally, no doubt.”

Ser Wylis was smart to segue into lighter matters, but in truth he had lost Jon’s attention nearly as soon as he had caught it. Jon dismissed the northman before making straight for his wife. He’d had enough.

Dany had an arm draped carelessly over her stomach when he approached; the crowd around her fell open upon his arrival. He caught sight of Dickon Tarly for a moment before looking away, but not before Jon noted the nervous expression on his face.

Even when he drew his wife close to him and away from their courtiers, her arm remained where it was. She’d been playing with her midsection throughout the whole evening and had refused the fine wine offered to her. Jon knew exactly what she was up to.

“I’m leaving,” he declared.

Her expression remained unchanged. "I'm not finished here yet," she said.

"Stay if you want, but I’m done here."

"Jon," she said gently, but he wasn't deceived. Her face was still light and calm, but he caught the anger brewing in her violet eyes, the tautness of the skin around them. He could hear her voice in his head, fury laced in her voice. We leave when it suits me.

“You’re welcome to stop me, but your courtiers will have plenty to talk about if you do, I promise you that.” Public or no, he was itching for a good fight. Strange, because he was so tired of fighting, with Dany and everyone else, be it literally or figuratively, but it seemed that it was the only thing he kept doing.

She didn't respond to his threat, only kept playing with the fabric of her gown around her stomach. Jon knew she was taking stock of her options, turning over one possibility before moving forward to the next. There'd be plenty for their courtiers to whisper about if they were to leave separately, but it would be nothing compared to the public row she was asking for.

"You can do the talking then," she ordered, beckoning for her one of her handmaidens before turning her back to him. If she couldn’t have her way, Dany found other means to punish him, however trivial they may be.

He made quick work of it. A word of thanks to Francys Drury, who accepted the toast that Jon made with a look of pure smugness on his face. He even managed a laugh out of their audience when he mentioned that his ship would set sail to Dragonstone without him were he to stay any longer. Of all the eyes staring at him while he spoke, his wife’s were the most menacing.  

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

"Did you enjoy yourself at least a little last night?" Sam inquired, pulling his dining cloth off his left shoulder.

Jon watched through the open window as the men below packed away the very last of his possessions onto wooden carts. He intended to make an early start for the harbour, eager to avoid as much fanfare as possible.

"Only as much as her dothraki, I think," he said, turning to face his steward.

Sam cracked a lopsided smile. "So they behaved themselves this time around. I half anticipated news this morning that they'd gone and set fire to Francys Drury's manse with his own cellar of vintages. That would've certainly put an end to your invites from the city’s merchants.”

Unlike yesternight, where countless eyes had watched Jon while he dined, today there was only Sam present in his private chambers. This morning's fare was just as much of a contrast, a world away from the elaborate and daunting menu that Francys Drury's cooks had planned out: fresh bread with salted meat and cheese, all to be washed down with light ale. The only cause for envy was Drury’s collection of wine, far superior in quality than anything served at Dany’s court. Jon knew that to be a connoisseur in such matters only meant he’d been imbibing more than his fair share; even the Hand had taking mild interest.

Well, at least she didn't know. Suspected it, perhaps, though there was never long enough occasion for her to draw any firm conclusions. But then, Jon never felt the need to drink so much in her presence, either.

"Were there any Tyrells present last night?"

Sam’s question shook him from his thoughts. "None. Tyrion missed a perfectly good night for nothing. Dickon Tarly attended, though." Jon remembered the tall man hovering near Dany, the strange look on his face.  

“Yes, so I’ve been told. And Her Grace? Was she in a fine mood last night?"

He told Sam of his observations, the hints she had thrown about to all and sundry. His steward nodded.

"My guess is if you’re not back in a moon’s time, she'll make a formal announcement. You do plan on returning before then, right? That's what we agreed upon."

Jon followed the elaborate design etched on the table with his good eye rather than look up. "Some things may keep me there longer."

"Some things or someone? Sam pressed, his thick brows furrowing. Jon said nothing.

His friend sighed. "Jon, if you stay any longer than was planned, your courtiers will surely talk."

"They'll talk regardless. Once Dany decides to announce her pregnancy again, they'll have something new to fix their attentions on."

"Will it be true, this time around?"

Jon scoffed. "No, but if by some dint of miracle it is, the babe wouldn't be mine." Jon glanced at the man sitting across from him. They remained silent for a moment, but it was pregnant with meaning.

"Well, if you're going to stay at Dragonstone that long and tell people you're going partly to take the fresh air, then at least this time try coming back like it actually worked," Sam pressed. "More than once you just come back looking even worse for wear than when you left. Someone's going to speculate one day that you're being slowly poisoned, mark my words."

Sam wasn't wrong. His excuses weren't holding up the way they used to, and really, that was more his fault than anyone else's. That Dany might have to use another goddamned pregnancy as a means to force him back to the capital was equally bemusing.

But it was just so hard to leave after he got there, was getting harder and harder to do so with each visit

Seven Hells, it was agony.

"It would be more than Dany could ever hope for, that," he remarked. There was a knock on the door before Sam could reprimand him.

Stannis Seaworth entered at Jon's beckoning. "Everything's packed and ready, Your Grace," his squire announced after a quick bow of his head. "The captain wants to be knowing whether you'll be leaving immediately or whether you want to delay a bit more."

"No, we make for the harbour now," Jon ordered, soaking his hands in the silver bowl of rosewater that one of his pages brought before him. The boy—of a minor house from the westerlands—had slipped in after he’d given Stannis permission to enter, together with a small retinue of other servants designated to wait on him this morn. He could feel the boy's wide eyes on his back as he left his private chambers for what would, for now, be the last time.

Out in the busy courtyard, dozens upon dozens of bodies milled about; even this early in the morning, it bustled with as much energy as the city's marketplaces that existed beyond the castle gate. Those who recognized his person stopped to offer a quick bow, but he could never take leave of that feeling that itched at the back of his head, or the side of his face. He was being watched. Always being watched.

"Did you happen to receive anything from Ser Wylis Manderly?" he asked, mounting his black palfrey.

