#Nemo writes

[nemo-in-wonderland]

I'll swim and sail on savage seas With ne're a fear of drowning And gladly ride the waves of life If you will marry me No scorching sun nor freezing cold Will stop me on my journey If you will promise me your heart And love me for enternity My dearest one, my darling dear Your mighty words astound me But I've no need of mighty deeds When I feel your arms around me But I would bring you rings of gold I'd even sing you poetry And I would keep you from all harm If you would stay beside me I have no use for rings of gold I care not for your poetry I only want your hand to hold I only want you near me To love to kiss to sweetly hold For the dancing and the dreaming Through all the sorrows and delights I'll keep your love beside me I'll swim and sail on savage seas With ne're a fear of drowning And gladly ride the waves of life If you will marry me If you will marry me

"FOR THE DANCING AND THE DREAMING"- cover by Peter Hollens

AND I AM FINALLY DONE, OMG.

And I am actually so happy with how it turned out! In the end, I decided to go with an appearance that made it look as if Hiraeth and Gale were part of one of Gale's book (I can honestly imagine him doing something like this and just immortalizing a moment together and keep it in his book for keepsake).

What more to say aside that these two cinnamon rolls ABSOLUTELY deserve each other????

Also, fun fact about Hiraeth´s appearance: she usually wears a glamour to hide away her scales, but with Gale, she can definitely let her guard down and show them to him.

I like to imagine that this moment portrayed here happened after Hiraeth was finally free from her pact with her Patron, Titania, after absolving her duty to her and Damh (I will explain more once I manage to write her profile, which will come soon alongside Asra's) and she is *finally* free to just be Hiraeth.

So, OF COURSE, she is celebrating in the arms of the man she loves the most! <3

Well, I hope you will like this <3

--Nemo

[mighty-wings-over-danger-zone]

When I saw this part in game, I couldn't help but imagine an entire different situation, but with Ghost having the same look in his eyes.

Dark.

Intense.

Focused.

They eyes of someone that sees everything and knows everything that goes around him, at every single moment, constantly scanning their surrounding as if to look for some hidden threats that could disrupt the momentary peace he found in your company.

And I couldn't help but imagine that those eyes are actually looking at you, the one that got his whole heart into shamble but who has not even realized it yet.

He wants to get closer to you, to hear your delighted laughter ringing in his ears: a sound so beautiful, it helped him ram through some of the shit he had to do while on the battlefield.

He wants to make his move, to close the distance between you two.

You raise your eyes and meet his gaze, just for a second, a single moment crystalized in time: and finally - finally - you see it.

You see it clear as day: the scorching flame of pure desire in those dark unfathomable eyes that never showed anything but an abyss to the rest of the world; eyes that always seemed to follow you, wherever you were not close to him.

He wants to reach out to you, but showing you that glimpes of the flame that is burning him from within is all that he dares to reveal, even to you.

But there are some doors that cannot be closed, once opened.

And Simon Riley has decided to open them for you.

[house-of-hamartia]

WEDNESDAY WIP

(this is an old wip that I wrote in 2021. It takes place in a Modern AU with Dorothea as the heiress to the Starrick Criminal Empire and Shay as her bodyguard (and secretly the killer hired by a rival family to kill her). It was purely self-indulgent smutty smut on my part. lolol)

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

(….)

"Sorry to be the harbinger of bad news, Poppet, but this is the last room available,"

Dorothea looked up from her phone, as her eyes grew wider with each passing second. That couldn’t be possible. She must have misheard. She couldn’t have lost her luggage AND not have a room all in the same day.

“Beg your pardon?" she cleared her voice, hoping to have just heard wrong.

She searched for Shay’s dark eyes, hoping to find a different answer in them. But the look on the man’s angular face just confirmed that she had indeed heard right the first time.

"I said that I went to talk with the night receptionist - disagreeable lad, let me tell you- and he said that this-" and he waved his hand toward the door "It's the only room they have,"

Dorothea didn't answer right away, turning to look at the door as if it had the power to actually turn to life and bite her head off. She wrinkled her nose, feeling her palm sweating.

She had to fight the impulse to dry them against the white dress she was wearing. It was couture, for crying out loud.

"Tell me-“ she babbled, swallowing hard. “-tell me at least it's a double bed-" He shook his head, a sheepish smile on his face. Her face grew purple upon hearing that. Bloody hell. She knew it would end up like this. SHE KNEW IT. Leave it to her luck to give her exactly what she wanted - time alone with Shay - in the most embarrassing way. Clearing her voice, she tried to ignore the prickling warmth of her cheeks. "Very well, then. I will leave this room to you and find a place in another hotel-" "I already asked about it for myself, Poppet, and they are fully booked everywhere nearby. You know, with the Eurovision going on and all," Shay tilted his head as he crossed his arms against his chest. “B´sides, where you go I go. Your father wouldn’t be happy to be informed that I wasn’t doing the job he hired me for,”

Dorothea sighed, try with all her might to ignore her burning cheeks.

He had a point.

She looked once more her telephone, her eyes falling on the three smiling faces that were looking back at her.

She felt a surge of irritation run to her head.

She should have never accepted Charles and Phillip’s offer to make the reservation to the hotel for her, and knowing the penchant her cousins had to be nosy little buggers - especially when her sentimental life was concerned- they probably did it on purpose.

They knew that she had the biggest crush on Shay.

They KNEW IT.

So leave it to them to do precisely the opposite of what she asked, and not push her to reveal what she felt for Shay.

No, worse than that.

Leave it to them to put her in a situation where she would be closer than she had ever been to him.

Feeling Shay’s dark eyes on herself, she turned to look at him, as a strangled giggle left her throat.

What in the world was that sound she had just made? She thought, cursing herself with all her might.

“Just-just a moment. I need to send a message to my father to let him know we arrived,” she mumbled, before turning to tap furiously away on her mobile phone.

‘The moment I am back home, I am going to kill you both! That’s a PROMISE.’

And she would be sure to go through with that promise.

When she realized that Shay was still looking at her, she tried to relax her features, clearing her voice to regain her composure.

"Very well, then," she said, avoiding his eyes. " Shall we?"

With a small bow and a small smirk on his face, Shay opened his arm wide, letting her lead the way.

"After you, Princess."

Feeling her face growing even hotter, she used the magnetic card and pulled the handle. When she entered, her eyes were immediately drawn toward the bed.

It was a tad bigger than what she had imagined, but still too small than what she had liked.

Her heart started to beat in her chest now that the realization that he was going to be in the same bed with her.

She pursed her lips, looking at Shay from the corner of her eyes.

“Oh Dear God,” she thought again, as she glanced at his strong arms, the way his black shirt wrapped his chest and half tucked away in his jeans, her eyes pausing for one moment on his crotch, hidden under dark jeans, before forcing herself to look at the ceiling.

Dorothea knew she would never survive the night.

Not with him that close to her.

"I-I think I will go have a shower," she muttered under her breath, and before he could say anything, she had already disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

With her back against the door, trying to take deep breaths, she took the phone out of her pocket, and quickly dialed Phillip's number.

He picked up at the second ring.

"Dor-"

"Phillip, I swear on your mother’s grave that the moment I am back to London I am going to strangle you with my own hands! What were you thinking?"

He heard him chuckle on the other side.

"Did you like my surprise?"

"Liked it? LIKED IT?” she hissed through her teeth, moving away from the door hoping that Shay did not hear her. “You know damn well what I feel for him! What the hell am I suppose to do with him now? In a room with just one bed?"

She heard him chuckle on the other side of the phone, and the irritation in her chest grew tenfold.

"You are the creative one in the family, cousin. And you got him for yourself all night. Better yet, for all the weekend. This is your occasion to finally get out of this limbo you put yourself into.”

(……)

While Dorothea was busy taking her shower, Shay had ordered room service. He knew Dorothea was vegetarian - at least he thought she was, if all the time he had accompanied her to various social events were any indication - so he had settled down ordering a pizza for both of them.

As he waited, he sat on the small bed, and looked at it. Damn it all, it was small.

He wasn't as big as Connor, but even then, there was barely enough space for both him and Dorothea.

His mouth was dry, as he tried to figure out how they would manage to get to sleep.

What if he snored and woke her up?

What if he drooled?

What if..

He tried not to imagine her body against his own, tried not to think at the obvious effect she would have on him while being in his arms.

He rubbed his eyes, because, what a fucking luck.

"Shay?" He heard her call him from the bathroom.

He jumped a little, absorbed as he was in his thoughts.

"Yes, Poppet?"

"Is my luggage here? Did they find it by any chance?”

"Unfortunately no, Poppet. Didn’t hear anything from the airport nor the reception, so I’m afraid your luggage is still lost,"

He heard her sighing from behind the door, and felt his stomach grip as he tried not to think about her completely naked, trying with all his might to stop his mind to run *precisely* to where it would always go each night before he fell asleep. He kneeled beside his own old, worn-out backpack, and took out an old t-shirt - a memento from a Led Zeppelin concert he went to with Edward and Ezio once- and a pair of men’s trunks.

He knocked at the door of the bathroom, and it opened just a smidgen, Dorothea's face peeking through the crack.

He swallowed hard when he saw her, the steam still rising from her wet skin, droplets of water still on her shoulder, her silver-blond hair plastered against her cheek-still tinted of bright red.

"H-here, you can use this for the night," he said, trying to sound normal. "I figured you might want something to-to wear underneath."

She unraveled the clothes and when he saw his undergarments, she blushed from her cheeks to her neck, eyes growing wide. She stood quiet, looking at the garments as if they had the power of bite her.

"I-Thank you, Shay. I will - I will dress now." she said, keeping the clothes to her chest and closing the door behind her.

Shay huffed at himself.

'Great, Shay, now she'll think you are a weirdo that gives underwear around,' he thought, rolling his eyes. It took all his strength not to facepalm himself. (...........)

()

"Goodnight," she murmured, giving him her back, as she faced the wall, leaning her burning forehead agains the cool wall, hoping to calm down, if only for a little bit. Shay gave her his back as well, despite wanting to do the exact contrary, and but tried to make himself as small as possible, to give her enough space to turn, if she wanted to. They were both lying straight as fuses, as uncomfortable as they could be, not daring to move one inch, afraid as they were to touch more of the other. Shay tried to ignore his gallopping heart in his chest and tried to close his eyes and drift into sleep, but all he could think about was the floral perfume of shampoo that came from her hair. He clenched his fist, as he tried not to think about his fingers running through those locks. They stood like that for what seemed an eternity, neither of them truly able to fall asleep, both of them thinking about the other. "What a situation, eh?" Dorothea heard him say as he chuckled under his breath. "Like one in those cheesy movies Lucia always denies to watch," she answered back with a smile. They both looked over their shoulders at the same time, dark eyes reflecting into a steel blue one, and both let out a loud laugh. She turned on her other side, now facing his broad back. Dorothea bit her lip, her hand moving toward his back without her even realizing what she was doing.