Sam looked up at him, squinting from the sun’s glare. "I did, actually, now that you've mentioned it. A set of combs made of ivory and horn. It was one of the last things packed off this morn.”

It was on the tip of Jon’s tongue have it removed from his inventory, but he thought against it. The choice wasn't his to make, it was hers.

He remembered his conversation with Wylis Manderly last night. Lady Sansa. No longer Lady Stark. A small slight with the greatest of meaning. Dany's work, he thought bitterly, no doubt aided by Tyrion Lannister or one of her other favourites.

Sam wished him safe travels. "You'll send her my greetings, won't you?" his steward asked.

"Of course." There was more to his words—always more—but the courtyard was no place for them.

There was no looking back over his shoulder as he left the Red Keep behind with his traveling party. The things that he still cherished were few and far there. Neither was there a final farewell between husband and wife, but that was the way it was for them; Jon had more or less bid her goodbye as soon as he told her he was leaving court for Dragonstone. If her dragons were still alive, he suspected that Dany would've happily razed the island to the ground with him and the other inhabitants on it. A small price to pay, the burning of a Targaryen stronghold, if it meant wiping out one of the strongest claimants to her throne. That she would also be removing the heir to the North was only a happy afterthought.

But her dragons were gone, just like the Others, and all the magic they had brought with them when they first hatched from their eggs. Now it was only mortals playing at the games the gods had fashioned them with, dealing with a hand of cards that weren't as strong as they might’ve hoped. But the gods had fashioned them for love as well—their greatest glory and their greatest tragedy. Jon had learned this all to well.

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

The skies were clear when he landed on Dragonstone, greeted by less than a handful of the island’s nobles and the castle’s maester. Out of everyone, it was Ser Davos Seaworth whom he was grateful to see most. Jon recalled Dany's fondness for her merchants, which wasn’t so different from his own affinity for the former smuggler whom he now regarded as one of his closest confidantes. There was a time when he had more in common with his wife than that.

Jon threw a quick glance over his shoulder as the party made their trek up to the castle.  With the winds blowing so loud around them, it would be impossible for the lords and knights walking not so close behind him to eavesdrop.

"How is she?"

His voice was low, audible for Davos’ ears alone. He didn't need to clarify; they both knew exactly who he meant.

The knight’s gaze was on the steps before him. “As well as I've described her in my letters,” he responded, not unkindly.

His heart sank. "She's still not eating?"

Davos shook his head. "Not as much as Marya think she ought. Apparently it's beginning to show, she says."

"I've brought some of her favourites,” Jon said. “I think Marya can use that to coax her to eat more."

"It may help." There was a note of hesitation in his friend’s voice that Jon didn't miss.

"You have doubts?”

Davos sighed. “I'd like to think her loss of appetite lies in a lack of variety, but...I fear the cause may be something else. A deeper melancholy, if you will.” He glanced at Jon with a crooked smile on his weather-beaten face. “Maybe things will get better, now that you’re here. A familiar face never did hurt.”

Would things get better? He had about a moon's time to make sure that they did, that she wasn't on her way to another illness as he had feared while reading Davos’ letters. But what if more time were needed? How much longer could he stretch his absence until court gossip reached a fever pitch?

Without thinking, Jon looked up. The imposing castle, with its sharp edges and perfectly-erected walls, stared down at him. Thousands upon thousands of years’ worth of Targaryen history were buried within this castle. It was no place for a lone Stark, one surrounded by nothing but dragon motifs sneering at her in just about every direction, but it was the safest place for her at the moment.

If he squinted hard enough, Jon thought he could make out wisps of red hair dancing the wind from one of the keeps.

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

He played the role of Prince Consort adequately enough, even without Dany present. He invited Ser Davos and his other nobles to sup with him in the Great Hall that evening, going so far as to extend his offer to Lady Brienne of Tarth. In the end, she declined; whether of her own volition or whether she'd been pressured not to by whom she'd sworn to protect, Jon couldn’t tell. A little bit of both, perhaps.

Supper was a boisterous affair of the most subdued kind. He knew when he invited them to dine at his table that his nobles were expecting some flavour of hospitality famous in the capital, even if that hospitality didn't run the full gamut of what they knew either from experience or hearsay. But Jon had Ser Davos ensure that the wine he'd brought with him be served generously that evening, and the conversation flowed freely enough.

The subject of Sansa Stark was noticeably suppressed.

Knowing that she was somewhere within these castle walls—somewhere within reach— was all Jon could think about. He was styled a prince, a high-ranking one at that, and yet the one person he wanted to see above all was to come last, not until he dealt with something as trivial as entertaining his vassals, many of whose loyalty seemed to swerve from dragon to stag and back again. With a title like his, Jon thought that he should have whatever he desired, and yet the chasm felt as if it stretched forever.

It was ironic that the trappings of freedom were, in fact, the most constricting.

And so there was no choice for him, not now at least, but to keep his face closed off and his fury shackled as evening morphed into night. News of his arrival and subsequent movements would be reported back to King’s Landing; Dany would no doubt receive a minute report of his performance within a few days. Pages danced in and out of his sight; those seated at his table were equally fixed on him, even when their gazes appeared to be elsewhere. Everyone was gathering all the things they could to pick apart—all the things they could use to pick him apart. In the shadows of the room, he thought the eyes of the carved dragons coiling around the stone columns stalked him just as mercilessly, if not more so.

Don't give them reason to talk. Don't let them see what they want to see.

Paranoia clung to him long after he’d retired from the Great Hall, licking at his heels as he barred the door of his private chambers. Jon knew from experience that he could never fully shake off that wretched feeling, that it was never to be entirely ridden of it. Not so unlike this ache, he thought bitterly, stripping down to his small clothes.

For the space of a moment, he considered doing the opposite of his desires. Let his pride win for once, and forsake her for at least a night, perhaps even two. It might even be better for them in the long run; his head would be clearer from the fresh sea air.

Only he wanted her too badly. At least if he went to her now, Jon could blame his madness on the vices of the capital. He could blame it on the smog of King’s Landing that clouded his faculties and blinded him of his wits. If he went now, rather than later, he could still cling to some of dignity.

What value was there in his dignity, compared to her? What good was anything if he couldn’t have her?

Absolutely nothing, he told himself as he pulled aside the worn tapestry. The false stone panelling hidden behind it gave way to his hand with a sturdy push. Jon would never have known about the secret passages if it weren’t for the castle’s long-standing maester—the same one he’d pensioned off to the southern outskirts of the Stormlands, all before bringing in his replacement, a novice with little knowledge of the castle he was meant to serve.

Jon reached her chamber within minutes, could hear his familiar growling on the other side of the wall as he pushed it open. Ghost quieted down as soon as he recognized him, the direwolf’s red eyes glowing brightly beneath the flames of his torch. Sansa was abed, the curtains of her bed drawn shut. The last vestiges of the fire in the hearth sang weakly.

He set aside his torch and removed his boots, snuffing out the light before approaching her bed. The velvet curtains were soft beneath his fingers as he slowly drew them back.

Sansa laid on the opposite side to his, her back facing him. As his good eye adjusted to the darkness, he made out long strands of red hair that spilled across her pillow and the one beside it. Jon suspected that she was still awake, despite her even breathing.

His heart swelled painfully at the sight of her. It felt like ages since they had last been together, each short reunion feeling more poignant than the last that came before it. Jon wasn’t made to be far from her, but the realization had come too late; he damned himself over and over again for the fool he’d once been, leaving her when, even all those years ago, something within him had held him back. A flood of anger washed over him, like it always did whenever his mind drifted back just a little to that period in their lives. He had every single right to be furious with her—he still was. That didn’t change the fact that he loved her. More than anything.

He climbed into bed before pushing the curtains closed. Ghost, loyal until his last breath, would alert them to any unwanted approaches at her unbarred door. As soon as he burrowed beneath the covers, Jon didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist as he pressed the length of his body against her, breathing her in. It was trivial, but one of the ways he marked their evolution together was the scent she carried. A long time ago Sansa once smelled of pine and rosewater. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jon recalled how every inch of her skin, even the parts he was never meant to lay eyes on, had clung tightly with the potent musk of his leathers. It had baffled him, more than once, but he could never fit the pieces together. Not until it was too late.  

Sansa neither smelled of pine or his leathers now. Instead, it was the sharp saltiness of the island’s waters that clung to her, assaulted his senses. Could he drown in it the same way he might drown beyond the shores of the Narrow Sea?

How could you have done this to me? How could you have done this to us?

Jon pressed his lips desperately against the back of her neck before lifting his head to kiss the skin of her exposed shoulder, his anger mingled dangerously with desire. Sansa was awake, he was certain of it, but he wanted to revel in her without her protests. They may come later, he didn’t know, but for now she was willing to lie pliant in his arms, and for that alone Jon was eternally grateful to her. He found her hand resting close to her chest, like she was protecting her heart while she slept. From her enemies? Or from him?

Was there ever chance for that? he wondered, his fingers gravitated towards her own. Jon took small comfort in the cold metal he came into contact with, pleased that she still wore the ring he'd given her not so long ago—but then, Sansa also knew better than to take it off, unless she was intentionally courting his anger. Not so heavy as a yoke, but it wasn't meant to be such. It was a reminder, at best, a token in return for one she'd gifted him at Winterfell, bestowed with the same twisted malevolence. Had it been then that all their troubles and sorrows started, or were they conceived long before?

Jon knew he could dwell on it forever, but in truth it no longer mattered where their troubles began. What mattered, he realized, was that they had tonight. And tomorrow. And all the rest of his days where he remained on the island. He would take what he could.

"I've missed you," he whispered into her ear, tenderly rubbing the ring with his thumb. "You’ll never know much I’ve missed you."

He ached for her with the same force as a thousand suns, yet what little he could have of her for snatches at a time could never satiate the want that haunted him every day and night. Would it have been different, once? Would their lives have shaped out for the better if Sansa had only let things be, rather than play with them the way she had?

These were questions that Jon asked himself over and over again. Questions he knew would remain impossible to answer.

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

Notes:

1 There are two meanings to the word banquet: one refers to an elaborate feast or celebration, while the second is akin to an after party of sorts held after the feast, and tends to take place in specially-made houses in gardens. Guests are served desserts and wine, buffet-style. I’m using the word here as it relates to the second definition.

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

Please note that this story borrows heavily from The Persistence of Desire by Margot_le_Faye; while I highly recommend it if you're a Dramione fan, you will very likely spoil yourself silly for this story. Considering my horrible track record for updates, I wouldn't blame you, though. Lots of elements in this story may also echo when the walls come tumbling down by phantomphaeton as well as From Instep to Heel by orangeflavor, so giving credit where credit's due. Inspiration also comes from John Guy's Mary Queen of Scots, which I highly recommend reading if you're able to get your hands on it.

Also, if you happen to make it this far, I need you thank you guys so, so much for reading! I've had this premise in my head for so long and tried to put it down paper, but it just never felt right until now. This story will likely be the longest and most ambitious thing I've ever written, not to mention the angstiest. Like, not a joke you guys; when I looked at the entire outline I made for this fic, I just shook head. Please let me know what you think of this story-all comments and encouragement keep me going! Stay safe, folks.

[sif-the-tsunami]

Hello friends,

This is a small sample of the fantasy series I’ve been working on for a few years. I would love to get some kind of feedback. Positive, negative. Lay it on me. I want to know what you think.

This is a rough draft, barely edited. 

Summary: A young warrior starts the path to her destiny. 

Rated: PG-13, this will probably read like YA but there wont be any sexy times. Just talks about violence and death (this doesn’t mean that people under 18 can start interacting with my blog. I mostly post smut.)