She lightly brushed her fingertips against the shirt, forcing herself not to fully caress him, despite how much she wanted it to. She brought her hand back to her chest when she saw him turning on his side as well, now facing her, his eyes looking straight into hers, the beams of the sun finally setting reflecting into them despite being already almost midnight. She could still clearly see the scar that ran through his eyes. "Looks like we're in for a long, sleepless night," he murmured, bringing one arm under his head. "Looks like it," she whispered back, her breath hitching in her throat when she saw him scooting closer. She had never been so close to him, so close that she could feel him breathing against her skin. "My shirt looks good on you," he chuckled, snuggling his face against his arm, a soft lock of dark hair falling on his eye. Dorothea felt her breath catch in her throat. "I-" she mumbled. She was always ready with a witty comeback, a way to get herself out of small moments of embarassment. But now, with him so close to her she could see all his expression lines, his cologne filling her nostril, she couldn't thinkg of anything, her mind only filled with thoughts of him. "Thank you." She blushed, averting her eyes. "And thank you for letting me use it. I will make sure to have the laundry service wash it tomorrow and give it back to you." He shook his head with a low chuckle. "Keep it, Poppet. It looks better on you," He only managed to let out a small chuckle. He couldn’t tell her how seeing her with only his shirt on affected him. Knowing that the course fabric that usually covered him was now against her bare skin. He had to fight the impulse to lower his eyes and take in all of her once more. Instead, His hand found its way to her cheek, as he gently brushed his knuckles against the soft skin. Oh God, she thought at his touch. She felt her skin warm up, cursing that he would feel it. "Thank you," she lowered her eyes one moment before looking back at him. He was still smiling at her. "What is it?" She asked.

"I know it's an inconvenience, having to share the bed with an oaf like me," he said."But if I have to be honest with you, Poppet, I'm actually happy it happened," "You are not an oaf, Shay," she blushed, before taking courage and scooting a little closer to him. “And if you want to know the truth…I am happy as well,” Shay's eyes lit up, his mouth agape. “Really?” She smiled. "Really," She scooted even closer, the skin on her face prickling. It was now or never. Leaning over to him, she brushed her lips against his, lingering for a moment to take in how warm they were - how soft. She felt the lingering taste of tobacco from the last cigarette he had smoked before coming back to the room, but despite usually hating smoke, she found herself not minding about it at all. It was something that made him him. When she broke the kiss, his breath against her own lips, her face was aflame and her stomach in a twist. Shay stared at her, eyes blinking as his mind spinned, trying to calm himself, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. But nothing could stop the blazing sensation that had started to pool in his loins. Not the kisses. He had imagined far too many times how it would feel kissing her, feeling Dorothea pressing herself against him, wrapping his arms around her body.

It always started with a kiss. He knew how it would end, if they were to start kissing. And he wanted it, so much it hurt. He breathed through his nostrils, trying to calm the need he had for her with all his might, head spinning as the blood fled from his brain. When Dorothea saw that he didn’t answer at all, she fought the impulse to hide her face against the pillow.

What if she had read all the signals wrong? What if she had seen something that just wasn't there? “I-I am sorry, Shay, I am so so sorry. I shouldn’t have.” she only whispered, as she started to turn to face the wall once more. Shay’s large hand found its way to the nape of her neck, making her look at him. The glint in his eyes was unquestionable, veiled as they were by unspoken lust. “Yes, you should have,” he murmured in a low husky voice that made Dottie shiver with pleasure. He pulled her against him and found her mouth with his, while his other hand found a way to the small of her back, pushing her even tighter against him. Dorothea let out a small moan that drowned in his throat, feeling that familiar clenching that enveloped her loins whenever she thought of him, when she was alone. She threw her arms around his shoulders, as he let his hands roam underneath the shirt she was wearing, feeling her soft skin underneath his palms. They were truly in for a long, sleepless night.

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

I hope you will like this! I remember writing this while still trying to get the hang on how to write Shay, and I had so much fun because OMG this AU is probably one of my most favourite (aside from my own Camelot one, that is another one that has a HUGE part in my heart <3<3).

Also, keep in mind that Dorothea's characterization was still in the process of being developed, so she is a little less girlboss here than I actually like to imagine her to be with Shay usually.

But I still like how I portrayed them together.

I truly hope you will like this, I wouldn't mind starting to write again for them, in between artworks lolol

--Nemo

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

A Fragment of My Soul

“Come on, Antoine! Cooperate! Help me with this!” The older woman raised her eyes at the sky, as if to ask God to grant her the patience that she was so sorely lacking. “No, Colette, no. I told you already, I am not convinced by all of…this.” Colette, ever stubborn, brought her hands on her hips, puffing her chest up. “And I told you that it will work! Trust me, sister: they have been dancing around the whole issue for MONTHS now! At this pace, they will never declare to one another! They just need a little push from us! Their Cupids in the flesh!” Colette’s golden eyes twinkled with benevolent mischief at those last words. Antoine gave her younger sister a long look, before turning to peak out of the window that faced the courtyard of the small house: emerald green fronds welcomed her inquisitive eyes, pomegranate trees and an entire orange and lemon orchard with their branches reaching toward the sky, bountiful with ripe fruits that just waited to be picked. There, almost hidden away from the view, she could see an easel and canvas standing beneath the pomegranate tree and just behind it, a solitary painter working on his artwork, his dark leonine hair tied with a black ribbon. She needn’t her eagle vision to know who that was.

Antoine draw a sigh as a profound crease appeared between her brows. “It’s too risky, Colette. We have no means to know if what you are concocting will go well. What if…what if she’ll break his heart? What if you are wrong, and she doesn’t reciprocate his feelings in the same manner he does? You have seen him: he is completely lost for her, worse than he has ever been for…for that salope that almost killed him. If she were to reject him or toy with his feelings-” She flexed her hand instinctively, allowing the hidden blade to slither out from under her wrist.

Colette’s eyes widened at that sudden display of aggressiveness, and gently grabbed her sister’s arm, making her retract the blade.

“Peace, Antoine! I beg of you! Dorlé would never hurt Mathias! She has a kind heart and a gentle soul.”

“So did Emmanuelle, and we were all fooled by her angel’s face and sweet duplicitous words,” Antoine growled through bare teeth. Mentioning that name alone made her want to spit in the ground. Even after so many years, Antoine’s rage still burned as hot as a vulcano, never relenting, only growing in strength.

Colette sighed, her eyes turning sad and took a peak out of the window, until she saw her brother as well.

“I can understand your reticence in showing trust to anyone that would get closer to Mathias, Antoine. I truly do. But let me ask you this: do you trust me? Do you trust my judgment?”

Antoine’s shoulders slumped.

“Of course, pollita. You know I trust you,” she whispered, wrapping an arm around Colette’s shoulders, in a sweet hug.

“Then trust me when I tell you that Dorothea is not Emmanuelle. Her feelings for Matis are sincere and of the most profound nature; she made me intend as much when I tried to ask her. And if this isn’t enough to convince you, I found an entire folder of poems that she had written, and while I am not one to snoop-“

Colette giggled at the face her sister’s made: they both knew she was lying and was never able to keep her nose out of others’ business.

“-Well, I do snoop around, but it’s ALWAYS for a good cause! Such as in this case! Antoine, I read those poems, and trust me when I tell you that even you would have versed a tear, and have no further doubt of the sincerity of her feelings for him! Dorlé wrote poems upon poems for Matis, and never showed them to anyone! What cause would she have to write them, if not because her soul is pining for him to love her in return?”

Antoine stood silent for a moment, her eyebrow raised as she pondered: if what Colette was saying was true - and she never had reason to believe her sister a liar, especially when Mathias was concerned- then that strange English woman that had come from another time altogether might truly be harboring sincere feelings for her brother.

Feelings that, she knew, Mathias needed like the soil needed water to in spring to bear fruit in summer, after his heart had been broken by Emmanuelle.

“Trust me, Antoine: Dorlé is utterly besotted with Mathias. She is just… an absolute disaster in showing him how she feels!”

Antoine could barely contain a muffled giggle, the one that only her sister’s harsh honesty could bring out of her.

“If that's the case, then, they are perfect for each other,” she conceded, thinking about how much Mathias himself, while proficient with his words when matters of the Brotherhood were concerned, was utterly clueless when it came to the words his own heart whispered to him.

When she turned to look at Colette, she saw her sister still staring at her, expectantly.

“Very well, gordita, we will do it your way.”Antoine raised her hands in defeat, letting out a throaty laughter. “What do you propose?”

Colette return the laughter, her face plastered with the intriguing smile she always had whenever she was up to some mischief.

“You know that Mathias has been working on a painting, recently?”

“Of course I do. I haven’t been able to access your part of the garden ever since he has started painting under your pomegranate tree.”

Colette nodded with understanding, before speaking.

“And do you know the subject?”

“No, Colette, I don’t. You know how private he is about his own creations. I never asked him to share anything he didn’t want to, and I’m surely not starting now.”

“Well, I just so happen to have snooped aroun-“

“COLETTE!”

“It’s for a good cause!”

Antoine sighed, raising her eyes to the sky and shaking her head.

“Lord give me patience with this one. Very well. What of the painting?”

“We need for Dorlé to see it. She needs to see it! If she sees it and Mathias finds her there, they will finally talk to each other about their feelings! I know it.”

Antoine’s lips thinned in a contrite frown.

“You want to put them in a corner.”

“You can call it this way. I prefer “they will finally face what everybody that is not blind can see!”"

The Master Assassin crossed her arms, shaking her head.

“It’s a gamble, Colette.”

“No, Toinette,” she smiled again. “It’s a leap of faith. And we’ll need Xavier to be our scapegoat,”

Antoine produced a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle, but Colette knew, from the look she gave her, that she had finally managed to convince her sister.

“As if I needed any more incentive. Lead the way, baby sister: let’s make this happen.”

Mathias raised his face to the sky, his dark inquisitive eyes scouring through each soft cloud that swam against the darkening empyrean vault of that summer sunset.

From where he stood - hidden away in a small corner of the back courtyard, just underneath Colette’s favourite pomegranate tree- he could see the green valley and peaks that surrounded Granada, and, if he tended his ears a little more, he could hear the playful sound of the nearby brook as it bubbled down toward the valley, its cascading rhythm a lullaby for the soul.

Mathias closed his eyes, allowing himself to take a deep relaxed breath, feeling the fresh wind of the upcoming evening brush his dark locks and tickling the skins of his arms like the most gentle of caresses.

So rarely he allowed himself to roll up his sleeves, whenever he was out in the open; so rarely he allowed himself to bare the skin of his arms, a mangled spectacle of scar tissue that extended from his hands to his neck, encompassing the entirety of his back and stomach.

With an almost defeated chuckle, as he cleaned his brushes in a water-filled glass, he could almost hear Antoine scolding him for hiding them and then, as she usually would, starting a tirade about how those scars were the reason Colette was still alive, and that he deserved to be celebrated for what they represented, rather than being made to hide away as if he were some form of grotesque monster.

Mathias knew better than to argue with Antoine over that, remaining in silence until his twin sister was done with her tirade. But eventually, he would always resort to cloak his whole body from the rest of the world, much like he did with his heart. He couldn’t bear to have others to look at him with pity.

He stopped his thoughts in their track, his lips thinning in a sour grimace as the truth show itself to his face: he could bear the world’s piety upon him, if he had to.

It was the thoughts of her eyes looking at him in horror that made him want to cloak himself.

With a quick nervous gesture, he washed the brush one by one, trying to erase those doubts from his tormented mind. The familiar routine helped him calm down, if only for a few seconds, as he dried the brushes against a thick rag he had hanging from his breeches, completely unbothered by the stains of colours that were decorating his garments.

They were a small price to pay for what those pigments were contributing in creating.

e looked at the canvas in front of him, quickly examining once more, and held his breath as he looked straight into the eyes of the young woman portrayed on the canvas: such peculiar shade of blue that loved to play with the light, sometimes tending to the silver, like the reflection of the moon in a pond, sometimes tending to the warmer hue of the periwinkles that grew in the meadow around their home.

But there was more than that: mirth hidden in the small crease underneath the lower lid, wonderment in the shine of the light against the blue…the most profound of love in the entirety of her gaze.

With a long sigh, he wished he had the courage to ask her to sit still in front of him for just a moment, so that he could drink from her eyes and see within them all that his soul yearned for.

But he couldn’t.

And would never bare his feelings for her.

Not ever.

She was a woman of genteel disposition, it was evident in the way she moved, in the way she addressed others.

He had nothing to offer to her, but the love from his broken damaged heart.

And despite the verity of his feelings for her, he knew they were not enough.

He was not enough.

“MATHIAS!”

A loud, brash voice - Antoine’s - called for him, all the way from across the courtyard. He took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping: her tone of voice didn’t promise anything good. But he was somewhat grateful for his sister to have stopped his mind from spiraling. Nothing like Antoine’s own anger to distract him from his self-pitying. He raised his eyes, only to meet his twin’s, who was standing at the window of her room at the second floor.

“WHAT?” he shouted back.

“XAVIER HAS DONE ONE OF HIS MISCHIEF AGAIN AND I NEED YOU UPSTAIRS!”

It took all of Mathias’ willpower not to huff in exasperation.

“WHAT FOR, TOINETTE? AM I XAVIER’S GOVERNESS, REQUIRED TO LOOK AFTER HIM AS IF HE WERE A CHILD? I FAIL TO SEE HOW I CAN HELP.”

“IT’S FOR HIS OWN GOOD THAT I’M CALLING YOU HERE. LESS CHANCES OF ME SKEWING THIS PENDEJO AS HE PROPERLY DESERVES. DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWNSTAIRS AND TAKE YOU BY THE SCRUFF OF YOUR NECK. COME INSIDE. NOW.”

He rolled his eyes, snorting.

So much for peace and quiet.

If only Xavier didn’t have the penchant on getting on Antoine’s nerves doing precisely what she always asked him NOT to do.

He turned to look one last time at the painting in front of him, and smiled again with the sweetness that that particular work of his always brought out of him.

“What would I give to see this look on your face, instead of this canvas…” he thought, wishing to be able to find the courage to say those words out loud.

Then, squaring his shoulders as if to take courage, he took the dirt path that would take him back to the house, even if his heart was still anchored to the canvas and easel underneath the pomegranate tree.

“OH NON, NON, NON! PUTAIN DE BORDEL DE MERDE!”

Dorothea’s eyes widened like two saucer plates when she heard the string of profanities leaving Colette’s mouth, as she raised her eyes from the small cloth she was embroidering.

“C-Colette? Are you alright? In Heaven’s name, what is going on?”

The dark haired woman was onto her before she had the chance to even stand, offering a taste of a dark, dense mixture.

“Taste it, Dorlé!”

Doing as she was told to, Dorothea took a tiny sample of that mixture, as the sweet taste touched her tongue.

“It-it is delicious, Colette!”

“It is A DISASTER!” she babbled, taking away the spoon before Dorothea had the chance to taste it again. “I knew Xavier would mess this up! I KNEW IT!”

When Dorothea saw Colette throwing her arms up in the sky in an exasperated gesture, she furrowed her eyebrows, concerned.

Leaving the embroidery work on the soft wicker chair where she was sitting, she reached her, taking the taller woman by the shoulders- something easier said than done, considering how much taller Colette was compared to herself.

“Colette, deep breath. Deep breath, my darling,” she whispered, guiding the friend in the same was she usually guided herself. “What happened that sent you in a spell? Whatever concoction you gave me, it was as delicious as always?”

Colette took another deep breathe, shaking her head in silent disagreement.

“Dorothea, ma louloutte,” she started, her voice almost condescending.”I appreciate your reassurance, but not even your sweet words can actually hide the fact that the sauce was a complete disaster! Xavier has messed up because when I asked him SPECIFICALLY to bring me pomegranates from my own favourite tree and he didn’t. He lazied off -as always-“ she added, snorting with impatience. “And brought me the first pomegranates he found. Just wait until I have my hands on him…”

Dorothea let out a nervous chuckle.

“You could…tell the difference between pomegranates?”

Colette’s lips stretched in a proud smirk.

“Of course I can, Dorlé! It’s my job knowing and being able to discern the difference! The same way your ear can discern a note that doesn’t flow with the rhythm of the song, so my taste buds know when something is wrong with the dish!”

Dorothea smiled back, nodding in understanding.

“I can see what you mean. But what will you do now?”

Colette’s smile widened, her eyes now twinkling mischievously.

“Now, my darling Dorlé, I need your help to rectify this mistake, because otherwise my sauce will be inedible and I cannot stand for it! Mathias asked for his favourite dish tonight, and I cannot cook it WITHOUT the sauce from my pomegranate tree!”

Dorothea blinked and she felt her cheek flushing at Mathias’ name.

“I-that would be an immense shame indeed.” she fumbled between a whisper and another, as she always did whenever she thought about the gallant man. Mathias never asked for anything for himself, not even when it came to something as simple as food. But, every once in a while, when the mood stroke him, he would quietly request to his sister if she could cook for him his favourite savory dish, and Colette would never refuse.

Noticing that Colette was staring at her, with a knowing expression on her face, Dorothea blushed even more and tried to clear her throat.

“We cannot allow for this to happen, Colette.”

“Ahhh, the words I wanted to hear from you, ma cocotte! And that is why I need you - who I know would never fail now that you know what’s at stake - to bring me those godforsaken pomegranates!” But before Dorothea had the chance to even agree with her, Colette had already put a whisker basket in her hands and was gently pushing her toward the door in the back of the kitchen.

“Hurry, ma chére! Or tonight we won’t eat!”

Dorothea gave her a soft look and a smile, before she turned on her heels and trotted down the grassy meadow that brought to the back of the courtyard, barefoot as she always was ever since the summer had arrived in the Kingdom of Spain.

She smiled with herself, as she went through what just happened, a smile that only Colette always managed to get out of her, with her vibrant personality.

She actually admired how punctilious the young cook always was whenever she cooked.

Dorothea couldn’t feel any difference in quality in the sauce that Colette had her sample compared to what she usually cooked for them, but the young woman always sworn that the fruit her favourite pomegranate tree bore was the only one that would give the results she was looking for.

Dorothea hadn’t see fit to debate with that, for her knowledge in that regard was naught.

She has learned, in the couple of years spent with the De Beaumont, NEVER to discuss nor contradict Colette in matter of food. The young cook was imperative in the way she moved around the kitchen - an Empress in her own right - and Dorothea was always happy to play the obliging vassal to her every whim.

She was the best of friends, most loyal of them all, and they have grown as close to each other as if they had been born sisters from the same mother and father.

Chirping her low tune, a lullaby that Byron often sang to her when in Dover, she took a turn toward the corner of the garden that Colette had suggested.

Dorothea noticed that the hamper was not as heavy as it had been when they first arrived in Granada.

Before meeting the De Beaumonts - before falling down that fracture of time that had brought her to a different era altogether- Dorothea never had any reason to do menial work: her lady mother didn’t deemed it proper of a woman of her station, and her father never allowed her to, telling her to leave all the tasks to the staff of the house.

And now instead, it was an integral part of her every day routine.

Waking up early, when the sun was just about to cross the horizon, to wash the garments in the clean waters of the river; caring for the horses that belonged to Mathias and Antoine; picking the vegetables from the garden that Mathias tended, when his obligation with the Brotherhood weren’t imperative.

She looked at one of her palms, and saw the callouses that never went away, no matter how strong she scrubbed them with pumice or how long she soaked her hands in warm water and rose oil. Her hands had become rougher, not as soft as when she was still in 1868.

She thought about how her Lady mother would probably recoil at that sight, so improper, so unbecoming of her.

Her limbs as well had grown stronger, toned, and she has become more agile than she ever had any reason to be.

Tending to the chores in the morning, spending her afternoons riding with Mathias and Xavier in the glorious Andalusian countryside contributed to it, and Colette’s own nutritious cuisine helped as well and, she reckoned, not being constrict by her crinolines all day and being free to run around as much as she wanted had also a reason to it.

A simple life, far different from the one her parents had prospected for her: a life spent one gala to the other each evening of her young womanhood, twirling in the arms of strangers who were after her title and money; eventually married to one of the strangers her family deemed worthy of her, someone that would bring honour to the Order as well as wealth that would render them all richer; then, at last, Mistress of the House and mother to frolicking children that would, one day, follow in her footsteps and belong to the Order as well.