The attack on Dawnforge came without warning. Raiders, dozens of them, descended upon the small community surrounding a rural temple. The invaders poured violently out of the woods. In the cool shade of the temple’s grove, Ellisif Thrace’s mossy green eyes shot open from her late afternoon nap when she heard the Keepers sound the alarm. The war horns had only been blown ceremonially for as long as she could remember. The second blast echoed off the stone walls and summoned her to action. The young woman sat strait up, and listened for another moment to see if she could find out what direction the alarm was coming from.  She thought she could hear the Keepers shouting towards the east although she couldn’t make out what they were saying just yet. Always eager to be of assistance, Ellisif picked up her belongings and started running towards the commotion. Ellie, as she preferred to be addressed, had been learning defense and fighting techniques since she was strong enough to pick up a sword. Her father had been a knight errant and thought it was important that his children should know how to keep themselves safe.

Another blast of the horn let her know she was running in the right direction. Soon she heard the sound of weapons being thrown and bashed into the thick wooden gate. The Keepers were directing the villagers to leave the area, a man that Ellisif thought was named Erik told her to go home. He couldn’t have been much older than she was, his skin was sun kissed, with a little pink on his temples and cheekbones. Erik looked scared, brushing his reddish blond hair out of his face.

“I’m here to help, give me a sword!” She shouted.

“Little Sister, you need to go somewhere safe.” Erik ordered. As he was saying this, the Commander put his hand on her shoulder.

“Erik, Ellie is to join the Order at the Feast of Lyria. Let her pick up a shield, if they make it through our defenses, she knows how to handle herself.” The older man told Erik. He handed their recruit a wooden shield with metal studs, “Ellisif, make your father proud.”

Erik rolled his eyes as the Commander went to go hand out more tools. “They are going to break through in a matter of minutes. Take an ax. If they make it past us, cut the fuckers down. And don’t you dare get killed.”

Ellie pulled the cord she had on her wrist to tie her hair back. Her thick dark chocolate brown curls were pulled back out of her face and she said a small prayer to her favorite Goddess. I don’t want to have to kill anyone, but if I do, please let me do it quickly. Her heart pounded in her throat, her trepidation rose with every new crack emerging from the gate. The wood finally gave way, and she watched the horde of mismatched heathens break into her town. The Keepers had set up as much of a barricade as they could. Carts where pushed on their sides trying to create a funnel and direct the invaders to the villages best fighters and war priests. The Archers were doing what they could to thin out the herd. Ellisif inched closer to the battle, she tightened her grip on the handle of her ax just in time for a raider to jump over the stack of crates that had been near where she was standing. She raised her shield to the long sword he was swinging at her and it became stuck in the hard wood. Then it was as if her brain shut off and her body took over.

The warrior would never truly be able to recall everything that happened that afternoon. The surviving Keepers would tell her that she was brave, surgical with her actions and moved like she had been doing this all her life. In her state of shock, she would just say she had really good teachers. They would congratulate her for surviving her first battle. They thanked her for saving lives that day. Not a single invader made it past where she stood her ground.

Ellie looked up at the white stone buildings that were beginning to glow pink with the setting of the sun. What would they do with the bodies, she wondered vaguely. She leaned against the warm stone wall and slid down. What should I be doing? She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to make the sickness in her stomach go away.

“Where is she? Where is my sister, where is my Ellie?” a familiar voice was shouting. A couple of the Keepers pointed towards where she sat with her knees tucked to against her chest, her head resting on the wall behind her. Sarah thought she look more pale than normal.

“I’m right here.” Ellie croaked. Her throat was so dry. The healers had looked at her briefly, said she would be fine but to be prepared that she would probably have some pretty bad bruising on her forearms.

“Oh my Gods, why are you covered in blood? We’ve been so worried! Mama is going to skin you alive. Are you hurt? What were you thinking?” The thin woman stammered together as she fretted over her younger sister.

“I’m fine, the blood’s not mine. At least I don’t think so.” Ellie said, “What was I thinking? I was thinking that this is what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to run toward the fight. Do you have your water on you? I need a drink...”

The Commander strutted over like the fine peacock he was and pressed a bottle of ale into Ellie’s open hand and said something about how proud he was. She didn’t care. Ellie just wanted to be able to swallow without her throat feeling like sandpaper. The strawberry ale was sweet and warm, it made swallowing a little easier but after the third mouthful it became clear that the ale was doing nothing for her nausea. There might have been something said to her about how he was looking forward to seeing her take her oath, he chuckled and walked off. Sarah started trying to clean the viscera from her sister’s face but before she got too much grime off of her face, Ellisif turned her head and wretched.  She groaned, “Let’s go home.”

They walked home, arms wrapped around each other. It wouldn’t be until they reached their little home that Ellisif would start talking. The words slipped out of the young woman, still dazed. She looked down at the ax she was still holding onto with white knuckles and whispered “The one who gave this to me, Erik… I don’t know. He was killed. I killed someone today, Sarah. I killed several someones…”

Sarah, as gently as she could, wiped the tears off of her sister’s face, “You did what Daddy taught us to do. You helped keep our family safe, you kept or town safe. Lyria would be proud. She would be thrilled to know you will be defending her temple. Daddy would be so proud too.”

The older sister took her partner in crime into their house, and tucked the battle wary woman into her bed. The ax fell to the ground with a sickening thunk, and Ellie rolled over and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sarah went to the kitchen and put a kettle on to brew some tea. Their mother, Kyra, had gone to the temple to help bandage up wounds of the Keepers and anyone else who took up arms. She eventually grabbing the heel of the loaf of bread from the pantry and slather it in homemade butter, pulling out her book of herbs. If Ellisif was more athletically inclined, her sister was definitely more well read. Sarah propped the book up and began plaiting her silky hair as she read the well loved tome. The front door opened quietly, the family’s matriarch came back after a long night of bandaging up injured young people and comforting the loved ones of those they lost.

“The Pale Mother now has a few more attendants now,” Kyra sighed, she and Sarah’s looks were similar, though she had more silver in her hair now. They both had dark brown eyes, almost black.  “Those poor souls. The Council and the High Priestess has asked that we all gather tomorrow at the Temple. They found their leader and they are interrogating him. He seemed to not understand that the forge our town was named after has been closed for generations, thought he could arm his merry band of miscreants. I heard Ellisif did her duty. How’s our girl doing?”

“She might have gone into emotional shock. I put her in bed, she’s going to need something strong in the morning. I was just reading up on something that will sooth her nerves, she was covered, and I mean covered, in blood. Evidently none of it was hers, which is good. Daddy taught her well. The Keepers were saying she showed a lot of potential.”