A much simpler life indeed, but one she had grown to love for all the joys it brought her, despite the everyday difficulties that it presented.

Dorothea smiled, with a tinge of melancholy: thinking about her previous life made her wonder how Phillip and Charles were faring…before she caught herself and remembered that they didn’t exist yet. It was such a strange feeling whenever she stopped to think about it, thinking of them as only distant in place, rather than separated by Father Time itself.

With trembling fingers and a chasm of pain opening in her breast, she touched the locket around her neck and brought it to her lips, giving it a long kiss, as she always did whenever she felt that treacherous sadness wrench her heart in a grip cold as ice against the skin.

It was the only memento she had that her family ever existed.

Despite having had two whole years to adjust to it, she knew she would never come to terms that all those smiling faces did not yet exist anywhere in the world.

Her mother and father and Byron would be born in more than 20 years from now.

Her cousins in almost 50 years.

Would she meet them again? And what about herself? Would she be born again?

What would happen in 1868, if by Gods will, she was still alive by then? Would two Dorotheas exist at the same time?

And who would be the real Dorothea? The one that had fallen in the past? Or the one that was yet to be born?

What would happen if she were to go back to London and meet herself?

Each time she tried to unravel all of that -all the ramification of her being dragged back in time- she felt a headache drilling in her brain and a rusted nail twisting without mercy into her heart.

“Stop it, Dorothea,” she thought, wiping away a small tears that was threatening to fall from her eyes. “Just stop it. Focus on the present. Focus on what you have now,”

And so she did, stopping in her track for a moment to catch a deep breath and cleanse her thoughts. And when she allowed her mind to ground itself to the present, she found her way through the dark moors of her mind, through the brambles that still scratched mercilessly against her skin, guided by the splendor of the full moon that set her life alight each night: Mathias’ sweet smile and his nose crinkling whenever he was bemused; his deep laughter whenever Colette jested with him… his dark profound eyes that always seemed to read into her soul whenever he glanced at her, as if he could truly see her heart.

Her lips parted, suddenly feeling without breath as his face appeared in front of her eyes with blazing clarity, clearer than anything else, as warmth spread from her stomach until it reached her cheeks, rendering them as red as ripe apples, as it always happened whenever the man’s gentle visage found his was to her mind.

His voice, melodious even while simply talking, resonated clear in her mind, and she couldn’t help a small shy chuckle from leaving her throat when she remembered the peculiar way he pronounced the “s”.

So immensely endearing.

So incredibly dear to her heart.

She would recognize his voice among thousands.

“Oh, Mathias...Sweet Mathias…my Mathias…” she whispered under her furtive breath, secretly, as she always did when she allowed herself to utter his name out loud with all the feelings she had to keep concealed each time she spoke to him.

Night after night ever since she realized that she had fallen for him, she had played with him - for him - every single romantic tune she knew in her repertoire, hoping that something -anything- would somewhat tip him in learning of her feelings for him, small sign that would reveal to her if he felt the same way she felt for him.

She knew he held her in the greatest of esteem, always courteous, sometimes almost deferential in the way he approached her.

But she knew that was the way he treated every person he respected and cared for.

Such was his nature.

But, she thought with herself, furrowing her brows, she always wondered if there was something more?

Could there be..something more, something just for her?

As she reached Colette’s pomegranate tree, her shoulders slumped a little.

There could not be a way of knowing, if not asking himself directly.

And that required an initiative and a courage that she wasn’t sure she possessed.

She had found a family again in the De Beaumont, who had opened their arms for her, welcoming her as if she had always belonged with them sharing with her without boundary, when they had so little to spare for themselves.

They had given her a family again, after her own was lost to her forever.

She could never risk destroying that harmony they had created altogether in the past two years for something as selfish as her own feelings, if she were to come forward to Mathias and reveal to him all that she felt.

She could not bear to be the one responsible to destroy it, just to follow the whims of her heart.

Oftentimes, when she found herself in the company of Antoine and Colette at night, she had often heard the stern woman discussing their history as a family, and something in their past that had left Mathias with the strongest desire to be celibate for the rest of his life.

She never went into details about what happened exactly, and she knew that the reason was her presence, so Dorothea always knew better than to ask any question. She always listened to them, as quietly as a bird hiding in its nest, never daring to intrude, but each time she felt her heart sitting on her stomach a little heavier than before.

“What is going on with me today?” she mumbled beneath her breath.

Her own mood was always somber - that was just the way she naturally was- but today she felt particularly prone to mulling things over in a way that was almost disconcerting.

Taking another deep breath, she allowed her lungs to fill with the intoxicating aroma of the orange and lemon trees, the frangipani in bloom whose flowers Colette often used to create oils for all of them to use. She knew because she recognized the very same perfume on Mathias’ shirt, whenever she went down the river to wash it.

She plucked one of the flowers hanging from the lowest branches, and after taking in that sweet scent, she nestled it behind her ear, a soft smile finally touching her lips. She finally turned around the old orange tree that was growing there - the welcoming sign that she reached Colette’s pomegranate tree, but when the small corner of garden came into view, she stopped in her tracks.

An easel and a canvas stood right beneath the pomegranate tree, sitting alone like two old ladies enjoying the pleasant air of the evening.

Mathias’ own work, no doubt, she thought with a sweet smile.

She looked around with curiosity, expecting to find him somewhere in the proximity: it wasn’t like him at all to abandon his work like that. “Mathias?” she called, just to make sure she was completely alone. And no answer came back to her. She focused her attention once more on the canvas: from where she stood, she couldn’t truly make out what the subject was, and curious like a cat, she tiptoed closer to get a better view of it.

Dorothea’s eyes widened as waves upon waves of mixing emotions-confusion, bewilderment, incredulity- all rippled through her whole body. It took all her control not to let the basket slip from her suddenly unsteady hands.

She wanted to take the canvas to observe it better, because she couldn’t believe what she was looking at, but she dared not: even to her untrained eye, she could see that the paint was still fresh.

Leaning toward it, Dorothea felt her heart racing in her chest. It was yet to be finished: the background merely sketched; the woman’s garments only a vague shape in different shades of pallid pink; even the pose was not definitive, although, from the way the subject was leaning, it suggested that she was caught in the middle of a performance, a fiddle in her hands. However, the subject was not crossed, despite the apparent interruption: the dimples caused by her wide smile were welcoming the observer to sit close by and listen to her playing her tune. Dorothea could almost hear the tune itself in her ears.

Her gaze now wandering again all over the canvas, she couldn’t stop admiring the details of the face: a round visage painted with delicate, meticulous strokes framed by golden white ringlet, each freckle- small as a dot- carefully painted all over her nose and cheek. But it was the woman’s eyes that gave her pause: clear as the water of a pond touched by the sun rays, with the softest expression painted within them as she looked straight in the eyes of the observer, an undisclosed tender request written in that gaze that she recognized all too well.

She felt for a moment as if someone had seen right through her.

“Dorlé? What are you doing here?”

The low gentle voice behind her made her jump in her spot. She turned just to meet Mathias’ dark eyes, now boring straight into hers, a deep crease appearing on his forehead, as he moved a wayward lock of hair away from his brow. Dorothea could have sworn he was almost scared to see her there. But why? “I am sorry, Mathias, I was-“ she babbled, tripping on her own words. “ I swear I did not touch the painting! I was just looking at it! I know I was not supposed to look at it, and I apologized for letting myself do something like this! I-Colette asked me to fetch some pomegranates from her tree for tonight’s dinner and-“ But she couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, as her attention again diverted toward the canvas. She took a tiny step toward it, to make sure that her eyes were not betraying her. And they were not. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Mathias, how-“ she murmured, turning to look toward the man standing just besides her, his shy eyes not daring to meet hers. “This is-” “You.”

His voice was barely a whisper when he raised his worn face, as a tense smile stretched underneath his dark moustache.

His heart was trembling, strong as timpani in his chest.

She wasn’t supposed to see the portrait until it was completely done.

Truth to be told, no one was supposed to see that painting. Ever.

There was nothing indecorous about it, nothing that would elicit a reaction of disdain or be reason of suspicion of impropriety on the artist’s part: no one would deign the portrait as anything less than the most respectful homage to the subject in front of him.

But Mathias so rarely paraded to others what he immortalized on canvas: through his paintings, he bared his soul in ways that couldn’t find purchase through words, and none but himself would be able to understand the yearning in each stroke of his brushes.

And now that the woman for whom his soul has been singing since the instant he had met her was looking upon one of his most intimate creation, he couldn’t do anything but stand terrified that she would read right through him.

As he looked upon her, he felt that his already broken heart quiver in his chest. It was not strong enough to withstand any possible rejection from her. Not from her.

Feeling the unrest grow more and more unbearable with each passing moment, he felt more than ever the need to unroll his sleeves and put his gloves back on, to hide the sight of his scars from her.

He knew she had already seen some of them, somewhat.

After two years of sharing the same house, it would have been impossible to avoid it completely, no matter how much he tried to.

But she had never witness the true extent of those scars, the way they run on his arms, branching through his back, enveloping his chest all the way up until his neck.

Not until that moment, where they were exposed for her eyes -those eyes he loved most in the world- to see. The weight on his chest was becoming too much to bear with each passing second, the lump in his throat impossible to swallow.

“Pardonnez-moi, Dorlé, I need to be alone,” he mumbled under his breath, turning to walk away as he started to unroll his sleeves.

Before he could move any further, Dorothea grabbed him by the arm, quick as a wink, with the gentlest yet firmest touch she could muster.

“Don’t, Mathias. Please.”

Her gaze run to his wide back, to the ink-black leonine curls that hang from his ponytail and barely covered his neck. She felt her heart swelling thrice its size for all she felt for him: she thought she would not be able to breathe anymore.

“Do not run away from me. Do not…” she swallowed hard, chest heaving. “Do not hide away from me. Please, Mathis…I beg of you.”

Her voice was pleading, a soft prayer.

Mathias’ breath caught in the lump in his throat when he felt her hands against the skin of his arm, a touch like a blazing fire for all it caused within his soul.

He stopped in his track, docile as a lamb, as he always was when she requested anything from him. She could ask him to bare his life for her, and he would do it without even thinking twice about it.

His chest tightened at the thought, as he comprehended how the immensity of the love he felt for her ran through from his heart to all his being.

He couldn’t stop a small sour smile from touching his lips: had Antoine known of his thoughts, she would be so immensely crossed with him, for he had learned nothing from Emmanuelle.

But how could he?

How could he love Dorothea less than she deserved because of what happened to him? Because of something another caused?

How could he let his past dictate his present like this, and ruin those feelings that actually made him feel alive again?

How could he deny what was in his heart, broken as it was, just because he had the misfortune of not meeting her first?

Dorothea. Dora. Dottie. Dorlé.

His Dorlé, he thought with quivering lip, if only he found the courage to breathe into existence what his eyes couldn’t conceal anymore any longer.

His out-of-time love, who had fallen into his life so suddenly and yet had fitted immediately as if she had belonged there with them.

With him.

The very tune of life that made his soul sing again.

He wanted to turn. To look at her and drink from that face he loved in the same way the moon loved the sun at each eclipse, in those few desperate moments where they shared the sky together, entangled in an embrace for one refulgent minute.

But he couldn’t find the courage.

Despite his absolute terror for fire, he thought it would be easier to run in a house put ablaze than turning to look at the woman he loved, for fear to see pity -or worse, disgust- in her eyes.

He took another deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Dorothea felt those breaths and her hands trembled, her whole being quivering when he still wouldn’t turn to face her.

She lost courage, but just for one moment, before she felt her natural determination surging from the deepest parts of her heart, tingling in her fingers like pure fire.

She hadn’t survived in 1790s France just out of dumb luck: she knew that she had to steel herself, if she was to ever find a way to get through that time that was so close to hers, and yet so vastly different.

She was her mother and father’s daughter: they had defied her own grandfathers’ will, Count Bielke and Robert Starrick, to marry each other and create the foundation of their family in England.

“Mother’s mirror, Father’s Pride”.

That’s how Byron would often refer to her, whenever she was in doubt.

She would not give up.

Not when her own heart was at stake. And stubborn she was, and so completely lost for him, she felt she couldn’t reason rationally any longer.

She finally found the courage in herself to do what needed to be done.

Gently, almost hesitantly as he was still turned away from her, she moved her own hand from his wrist to his own hand, brushing his palm with delicate touch before interlacing their fingers together.

All she could focus on was how warm his touch was. How gentle those hands always were whenever he pressed the keys of the piano, or patted the horses when he thanked them for carrying them around in the afternoon or when he took her hand and he led her in a round of minuet.

She looked at the scars on the forearms as well, following the course of their pattern with sad eyes.

How much did he suffer from them?

She remember getting burned once, as a child, while playing too close to the fireplace in Dover, and it had only been a small patch on her wrist where some cinder had landed; but it had been enough to make her feel unbearable pain and made her still want to cry whenever she thought about it.

She could scarcely imagine that pain multiplied tenfold and on so much of his body.

She could scarcely imagine withstanding against it, dueling with death’s grasp tight as a coil, and despite all odds, ending up victorious.

Dorothea smiled, understanding in full the pride Antoine always felt for Mathias whenever she talked about those scars.

Before she could let her own timidity stop her, she finally leaned against his back fully, gently pushing herself against his lean frame, and wrapped her arms around his waist, enveloping him in the sweetest embrace she could muster, with all the strength her body allowed.

Such strong heart, he had. Such strong, gentle heart that nothing -not even pain, not even death- could render of stone or insensible. And how she loved that heart with all that she was.

She laid her cheek against his shirt, completely flushed against him, determined as she was in not even letting the air they breathed to stand between them, just so that she could hear the strong thumping of that heart against her own skin.

Mathias’s lips parted, as he almost gasped for breath at that touch, feeling his soul tremble in his chest like one of the chords of Dorothea’s violin.

“How can you hide away your hands from me? Those hands that can create such beauty, even when there is none to be found?” she murmured, feeling a tear running down her cheek. “Those hands that are capable of giving so much comfort to those who are in pain, even when you have no comfort nor piety to spare for yourself?”

He had no words to give, no answer for her questions. His whole mind was abuzz, unable as he was to focus on anything but her closeness, his eyes trained on their fingers interlaced together. A violinist hands enveloping the grotesque hands of a gargoyle, he thought bitterly. He tried to regulate his breathing, to be as still as water in a pond on a tranquil day, almost terrified that, if he were to move, she would let go of him. Then, he heard her voice resonating all the way through his chest, as if reverberating from his own very soul.

“Mathias…how can you feel so much shame in front of me? I could never think any less of you for what you bear on your skin. How could I? You, who are the one most dear to me in the entire world?You have given to me from the heart from the first moment we met, without asking any question, without asking for anything in return. Even when the only explanation I had to give for what happened to me was impossible to comprehend and absurd at the very best, you believed me and helped me finding a sense amidst my own confusion. You made sure I was never to feel loneliness nor want, not even for one moment.”

She whispered, hiding her burning face against his shirt. “Can’t you understand what you mean to me? Can’t you understand how you make my heart sing? Can’t you understand that all my sorrows end with you? Can’t you feel how much I love you?”

It was done. Despite all her senses whispering to her to stay silent, she couldn’t any longer. Not when everything that made her soul was shouting at her his name over and over again.

Mathias wished he had a better control of his breathing or the butterflies he felt in his stomach at her words. Instead, he could only blink, to keep the tears of absolute bliss from falling from his eyes.

He felt as if paralyzed: How- HOW- could it be? How could fate finally have turned to his favour, and granted him the one desire he had found himself wanting more and more with each passing day spent beside her?

Dorothea let out a melancholic at the silence still lingering between them. Maybe she was wrong in opening her heart like that: she didn’t want to ruin the friendship between them, even if it meant loving him without being loved in return. She had never fallen in love before, so what did she really know about love, if not what she had read in her books? What did she know about love, if not about Isolde and Tristan? About Lancelot and Guineviere, whose love trascended time and space? She slightly released her grasp, ready to let him go: but Mathias' hands wrapped around her own, firm like she never experienced before despite his usual cautioun, silenty stopping her from leaving his side.

Mathias took a deep breath and calling upon all the courage he could find within himself, turned around, to finally face the woman that had just opened her heart to him.

Quivering under his dark moustache, his lips stretched in a soft, sweet smile that painted his face with a softness he so rarely showed to others.

His dark eyes shone with tears - tears of joy - that he could barely repress, as he looked at the woman in front of him and found in her eyes the same countenance that was in his.

He cupped her round face with trembling hands, tentatively, terrified she would retract from the touch of his maimed skin.

Instead, gentle as a lamb, he saw Dorothea nestling her cheek in his palm, nuzzling against it like a cat would, and his heart throbbed in his throat at that gesture.

She didn’t retract herself from his touch. She wanted to be touched by him. She sought to feel his skin against hers. She wanted him.

“Do I scare you so much, Mathias? I promise I do not bite.” She jested, smiling that crooked smile he adored so much. Mathias let out a nervous laughter, one finally born out of relief. “How could I ever be scared of you? You, the sweetness of every single one of my thoughts? The only dream I dare to dream while wide awake? My answer to the endless prayers I raised to a deaf God each night of my life since after the fire?”he murmured, feeling a tear rolling down his cheek ”Dorothea…tú eres mis alas para volar,”

Dorothea’s heart skipped at his words, her head spinning as if drunk just from the sound of his voice, filled as it was with heart-wrenching yearning.

“I-I am?” she breathed, incredulous.

He dared to lay his forehead against hers, cradling her face in his strong hands, finally daring to look straight into her eyes without having to hide anything anymore, without having to steal longing glances whenever her attention was diverted. He finally saw the colour of her irises, in that summer sunset that was their witness, in that garden that had nothing less than the garden of Eden.

“You are. You have turned all my tears into laughter. The solace I feel with when I sit besides you…the hope, the possibilities that my life is not just the cinder and embers left from that fire, but that it can also be rebuilt into something new. Something as beautiful as the breaking of dawn after a long night without a star twinkling in the sky…I thought I had lost it all a long time ago.”

He brought her face even closer to his, until they were just a breath away from each other’s lips. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks and, to his surprise, saw the same tears falling from Dorothea’s eyes. But there was no sadness in her gaze. Only unbridled joy. The same one he felt in every single bone of his body.

“But you, mi amor, mi vida, mi alma…You are the peace of my soul, and the light of my poor broken heart,” he murmured. “I see God in your smile and sanctuary in your eyes; I hear my soul reaching to your voice, resonating as if it finally found the answer to its call. I see my home in your heart… I see my everything in you.” He stopped just for one moment, leaning even closer to her. “In you, I see the reason for my every breath.”

Dorothea felt all air leaving her chest, mouth agape from those words that she never thought he would whisper to her ears. Allowing her heart to finally dictated his will, she covered the remaining distance between them, throwing her arms around his shoulder before pressing a sweet, innocent kiss against his lips, those same lips she had yearned to kiss for almost a year and a half. Mathias felt a chasm opening in his stomach at that kiss, so soft and giving, yet unmistakeably eager for more and more, a kiss that was as wanted as much as it was yearned and needed and desired. He returned each of her kisses with his own, his hands cradling the back of her head so that no distance would stand between them., in between those kisses. Among those trees, in that small corner of Eden that he never thought to find on Earth, Mathias felt the perennial storm that always raged within slowly losing strength, the winds of his pain that often howled at his memories finally quieting down until only a comforting silence remained, as if something, a shield of some sort, was wrapped around his heart and kept those wolves at bay. It is her, he thought. His Dorlé. All of sudden, Mathias felt a small giggle against his lips and opened his eyes, looking at Dorothea with curiosity. “It tickles,” she whispered under her breath, nuzzling the tip of her nose against his upper lip, just below his dark moustache, the instigator of her mirth. Mathias chuckled with her, his eyes crinkling as he kissed the tip of her nose. “I used to sport a clean-shaven look in my youth. Perhaps, you would prefer me without my moust-“ But she stopped in his track when she saw her furrowing her brows, in a look that, he knew, she mastered from observing Antoine herself. “Do not dare to touch your beard and moustache, Mathis, or I shall be immensely crossed with you,” she murmured with a perentory tone that admitted no contradiction, but that was soon betrayed by a smile that brightened her whole face." I love the way you are, Mathis. I do not wish for you to be any different than you are, in any aspect of life," “As Milady wishes,"Mathias laughed, planting another sweet kiss on her nose and forehead, before interlacing their fingers once more. "Far from me to make my love crossed with me.” Dorothea blushed at his word, and Mathias, feeling some of the cheekiness that was usually Colette’s, nuzzled his nose against hers. “Does it please you, when I call you that? My Love? Mon amour?...Mi Amor?" Dorothea wanted to maintain an air of decorum, collected as she always was, but the shivers of pleasure that ran along her spine hindered her effort, when she heard him whispering to her in his native Spanish. All she could muster was a shy nod, before hiding her flaming face against his shoulder, in a gesture that illicited the most profound sweetness in Mathias' heart.