“Your father was the best knight I have ever seen wield a sword, I can only imagine what he taught her. The Temple will have never been safer if she is half as good as he was.” Kyra grabbed another hunk of bread and helped herself to some cheese. “I wish you could have seen him. I’ve never seen anyone burn with righteous fury like he could. When he would swing his sword in the tourneys he fought in, I swear that it looked like it was on fire. It was beautiful and absolutely terrifying. Ells has that same spark. When she was little, I saw it in her too.”

“I told her daddy would be proud.”

“He would be. He would also be profoundly sad for her. Sweetheart, you should go get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be very long.”

Ellisif slept until nightfall the next day. Siggy and Kyra left her to her mild unconsciousness to attend the meeting at noon. The temple slowly filled with the mourning villagers. More than a dozen Keepers had died that afternoon, it had been a decade since there had been any attacks on Dawnforge like this. It would be weeks before the damage the raiders did to the town could be repaired. The surviving raiders were told they could bury their dead on the other side of the ravine outside of the walls and then to assist the town in its repairs to try to make amends. The Thrace women where given the instruction on how they could help by the High Priestess. As soon as they where able to, Sarah and her sister would be going to the schoolhouse. They thought that having a couple extra adults around the kids would help make them feel safer.

Most of the school age kids knew Ellie. Two years ago she had won the combat tournament on the Feast of Seraphina, the Scarlet Mother. Usually the winners give the bouquet of fire Lilies to their significant other, she instead pulled out individual flowers and gave one to every little one who was around the ring that day. Her father had done the same thing the last time he had won the tournament. She enjoyed being their hero that afternoon, Sarah remembered as she and their mom walked home with their orders. The night of the feast, Ellie was asked attend the dance that was be held in the town square. Sarah had never seen her sister so happy as when she came home giggling, barefoot and a little in love.

When they made it to their home again, they saw evidence that Ellie had been up and moving but she was no where to be seen. Kyra suggested that they leave her be for the time being, they were kind in letting the young woman try to recover at her own pace. After a few days of her sleeping more heavily than she ever had, Ellisif needed to be in the forest behind the temple. She wanted to feel the presence of the Green Mother and ask her for guidance. There was a small clearing there, where a large stone acts as an alter for Lyria. It was a large piece of granite that always seemed to be covered with moss in all the directions, not just north. On the morning of Lyria’s feast day, the sun would align itself with this slab perfectly, and that is where she would be taking her vows to join the ranks of the Keepers. They were originally called the Temple Keepers, as the community grew, the area they kept safe grew with it. Once Ellie joined, she would be binding herself to the fate of the town. She could get married and have a family if she chose, but traveling would be almost impossible. If the Empire of Oril ever declared war on any of the other kingdoms, they were almost always the ones that were conscripted.  

While Ellie had wanted to become a Keeper for as long as she could remember, as of this morning, the idea of joining gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her mother had always talked about how even masters of their craft could have their confidence shaken if the seeds of doubt had taken root in their minds. Was this a seed a doubt she had been warned about?

“Lyria, divine mother, I come here to beg you for forgiveness. I never wanted take someone’s life. I thought they would yield if they got hurt. How could I have been so stupid...” and for the first time since the attack, Ellisif’s strength gave out. There she spent the rest of the day sobbing and trying to figure out what she needed to do. Her body shook violently as the waves of emotions crashed over her. In the back of her mind, a small notion crawled its way forward, seeping into her thoughts likes a strong tea in hot water. Devoting herself to the temple may not be the right choice. Ellie cleaned her face of the mess that the sobbing caused. The moon had risen, her family would be worried.

She made it into her home moments before they would begin searching for their missing member. There were hugs and more tears. They remained silent as Ellie made her way to her bed, she prepared herself for the night.

[ofdragonsdeep]

6: Avatar

The Warrior of Light has never been one to abide the sadness of a child.

(ShB early story spoilers, discussion of possession)

6: Avatar

The Light that suffused the sky above Il Mheg twinkled in eerie, mournful tones as Ar’telan walked across the lush grass. Were it not for that glass-sharp stillness, the sound of emptiness in a non-existant wind, it would almost be a paradise. A brook babbled to his right, water cascading down to the lake below, the buried grave of Voeburt. Faerie-made birds fluttered between flowers cast in giant form, their petals bending and swaying under the influence of glamer magics rather than the breeze. Hungry creatures, yet untouched by the threatening light, lingered in the meagre shadows that the cliffs cast. They looked at him, and the less the Light suffused them, the more they backed away.

At the edge of a little drop, too sharp to be a hill but too short to be a cliff, Minfilia sat, swinging her legs as she looked out over the lake with those eerie blue-ghost eyes. She yelped in surprise as Ar’telan sat down beside her, not having expected him and not having heard the soft clanking of his armour’s plates as she was lost in her thoughts.

“Oh! You startled me,” she said, then fell silent and went back to staring out at the lake. “Sorry. Thancred always says I should pay more attention.” Ar’telan repressed the flicker of irritation at the statement.

“Thancred says a lot of things,” he replied. He was disappointed with him, in a way - after all the troubles they had come through, here he was failing to keep his own shadows in check, and hurting an innocent child in the doing of it. But maybe he still couldn’t quite see her as innocent. Maybe he still desperately wished for Minfilia - his Minfilia, the daughter he had raised in the guilt-strewn wake of her real father’s death. Maybe a part of him saw this child as her killer, her suppressor, and not someone her own. “Are you well, Minfilia?” he asked. How dearly he wished she had her own name, not one given to her like an Ascian might carry a title down the years. Minfilia stared at her knees.

“Yes. Thankyou. I’m fine,” she replied, which was a bare-faced lie mumbled with very little conviction. Eulmore had beaten the life from her by trapping her in that stifling prison, perhaps, but even when free she had not truly been allowed to flourish.