He kissed the crown of her head, breathing in the soft perfume of the flower she weaved in her tresses, in a sigh of relief that weighted on his chest for far too many years.

"Mathis?" he heard her call him, raising her timid eyes once more.

"Yes, mi amor?" he said again, chuckling when he saw her blushing again: he would never call her anything else, if it meant seeing her cheeks turning as red as apples.

"Will you-" he heard her clearing her throat. "Will you look at the stars with me, tonight?"

Mathias tilted her face so that she could look at him once more, his gaze turning even softer as he counted all the freckles that graced her face.

His own stars on the sky that was her gentle visage.

"Every night of our life, if you wishes," he whispered, daring to brush his lips against hers one last time.

Dorothea's own happiness couldn't be contained at his words, as she allowed herself to get lost in his kisses once again.

"I do, my love. For every night of our life."

From Antoine´s room, Colette was smiling widely, as she sat on the windowsill, her leg hanging outside the window as she swing it with almost childish joy. She could not hear a single word her brother and Dorothea were saying. She could not see them, hidden as they were by the branches of the tall trees that surrounded that particular corner of the garden. But Antoine’s look -her face strangely at peace as she perused in the same direction she was watching- was more than enough to tell her that her plan succeeded. And no greater joy could fill her heart, for in knowing that her dearest companion and her adored brother had finally found one another, she felt her soul at peace. “See, Toinette?” she giggled as she poured some wine in two glasses, one for herself and one for her elder sister. “I might not be an Assassin and have your perception, but I might know a thing or two about Love and its whims,” Antoine chuckled, her lips stretching in a smile. “I’ll concede that, pollita: you know your stuff.” she took the glass of wine that her sister offered, and drank it all in one shot, “So you better start preparing a list for a nuptial banquet, because if I know Mathias- and trust me, I know him- it won’t be long before we are going to celebrate a wedding in our house, and even less long before we will be hearing the pitter patter of tiny feet running around the house…unless you and the that reprobate of Novice Dorian aren’t planning on beating them on time? “ Colette sputtered some of the wine she was drinking, turning as red as the ribbon she had tied around her neck. “How do you-“ Antoine let out a throaty laughter, filled with mirth. “Oh, pollita: you sure as hell are one expert of “Love and its whims”,” the Master Assassin took the bottle and again filled her glass with wine.”-but you have still a lot to learn about discretion,” She leaned toward her younger sister, and toasted to that evening summer. “To your health, Colette,” then she raised her glass in Mathias and Dorothea’s direction. “And to them. May the fate be kinder to both of them, this time around.” Colette giggled, joining her sister in her toast. “It will. Because this time, we will be there to make sure of that!” “How can you be so sure we will succeed, Colette”? The young woman laughed with mirth. “Because if there is something I learned, is that even Fate Itself is terrified of you, when it comes to Mathias!”

AND THERE YOU HAVE IT.

ALMOST 9K WORDS OF PURE FLUFF, INTROSPECTION AND WHATNOT.

But not going to lie, I love writing this.

It gave me the chance to finally give a voice to my Unity darlings, and by the Gods, this renders me incredibly happy.

Thank you, Susie, for suggesting me to write about Mathias and Dorothea <3

I hope you all will like this <3

--Nemo

[nemolfc]

me when [ insert football player's name ] posts an instagram picture.

( reblog with your faves babe )

[nemossubmarine]

Title: Ties That Bind (Trazyn/Orikan, rated E, 54k words)

Summary:

A matter of debt has been raised in the Awakened Council concerning Trazyn the Infinite and Orikan the Diviner. They have not repaid the gifts in the eve of their nuptials during the Flesh Times. One problem though, they are not married. Trazyn and Orikan have to work together to convince the Awakened Council of their statuses as bachelors. Should be easy, right? Somewhere in the deep, dark past, the Last Seer of the Necrontyr sees a coming end. Is there anything to do to stop it?

A/N: Another year, another Big Bang, same old divorced coots. Hope you enjoy!

[nem0-kn0ws-n0t]

Like a Fool, Like a Soldier 

“Don’t worry” Cleo says, her voice calm and light as she leans against her axe, staring Pearl down. Like a hunter looking down at her prey. “You’re safe for now.”

.

.

.

“Don’t worry” Cleo says, her voice calm and light as she leans against her axe, staring Pearl down. Like a hunter looking down at her prey. “You’re safe for now.”

There was no one else around. Scar and Bdubs had bounced back to their base to inevitably plot something terrible, Big B was who knows where and the only other people they could see were the Bad Boys on top of their mansion doing….something. Truly, for all intent and purpose, they were alone. With each other.

Pearl should look away from those blood-covered eyes, from the too-sharp teeth peaking through a threatening smile, but she can’t. There’s something about Cleo that draws her in, that keeps her attention focused on the older woman at all times. Something addictive about her, that Pearl never seemed to be able to get enough of.

“Oh, good!” She chirps, making sure to smile her most innocent grin. Not that she expected her to fall for it. She gets a deep chuckle back from Cleo, who sends her fiery red curls flying as she shakes her head. What a pretty sight.

“That is, of course.” Suddenly, Cleo is no longer a few blocks away from Pearl but right by her, right in her personal space, her diamond axe held loosely in between grey fingers. Her perfume is strong and the only thing Pearl can smell. It smells distinguished and classy and so distinctly like her. It’s a great smell.

Cleo bends down slightly to whisper directly in her ear. “Until I get bored, of course.” Her red lips are just barely brushing her ear lobe and Pearl can feel her breath on her ears; it’s hard for her to think of anything except how close the other woman is to her right now.

There’s something laced in those words that Pearl doesn’t quite know how to interpret, but there’s not much going through her head at the moment, what with the afternotes of the perfume still lingering in the air. The words tumble out of her mouth with little thought. 

“Um.” Well, not the most eloquent thing she’s ever said.

Cleo giggles sharply and pulls back a bit so she’s standing just a bit further. Just far enough that Pearl could reach out to her. “Like they say, not great decision-making.”

“Am I your…bored..filler?” She’s not looking at the other woman anymore, her eyes fixed on the neon pink strap of her unitard. She’s not even sure what she’s saying. “Is that what that is?”

“No!” The word is harsher than the entire conversation has been so far, spite out and strong and slightly panicked. They snap the brunette out of her daze. “No, no, no, no.” Cold hands reach forward to grab her jaw, muffling any of the noises Pearl makes with the palms. Their eyes lock. 

It’s funny. In a weird way, Cleo’s eyes being lined with blood only seems to make them glow more. Pearl can admit that the woman in front of her is breathtaking at the moment. Almost out of her control, her eyelids flutter halfway down, leaving her to peer through her eyelashes as she leans even more into the gentle hold.

“I respect you, like a bunch,” Cleo mutters, her eyes flickering between Pearl’s eyes and lower down her face. She feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight. “Cause you know, you’re…” Her eyes flicker from her lips to her eyes and then to something just over Pearl’s shoulder and whatever she sees makes her flinch back from their position.

Pearl is suddenly snapped back to reality, her center of balance removed from her and she stumbles a few steps forward as she tries to compose herself. A hand unconsciously goes up to her lips in a daze. Did she misread the situation? Did she not-

“ Funny” Cleo lands on, through gritted teeth, her eyes glaring daggers above Pearl’s shoulder. If looks could kill- Her gaze softens as it slides back to Pearl. “ But-”

Pearl cuts her off, straightening herself up and pointedly not looking at the redhead. “Oh thank you, I appreciate that.” The words were meant to come out harsher than they did, but Pearl cannot bring herself to muster up the hurt that should come with the clear rejection. She says her statement out of good humour, bitting back any harsher comments with a small smile.

Cleo doesn’t seem to take it as that, however.

The laugh escaping Pearl’s lips is genuine. She lets out a tense breath at the same time as Cleo and sends her her most gremlin smile, wide and gap-toothed.

“And you’re feral!” She rushes to add, her hands twitching around the axe as if to illustrate her point. “ And that’s good! And I can appreciate that.”

“I give wet cat vibes.” She announces proudly, shrugging her shoulders as if to say ‘what can I do?’. Cleo only takes a second before bursting into laughter as well. 

And she disappears back into her Clockers’ base, leaving Pearl confused, worried and excited for the following interactions. A wide grin blooms across her features without her even trying to stop.

“Yeah…” She gasps out between chuckles, whipping away a tear as her laughter settles down. Her mouths form into a content smile, staring directly at Pearl with an affectionate gaze. Pearl goes to shrug her shoulders again but stops to lean closer as Cleo leans forward with a smirk.

“And I’m going for Mad dog vibes.”  She whispers, her eyes, firmly locked on something, or someone, over Pearl’s shoulder again. The younger can’t help but stare at her with round eyes at her statement.

“Oh?”

Cleo smirks and leans forward to pat her affectionately on the cheek. “See you later!”

Oh, this will be fun indeed.

[mrsluthordanvers]

I love your fic ‘the one with all the doctors’ I realize it’s an abandoned fic. I love it regardless and have reread it numerous times. Guess I’m a sucker for a gay medical drama, regardless I love your writing. All of it, not just that fic. Excited and eager to see what you write next.

With much love,

A Serious Fan <3

oh! I appreciate the kind words 🥰 I say this now and hopefully it stays true *fingers crossed* I have not abandoned the one with all the doctors!

I have accumulated about 9 drafts of chapter 3 since I posted the last chapter lol I recently worked out a problem I was having with the plot in this chapter but it turns out I'm just really struggling to write right now. I am still opening it about once a month to try to get words out and I have a few other WIPs that I have been brainstorming - all multi chapter ideas though which I find notoriously hard to write and finish. But I always welcome chats about my stuff!!!

You're wonderful and I hope you're having a good week anon!

[nemolfc]

*checks list* way too many times …

Reblog if you've ever cried over the death of a fictional character

[nemo-in-wonderland]

ROBYN "HIRAETH" GOODFELLOW | ARCHFEY BARDLOCK | HALF SEA ELF

Name: Robyn Goodfellow

Nickname: Hiraeth. It was her human mother’s name. She took it as her own after returning from the Feywild and uses it as her performing name to honour her memory after having lost her to the whims of time.