“Can I see what you’ve been working on?” he asked her, and with a noise of surprise she drew the bag of ammunition out of her pockets and handed it over. Ar’telan had been given a passing lesson in the art of the Gunbreaker from Thancred, and from one he had met back on the Source, but it had seemed a far cry from the knight’s arts he himself used even if the goals were the same. Protection. Thancred had cast aside the mantles of both bard and rogue to take on this role, but he was not doing a particularly good job.

The carts were simple things, bullets with a hollow chamber specifically designed to trap and harness aether. It was not too dissimilar from the machinist’s trade, except there the user’s aether provided the forward momentum to a bullet of regular make. These fair shone with aether, none of it Thancred’s, not that he had much of it left after what Lahabrea had done. Maybe it reminded Thancred of his Minfilia. Maybe he should have stopped finding a difference.

“You’re good at this,” he remarked, and Minfilia blushed just a little at the compliment. Ar’telan thought that she had probably not had many, in her short little life.

“I-I’m doing my best,” she said, which was not exactly an agreement, but it would have to do for the moment.

“Does Thancred ever tell you that?” Ar’telan asked, and Minfilia’s gaze dropped straight back to her knees.

“Sometimes,” she said, voice quiet. “But he always seems annoyed with himself to have said it.” Ar’telan let out a sigh, shaking his head as he passed the bag back to her with a quiet clacking of metal.

“Thancred should know better than to let his demons haunt his charge,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to say it - aloud was not the word, given his condition, but he had meant to think it and instead projected it. Minfilia wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, with the strength of her inherited Echo. “I mean - I shouldn’t have to make excuses for him. In the short time we have known each other, you have proved strong and competent. You deserve to hear it said.” Minfilia made a quiet noise, which felt like shock to Ar’telan’s Echo, but was barely audible to his ears.

“I’m not much compared to her. The… The real Minfilia,” she said. Ar’telan shook his head.

“You are as real as she is,” he said. Minfilia made a muted noise of disagreement. “Do you know how it works? The Echo - the rebirth?”

“A little,” she said, which still made it more than Ar’telan knew, not that he was intending to tell her that. “There’s a part of me… inside of me. In my soul. It feels like it… it isn’t me.” She touched a hand gently to her chest, a pensive look in her eerie blue eyes. “It’s warm. It’s kind. It’s Minfilia.” Her face turned saddened then. “When Ran’jit told me about the other… the other Minfilias, she gets sad. So I know that she’s… she’s seen so many. Girls like me. Girls who… who aren’t her, but are her. But not enough of her to make a difference.” She put her hands back in her lap, one clasped over the other. “And when I… when I die, that part of me that isn’t me, it will leave, and it will find another girl like me. Another Minfilia. I don’t know… I don’t know if she wants to. But she has to, I think.” She looked up at Ar’telan then, as if seeking confirmation, and it made him wonder.

“We borrowed it,” he confessed. “The idea of… of Rebirth. The Ascians can come back in endless cycles unless their aether is trapped, destroyed. Thancred told you about them, yes?” Minfilia nodded. “I suppose it always made sense that we could do the same thing, but I don’t think that we… that we should. The idea of mortality - of parts of us circling between life and death, each life new and different, that is important, even though we are blessed with the Echo.” He looked over at her. “So the Ascians would take new bodies, and mold their flesh to look like them, if they wished it. It happened to Thancred.” Thancred would not want this tale told, and Ar’telan certainly did not intend to tell her all of it, but she deserved a part of it. “An Ascian took him, and forced his soul into the darkest recesses of his aether. Where she lives - Minfilia. Lahabrea put Thancred there, and took control of him instead. So when she does it - when Minfilia does it, she tries so hard, I think, not to be like him. Not to hurt people like Lahabrea hurt Thancred. But we don’t know enough.” He looked out, over the cliff, at the waters of the lake. Perfectly still in the absence of wind, save for the ripples of fish and Fuath occasionally coming close to breaching the surface. “So she sits there, in the back of your soul, but she can’t - can’t stop it from hurting you, even though she doesn’t want it to. But she does it because a part of her feels like she must.” Ar’telan wondered how much of it was Hydaelyn. Even before she had been stolen away on the eddies of Y’shtola’s Flow, Minfilia had been devoted to Hydaelyn more fervently than anyone Ar’telan knew. If Hydaelyn told her to do this - to continue, even though it hurt, even though it doomed the girls she took, she would have done it, and it would have eaten her up to know it. Duty was not easy. Hydaelyn was not a loving Mother.

“...Thancred… H-he never told me,” Minfilia said, her voice quiet. “He told me - told me about Minfilia. His Minfilia. A-and the Echo, and the Ascians. But he never told me…”

“He hates what it did to him. What Lahabrea did with his body,” Ar’telan said, and found it a miracle that he could say it without shuddering at the memories. “He is scared of it. What it made him - what it makes people. And he is so scared of losing more people.” Ar’telan reached out, cautious and gentle, and put a hand on top of Minfilia’s own. “But he is proud of you. He should say it, and I should not have to say it for him. But I know him very well, and I know that even though he’s hurting, he is proud.” Minfilia had stiffened at the initial touch, then untensed as he spoke. Ar’telan could see the mist of tears at the corners of her eyes.

“I just… wanted to be enough,” she said. “To live up to her - to Minfilia.” Ar’telan inclined his head.

“I know. You do,” he assured her. “Not that you should forgive Thancred for his coldness, or accept my words as substitute for his, but I wanted… I wanted you to know.” His gaze was drawn back to the castle at the centre of the lake, the beautiful wings of lace and light cascading out from the towers. “I am glad to have you as an ally, and a friend, just as I was glad to know Minfilia. But you are worth more than what you are standing next to her. You are your own person, too. She let you remain. Had to. So you should live - not for her, but for yourself.” Minfilia let out a little sob, raising her tiny hands to wipe the tears from the corners of her eyes. Ar’telan was aware that if Urianger or Thancred found him sat out here with a crying child they would chew his ears off, and sans context he would certainly deserve it.

“Th-thank you,” she managed, her voice still quiet and small. “I… I’ll try. But it’s hard.”

“It is hard for everyone,” Ar’telan said, by way of consolation. “But I believe in you.” She offered him a tiny, near-imperceptible smile.

“Then I will believe, too,” she decided. “Um, could you… could you take these back to Thancred?” She held out the bag of cartridges once more, but Ar’telan shook his head.

“We will go together,” he disagreed. “Whenever you’re ready.” Minfilia gave him another smile - stronger, but still faint - and nodded her head.

“Alright. I would like that,” she agreed, and for once, her decision held conviction.

Ar’telan thought that was enough.

[raging-violets]

BTR: Patie //Ficlet// Break Out, Break Loose

Ficlet Notes: Set during 3x08, Big Time Babysitting

Pairing: Patie - Katie Knight and Patrick Jackson (OC)

Summary: With James and Carlos, sometimes it’s easier for Katie to tell them one thing to their face and mean another. A trip to the convenience store to play an arcade game was easier for them to understand than telling them she was going out to meet a boy.

Authored By: Rhuben

Tag List: Just tagging people I know who are BTR fans, or wanted to read more for the Jacksons @mystic-scripture​ @witchofinterest​ @juliesdahlias​

Katie closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath of air, when James and Carlos activated their “sister force field” on her. She tilted her head back and let out a loud groan. The stupid “Katie Cage” again.

She should have seen it coming. She had to give them props, they did take their responsibilities seriously. But then again, they took their jobs too seriously! And it wasn’t like they had little sisters to they even knew what they were talking about. At least Kendall had figure out how to handle her a long time ago: leave her alone, give her access to food, maybe monitor her online gaming habits, and everything was all good.

But this?! Katie tried to duck under James and Carlos’s arms but they shifted quickly, cutting her off before she could really move. Quickly straightening, she tried to step over them and found herself being carried away from the door and dropped haphazardly onto the couch.With a huff of annoyance, she crossed her arms over her chest. This was just going too far!

“You can pout all you want, Katie, but we’re not letting you leave this apartment,” James said, lifting an eyebrow before staring her down with one of his neurotic stares.

She wasn’t going to pout. She was just going to get even more frustrated. All she wanted to do was go down to the convenience store and play an arcade game. She basically had free ranger of the whole entire Palm Woods. She even crawled through air ducts and rolled around in laundry carts for fun. So what was so hard about the idea of her going to the convenience store to play an arcade game by herself?

“Ok, ok,” she said, putting her hands up defensively, “I get it. You want me to stay here.” She wiggled her grimy fingers. “Can I at least wash my hands? Those air ducts were very filthy.” Once James and Carlos let her go, she stepped past them and into the bathroom. “Idiots.”

Katie immediately turned on the bathtub and sink faucets.Placing her hands on the edges of the sink, she let out a deep sigh and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Dull. Boring. Not anything like the beach babes here in California.  Why would one of the hottest guys on the planet want to spend time with someone like her?

Lifting her hands she brushed her hair behind her ears, then pulled it forward in front of her shoulders, and then gathered her hair into her hands behind her head in a ponytail, turning her head this way and that. Then, her shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh through her nose, dropping her hair.

Still, she reasoned, he wants to spend time with you. Her stomach started twisting at the thought. And her heartbeat quickened. She twisted her mouth to the side, trying to stop herself from smiling too wide. You! Out of everybody in LA! Biting down on her lower lip, she lifted up onto the balls of her feet in excitement and proceeded to wash her hands. Afterwards she put on a little bit of eyeliner, some lip gloss, and a spritz of perfume. Riley had warned her over and over, not to wear so much makeup that she looked like she was wearing a mask.

“Wear just enough,” Riley had coached, carefully brushing the tip of an eyepencil across Katie’s lower eyelids, “to make your eyes glow, yeah? Brown eyes aren’t boring, mate.”

“It feels like you’re scratching my eyeballs out,” Katie had complained. She didn’t get the whole wearing makeup thing like a lot of girls her age at the Palm Woods did. Their eyebrows looked more like airplane landing strips than eyebrows. Still, he wasn’t going to go to her mom for it, lest she wanted the “You’re growing up so fast” speech again.

“The burning means its working,” Riley had quoted. She had cracked a grin before carefully blowing at Katie’s eyes. “Ah, reckon I just need to sharpen the pencil. Otherwise, you’re all set!” She had grabbed Katie’s shoulders and finally turned her towards the mirror.

Katie’s results at her own hand wasn’t as good as how Riley had made her look, but overall she was still happy. Her eyes did seem lighter, and have a certain glow to them. Clasping her fingers together on the sink, she let out a cleansing breath and then wiped her suddenly clammy hands on the towel before making her escape.

The closer she got to the convenience store, the more nervous she found herself getting. First with constantly adjusting the strap to her bag to make sure it wasn’t pulling at her hair. Then stopping in the windows of each store she passed to check her hair and that she wasn’t sweating off her makeup. Checking that her clothes hung on her in a flattering way. Most importantly, that she didn’t smell. But none of that did anything to quell the super-sized gigantic butterflies that flapped around in her stomach and tickled her ribs the second she spotted him waiting outside the convenience store.

Only someone like the Patrick Jackson could for look so cool just waiting outside of a store. It was unfair how someone like him could wear a simple sweatshirt (with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows), a black and yellow plaid shirt tied around his waist, and distressed dark wash jeans and look like he just stepped off the pages of a magazine. Whereas anyone else could try it and look like they didn’t know how to dress themselves.

Still, the lopsided grin he gave her as she walked up to him, equally calmed her nerves, and made her suddenly want to give in to the giggles that had risen up in her chest.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, she thought, this isn’t a date. You’re just hanging out.

“Hey,” he greeted, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “You made it.”

“I said I’d be here,” Katie said with a shrug, “and I’m here.”

“Cool.” Patrick reached up a hand to scratch the back of his neck, adjusting the collar of his sweatshirt.

“Yeah.” Katie slowly nodded, pressing her lips together. She lifted up onto the balls of her feet before lowering. “So, you want to go play?”

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick replied. They reached for the door handle at the same time. Katie quickly snatched her hand back, feeling her face burn.

“Sorry.”