Title: “The Silvertongued Saltimbanco”

Alias: Puck (it was the name Oberon used for her during her time in the Feywild. Her Patron grew fond of it and that’s how she is known at the Seelie Court. She doesn’t seem to particularly appreciate it, but she knows better than to contradict either Oberon or Titania).

Age: 33 years old (albeit, she woud be over 150 years old, due to having spent approximately three years in the Feywild, at the Seelie Court, where time flows differently compared to the Material Plane. She was actually born in 1292 DR - Year of the Wandering Waves).

Birthplace: Hiraeth was born in the waters of Deepwater Harbour of Waterdeep, in the sea elf hamlet of T'Quession.

Hometown: Waterdeep, the City of Splendours

Current Residence: Before the events of Baldur’s Gate 3, Hiraeth was travelling around the planes with the Witchlight Carnival, where she performed as Trapezist and Aerial Artist. After the events of Baldur’s Gate 3 and after fulfilling her pact with Oberon, she went back home to Waterdeep with Gale.

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Race: Half-Sea Elf

Class: Archfey Warlock/ Bard

Profession/job: Saltimbanco and Trapezist.

Visual particular traits: Underneath the Fey Glamour she casts upon herself to appear as a normal Elf, Hiraeth hides the scales, fins and gills that would be a dead give away of her sea elven heritage. She is not particularly comfortable in showing them around, at least on the Material Plane. In the Feywild, she doesn’t care as much and goes around without any glamour covering her features.

Scent: Evening Primrose, Pansies, Moonflower and Honeysuckle. Hawtorn as well.

Colours/symbols associated with: The Colour of the Astral Sea; Her flute, carved by Damh himself, twin to his own, from which she never parts ways; the mist in an autumnal forest at dusk; A bush filled with blossoming pansies, in all the shades of blue, violet and pink; the dust that fall of a butterfly’s wings; the beauty of the crushing waves during a storm; the glittering of fireflies all round a meadow;

Languages: Thanks to her time spent in the Feywild and subsequently, travelling with the Witchlight Circus and her own inclination to pick up languages easily, Hiraeth can speak an incredible amount of languages. She is fluent in Sylvan, Faun, Elvish (Sea Elvish) and Common. She is also conversational in Sylph, Merman Language and Selkie and, while travelling with Azriel, Asra and Dorothea, she is learning Infernal and Druidic as well.

Accent?: She retaines no Waterdhavian accent from the small time she spent with her mother and father, before ending up in the Feywild, and her current accent is influenced by Damh’s own. So she generally speaks with a strong Sylvan accent.

Tropes they embody: “Fish out of water”, “The Charmer”, Plucky Comic Relief”, “Eternal Youth”, “The Fair Folk”, “Broken Bird”, “Manic Pixie Dream Girl”, “The Rebel”, “The Eternal Optimist”, “The Trickster”, “Hidden Depth”, “Badass Adorable”, “Beware the Nice Ones”, “Cloud Cuckoo Lander”, “Cute Bruiser”, “Deadpan Snarker”, “Bunny-Ears Lawyer”, “Didn’t think this through”, “Exact Words”, “Obfuscating Insanity”, “Eccentric Artist” “Everyone Calls Him Barkeep”, “Non Sequitur”, “Daddy’s girl”, “Fourth-Wall Observer”, “Cheshire Cat Grin”, “O.O.C. Is Serious Business”, “The Prankster”, “Fey-Driven Talents”, “Undying Loyalty”.

Personality: Charismatic, Enchanting, Imaginative, Assertive, Natural Flair for the Dramatic, Sweet as Sugar, Enthusiastic, Kind Hearted, Mischievous, Witty, Whimsical, Happy-go-lucky, Determinate, Resilient, Spontaneous, Eccentric, Fey-Touched, Thoughtful, Can be apathetic, Far too forward, lack any type of filter, uncautious, erratic, disorganized, sometimes she appears detached from reality, as if she was living in two places at the same time. It took Gale a while to realize that it can take a while before she comes back to their reality. Whenever she is “back”, all she could say is that whenever the music of the flutes starts, she has to follow.

Detailed Backstory: Hiraeth - née Robyn Goodfellow - was an Half-Sea Elf, born from the union of her human mother, Hiraeth Dantathur Goodfellow, and a Marel Sea Elf, Aeren Maenenrid, of the noble house Maenenrid, one of the founder family of Mareliar.

Her father was a respected warrior among the Aquatic Elves society, known for his prowess in battle, the merciless ferocity he displayed against the enemies of his people and his utmost devotion to the Goddess Umberlee; her mother, instead, was a kind but spunky human woman and a renowned travelling bard in Waterdeep, known for being able to compose and play the most beautiful songs, dedicated to the Goddess Selune, despite being completely blind.

They met by chance while she was touring in Cormyr with her itinerary band: she was singing in Dragonmere and he happened to listen upon her, while patrolling the shores. There was something in the way that human sang, something in the way her notes would touch part of his heart in a manner unknown even to himself. Before long, Aeren found himself absolutely smitten by her and her singing, and approached her, with all intention of getting to know her. Hiraeth Dantathur, on her end, was also incredibly curious about this suitor of hers, albeit unaware about his maritime persuasion.

Nevertheless, their love soon blossomed over time, and evolved in a forbidden relationship, for Aeren had been promised, in an arranged marriage, and betrothed to another Marel Elf, Nessa Aveantius. Aeren could not bear the thought of giving up his sweet human love, and decided - despite dreading the idea - to travel through dry land and leave the Sea of Fallen Stars behind, heading instead with Hiraeth Dantathur to her hometown, the City of Splendors, Waterdeep.

Here, they would settle down in the harbour, where Aeren would make contact with the local population of Sea Elves and offer his skills and experience as defender of the underwater hamlet of T'Quession, and not long after this, their only daughter, Robyn, was born.

Joyful and mischievous, little Robyn spent more time underwater than she did on land, swimming and diving deep in the harbour, where she would play with the children of the Sea Elves of T’Quession.

Whenever her mother would manage to catch Robyn and actually make her sit still for a little while, she would bring her to the same woods where her father, a druid and acolyte of the Feywild Gods, raised a stone circle and standing stone; there, she would teach Robyn how to play the flute in honour of Damh and Titania, Oberon ad Verenestra, and would talk for hours about all the stories her own papa would tell her about the Feywild.

Fascinated, Robyn would start to look forward to these little moments with her mother, and would start bringing small gifts of food to leave within the stone circle, as an offering to the old Sylvan Gods.

Their happy days, however, would soon come to a close, for Nessa Aveantius, Aeren’s intented, with sorrow at first and then scorn at the news that her future husband would renounce their future life for a human woman, did all in her power to find them and take back the happiness that was stolen from her.

So, one day, five years from Aeren and Hiraeth Dantathur’s arrival at Waterdeep, the assassins sent by Nessa would find the small family and enact the long awaited revenge of the scorned elf-woman.

Aeren fought like a shark, trying to defend both Hiraeth and Robyn, but unprepared as he was, he lost Hiraeth to the assassins’ daggers before he had the chance to even embrace his own trident. Knowing Nessa and her vindictive temper , Aeren knew that the assassins’s aim was not just the woman he had loved, but also the child that they had sired together, so to forever erase the offense brought by his betrayal.

He screamed for little Robyn to run, run, run, as far and as fast as the breeze allowed her, and to never look back, for if she did, she was lost.

Robyn, covered in her mother’s own blood and absolutely terrified in her pain, fled the small cottage, trying to put as much distance between the assassins and herself. She let her feet guide her down the path, drowning in pure terror as she tried to keep the last thoughts of her mother’s life away from her mind.

Back into her mother’s glade, she found her grandfather’s circle of stone, and without looking back, she crossed through the dolmen, and kept running until her legs gave out ad she couldn’t even breathe anymore.

So terrified she was of her pursuers, that she hadn’t even noticed that the forest around her was not the wood that bordered the clearing, and without a second thought, she would find a small cavity in one of the trees nearby, climbing inside and hiding away.

She didn’t remember how long she had spent inside the tree, trembling and whimpering at every single sound, but it was not long before exhaustation would take her and she would fall into a deep, almost impenetrable sleep.

Nightmare after nightmare would followed her through her slumbering, chasing and stalking her like a pack of rabid dogs that would not let her rest, reliving the moment her mother’s eyes - blind from childhood - would truly never see life ever again; recalling her father’s blood running from the wound on his head and his distraught scream of admonishment to run for her life.

Nightmare after nightmare after nightmare that paralyzed Robyn into a spiral of horrors, until gentle music found its way within her mind and quelled some of those atrocities.

When she opened her eyes, trying to figure out where she was, she found a stranger looking at her with curiousity.

He didn’t resemble any man she ever saw in her life: small in stature, with skin the colour of the branches of the tree around her, auburn hair with golden filigree and eyes as dark as a starless night, he appeared to be around the same age as her papa, but at the same time, something about his bearing made him appear as old as the mountains she once read about in one of her mother’s book.

That man was Damh, son of Titania and Oberon and the old Patron God Robyn’s maternal family worshipped when alive.

Without any question, for he had witnessed what had happened to her, he took young Robyn with him, and brought her to the Summer Court, Titania’s domain, where she would reside for the following three years.

Damh would plead his mother to allow him to keep the child around, for her family was among the few that still worshipped him, and a great tragedy had befallen them all. Titania would agree to her son’s wish, moved to profound pity at the predicament the child had found herself into, but she had one condition for her son: to never let the mortal child wander the Summer Court whenever Oberon was around; the Green Lord was not fond of mortals, after Titania’s own tryst with a mortal man a few decades earlier, and she knew that, even if time had passed, he still resented her for it.

And so little Robyn was left under the gentle - if unorthodox- cares of Damh, who treated her with kind compassion and saw in her an acolyte and a student to whom impart the knowledge of the Feywild and of the Sylvan Gods of Old.

The sadness in Robyn’s heart lingered for a while, with her thoughts always leading her back to the Harbour of Waterdeep, where her life had started and finished at the same time. But time and reality in the Feywild was fickle, and soon her memories started to dim. As Damh would often explain to her, whenever she asked why she couldn’t answer questions about her past anymore, “ The Feywild makes you forget. The longer you linger here, child, the more of you will be lost to the Faerie”.

With forgetfulness, came a quenching of the sorrow that was strangling her heart, and each day that sorrow would relent its grip, leaving Robyn in relative peace, as she followed Damh around from one adventure to the other, exploring all the Feywild far and wild, as she slowly forgot about everything that was “before”.