“S’cool,” Patrick replied with a shrug, pulling the door open. Cool air washed over them and he motioned her inside. Katie gave him a smile of thanks, stepping across the threshold of the store, completely aware of the hand he gently placed on the small of her back. “I just hope you’re ready to lose.”

Katie snorted, rolling her eyes. She hit him in the chest with the back of her hand for good measure. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never lost a game,” she said. She prodded Patrick in the chest. “In fact, that’s why I’m not allowed to play Biohazard Blast anymore.”

“And you just took all that into online poker, right? Patrick asked, lifting an eyebrow, massaging his chest with his hand. Katie grinned, shrugging her shoulders modestly. “Try growing up in my family. You don’t know competitiveness. It’s why Ronan banned us from playing laser tag, or glow golf. Or darts. Or go karts. Or really anything he reckons we can come up with when we’re bored. It was too much of a blood bath.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Katie said with a challenging smile. “Loser buys ice cream?”

“Done.” Patrick patted his hands with his stomach. “I haven’t eaten yet today, but I know you hate spending money, so I won’t make you buy a lot.”

“What a gentleman,” Katie said deadpan and Patrick laughed.

“Ladies first,” he said, motioning for her to lead the way to the arcade games section. He fell into step beside her. They were both silent for a moment. Then he said, “Um, by the way, your makeup looks nice today.”

“Thanks.” Katie gave him a quick smile. “I was just trying some stuff out. That’s all.”

                                                         -----

“Hey, guys,” Katie chirped, wiggling her fingers in a small wave, spotting James and Carlos at the end of the hallway. She quickly slipped into Apartment 2J, trying to hide the wide smile on her face. She already had to force herself to walk as normally as possible, to stop herself from wanting to skip.

God, she couldn’t believe just spending some time with a boy made her so giddy.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the confused looks and incoherent babbling James and Carlos went through as they tried to understand how she had managed to slip out of the Palm Woods apartment. They really were idiots; she had watched them as she grew up. How else could she have figured out how to disappear from one place and pop up in another without being detected?

Still, it was easier to just tell them what they wanted to hear: “It’s way more fun hanging out with you guys than playing some stupid game at a convenience store.” She followed that up with a simple smile and an offer to finish the puzzle they were working on. They would need all the help they could get with it, anyway. Just as she settled a piece into the already built border, she felt her phone vibrate against her hip and she removed it from her pocket.

Glancing back and forth between James and Carlos who were bent far over the table, searching for the next piece to the puzzle, she settled back against the couch cushions, holding her phone close to her face.

Patrick: Had fun today. Rematch?

Katie: Anytime, anywhere

Katie: And thanks for walking me back to the PW

She paused for a moment, thumbs hovering over the screen to decide which emoji would be best to use. A smiley face? Because she was happy that he offered. A winky face? Because it was a short walk, and it wasn’t like she was goign to get lost. No emoji at all? His response saved her the trouble.

Patrick: Anytime, anywhere

Katie: :)

[the-rose-knight]

Helping

              Adrien tried clinging to the last whispers of sleep as sunlight peeked into the room. They stretched and let out a satisfied yawn. Noor’s bed was the most comfortable they had ever known, and the knight felt as refreshed as if they had slept for a week. Turning over to kiss the princess, Adrien’s heart sank. Noor was awake, but clearly had not had the restful night Adrien enjoyed. Their royal jaw was clenched tight, and the grimace etched into their face betrayed how long this had been the case.

              “Noor, you’re hurt!”

              Noor opened their eyes and but on a weak smile, trying to be reassuring to their partner. “I’m alright, really.” Seeing the look of incredulity on Adrien’s face, they continued, “It’s my hip. The rain makes it worse, but I can handle it.”

              Mind racing, Adrien shot out of bed and threw on the first clothes available to cover their unmentionables before darting out into the hallway while shouting about being right back. Noor chuckled at their lover, eager as a young puppy and about as good at planning, but this drew a wince.

              A red-faced Adrien burst through the door, clearly out of breath. “I got…you…some water,” they gasped, gulping for air. The knight set down a pitcher of water and a small cup next to the princess.

              “From the well?” Noor asked, as amused as they were shocked. “The one on the other side of the castle?”

              “Yeah. I ran.”

              “Dearest, you don’t need to-“

              “SNACKS!”

              Before Noor could process what had just happened, Adrien was back out the door and sprinting down the hall. It was shockingly little time before they returned, carrying a wide variety of fruits, vegetables, pastries, cheeses, and -somehow- a bowl of chicken soup. Several of the items fell from Adrien’s arms, to which Noor remarked that it would have been easier to bring a cart or even a bag. Adrien’s face flushed with embarrassment that they hadn’t thought of that.

              “I’m going to get you pillows!”

              “Sweetness, wai-!“ Too late. Again, they were off, and again they returned with as many pillows as their long arms could carry. The knight set about tenderly building a small castle of the pillows, giving Noor a back and arm rests, propping their legs up, and replacing the pillows behind the princess’ head.

              “I know what will help!” Adrien exclaimed as they left once more, the protests of the princess fading in the hallway behind them. They returned cloaked in a massive wool blanket with a small teacup on a delicate saucer. Adrien draped the blanket over Noor as gently as they could, and quickly apologized when they accidentally bumped the princess’ hip, causing a groan of pain that Noor tried to stifle. “The tea is made from some kind of bark, I think. The healer said it would help, and that’s all I needed to hear. Was it pine? No, it was something else…Yew? Willow? Maple?”

              “Willow, dearest.” Noor explained. “Its medicinal uses have been documented for centuries. Thank you, but again, none of this is necessary.”

              “You’re right! It is far too cold in your room, even with the blanket! I’ll build a fire!”

              “My Love.”

              “Or maybe you need cheering up! I can go find a bard to entertain you!”

              “Dearest.”

              “Or a book? I know how much you love to read!”

              “Adrien!” Hearing their name snapped Adrien back into reality. “I need you to listen to me. I don’t need all of these things. I am in a lot of pain right now, and these things won’t make it better.”

              “Is there anything that I can do that *will* help?”

              Noor patted the bed. “Stay with me. Hold my hand for a while. It still hurts, but I can make it through If you’re here.”

              “I can do that.”