But the Green Lord, who dominated over the Summer Court, couldn’t be kept oblivious for long, and a fatal day, Robyn, now a child of almost eight years of age, stumbled upon him while looking for Queen Titania and Damh.

As much as the sight of a mortal child walking his Court despite his explicit ban on allowing mortals to enter that sacred ground was enough to anger Oberon, nothing could rival the fury he felt when he discovered that his own son and wife had concealed Robyn from his knowledge.

Knowing that he couldn’t do anything to hurt either Titania nor Damh, Oberon decided to take his revenge onto the child that had dared stroll around his Court, and bound young Robyn into a pact with him: Robyn was tricked by Oberon into giving her name to him, in exchange of powers that altered reality for her victims, leaving her unable to distinguish dreams from reality. Robyn believed that she was agreeing to a harmless promise to bring joy and merriment, after so much sorrow, and to also contribute to protect beautiful dreams, but instead, she was unwittingly caught into Oberon and Titania’s quarrel, born out of Oberon’s jealousy toward the favour his wife had once shown to a mortal through dreams and visions.

Because of this, Robyn’s mind would be perpetually torn between the dream realm and reality, with no way of controlling either in the way she wanted. She would experience vivid, often terrifying dreams of her “victims”, dreams that intruded upon her consciousness, causing her to lose track of time and space and leaving her fractured, as if she her own conscience was divided from her own soul. Her perception of reality was often distorted, leading to experience hallucinations, with sudden mood swings, and uncontrollable bursts of magic that she had no way to predict. She might find herself acting out dreams in reality or slipping into a dream state without warning and her sanity would always be at constant risk as she battled the chaotic thoughts and impulses that bombarded her mind.

Unaware of all the consequences that would come from trading away her name, Robyn would then be sent once more to the Mortal Plane, now carrying the alias of "Puck", but not before Titania bestowed a blessing and a protection upon the young child, to allow her to retain, at least partially, a sense of the reality around her. It was also Titania’s blessing that would put her on the path of a young Gale Dekarios, causing the two to actually become friends.

Gale and Robyn knew each other since childhood, when Morena Dekarios welcomed her in their household for a while. They were close friends, with Robyn being enamoured of the way he practiced Magic and him being absolutely enthralled by her stories of the Feywild and also immensely happy to have someone that looked up to him and didn’t think him bizarre. They would often spend their days together, playing tags around the docks together or putting themselves in trouble, with Robyn being the culprit and instigator, most of the time, sweet Gale always ready to play with her and poor Tara trying her best to look over the two children so that they would not end up in trouble. Sometimes, whenever Gale would ask her to, Robyn would recount about all her adventures in the Feywild with Damh, and all the wondrous places she explored during her time there (something that Morena didn’t truly believe possible, but would always refrain from letting her thoughts known, so not shatter Robyn’s belief).

But, whenever she tried to recount anything connected to Oberon or anything connected to the pact she agreed to as a child, she always felt her mind grow as foggy as an early morning on the Tor that acted as a barrier between the Court of Summer and the Court of Autumn, and could feel her own mind break in two, in the “here” and “there”.

Curious about such predicament, Gale would not hesitate one moment to find his way into Blackstaff Academy and learn whatever he could on the topic, but alas his efforts, albeit commendable, would always result in nothing.

Still, stubborn as ever, Gale would not give up on his friend - on whom he had started to harbour a crush - and promised Robyn that he would find a way to retrieve all her memories.

A year after Robyn had “unofficially” joined the Dekarios household, Robyn and Gale would find their way to the Harbour, busy as they were in , able to only remember glimpses of her life before entering the Feywild, found her way to the old, small sea-side cottage her father had built for their family, and once there, she found it empty, sacked and left at the merciless whims of time.

A small tombstone laid not that farther away, and drawn by it, Robyn found where her mother’s last resting place was. The sight dislodged some of the memories she believed forgotten, with glimpses of what happened on the fatal day when the assassins from her father’s tribe came to bring ruin and devastation.

And it was more than she could bear, as those memories started to cascade without respite. But the memories were not the only thing that brought dread to her heart: the date on the small tombstone had left her bereft, for how was it possible that two hundred years had passed from that day?

She was only nine years old: how could it be?

Confused and terrorized about who she was, what she was, what she had agreed to when she gave her name to Oberon, she felt her mind fractur even more,and before she could stop herself, she started spiraling, which caused her to unleash some of the untamed powers that Oberon gave her.

It wasn’t the first time it happened, but whenever she couldnt’ bridle them in the Feywild, Damh had always been there to help stabilize herself before her outburst of magic could cause havoc.

It was not the case that time, and she ended up hurting Gale, a possibility that had always terrified her ever since she met the sweet boy.

Even more frightened now, she brought Gale back home, where Morena and Tara would tend to his wound, imploring Morena’s forgiveness for what happened, and swearing it had been an accident. The young woman would forgive Robyn, and Gale as well would be all patched up without lasting consequences, but Robyn could not forgive herself.

What would happen if she would spiral again? What would happen if she couldn’t keep her powers under control, now that Damh was not with her?

Invain was the reassurance that all was forgiven and that they would all try to find a way to help her: Robyn felt too dangerous to be around others, especially around Morena, Gale and Tara, that had treated her like one of their own, without ever asking anything from her.

That very night, despite the profound sadness she felt in leaving the people that had welcomed her in their life and gave her a semblance of normalcy, she decided to run away from the Dekarios household, and to run away from Waterdeep entirely, leaving her hometown behind in the hope that, by putting some distance between herself ad her past, she would not spiral anymore and would not cause any more accidents.

Not daring to find her way into the Feywild again for fear that more centuries would pass, she spent a few years as a urchin in Baldur’s Gate, where she would survive from people’s charity, conning the Patriars and dipping into their fat purses.

It was at 13 years of age, while she was busy performing a rather daring move to enter inside one the Patriars’ manor to steal some jewelry - Szarr, was the name - that Robyn was caught by Mr. Witch and Mr. Light, the two proprietors of the Witchlight Carnival, and impressed by the was the girl seemed almost to levitate on air, they offered her a job at their circus.

Robyn - now Hiraeth, in honour of her mother - accepted and became part of the Circus, travelling around the various Planes with the troupe, until that fated day in the year 1492 DR, where she was abducted by a Nautiloid and tadpoled.

Most treasured possession: The charms she carries around her waist: a gift from Damh from her first time she crossed the Fey Crossroad into the Feywild, she carries it with her at all times. It’s what allows her to not age (and die from it) every time she travel from the Feywild to the Material Plane. Another one is an ocarina made out of seashell that she had with her the day she was lead into the Feywild by Damh. It was the only thing that she was able to grab before doing as her father told her to and run for safety. Another possession she has, that she never parts with, is an enchanted lantern that Dorothea gifted her, when they met in Neverwinter. After hearing Hiraeth’s affliction about her “not belonging anywhere”, Dorothea enchanted a lantern for her that would lit up in her hour of needs and lead her to her true home, when in doubts.

Sexual and/or romantic situation: After sharing part of their childhood together, and after reuniting when both of them got tadpoled, Hiraeth fell in love with Gale with such profound sentiment, it finally gave her the resolve -and the hope- that she would be able to get out of her contract with Oberon and would finally be able to be whole once more.

Favourite place: The Court of Under the Stars. Once, as a child, during her residency in the Feywild, Hiraeth and Damh went adventuring together, and Damh managed to sneak them both inside, by traversing the portal that lies where the River Styx touches Yggdrasil. They shouldn’t have had access to the Plane where the Court resides, but Queen Morwel was indebted to Damh, and to return the favour, allowed for them to pass through the portals unscathered and to travel around the realm freely just that one time. Here, Hiraeth experienced something that marked her forever, when she saw the eternal twilight that enveloped The Court. She felt the same peace she felt when looking at the stars and the moon when she was a child, basking in Selune’s embrace. It left her with a sense of peace that she never experienced again.

What makes them happiest: Swimming. Oh, how she adores swimming, feeling the sensation of flying through waters deep and low alike, breaching the surface only to dive back, as a dolphin would do when playing with his brethern. After reuniting with her papa, she is learning to appreciate her Sea Elf heritage more and more, as a way for her to reconnect to that part of her past that she thought lost forever.

What makes them angriest: Hiraeth is an extremely tranquil and unfazed woman, with her head in the clouds more often than not, and it’s incredibly difficult angering her. However, there are few things that make her go absolute insane with ire, her mother’s death being the easiest to trigger her. It took her a remarkable long time to find back all her memories of her and what happened that day, and that her father was not at direct fault, but instead he was the reason that Hiraeth was able to save herself.

Another thing that makes her immensely irate, this time with herself, is how she was so easily coherced into giving away her name - and therefore, her truest self- to Oberon to become his Vassal of Chaos in both the Material Plane and the Dreamscape of Mortals. She will never be able to be called “Robyn” again, never to be able to be one and whole again, long as she doesn’t fullfill her pact with him, and she berates herself every single day for it. Over time, she has come to suspect that this is also one of the reasons why she feels like she is slowly going insane: she exists in two places at the same time, the Feywild, where her truest self exists, and the Material Plane, where she navigates around as “Puck”, an husk and servant to Oberon’s whims. She also suspects that it’s Titania and Damh’s protection that’s helping her not slip further and further away into madness.

What makes them laugh: Damh, of all people. He was always the reason she was able to be safe and sound in the Feywild for so long, as a child, whenever she was scared or lonely, and would always come up with silly ideas to make her laugh and make her forget her troubles. She suspects that he extended his benevolence to her out of guilt for what his father did to her, but she always appreciated his constant attempt to render her days lighter and filled with laughters.

Also, she *loves* to pull all sorts of pranks on people: she lives for it, and she is extremely good at it.

Biggest secret: Her biggest secret is not truly one per se, but rather her biggest shame: while she bears her mother’s name, she has no memory of her at all. As Damh himself would put it “The Feywild makes you forget, and soonern rather than later, all your memories are lost into the mist of time”. And this was exactly what happened to her. She also feels her mind doesn’t work as it should, after the long years she spent in the Feywild under Oberon’s influence and she does her best to hide this behind her eccentric behaviour, albeit, sometimes, she feels herself slipping more into insanity.

Obsession: Getting back her name and her mental sanity. She wants to be able to feel whole again, to not feel fragmented, to be able to recognize what it’s real and what it’s not, what is and not broken in half anymore. She doesn’t know if she will ever be able to obtain the latter, but she knows that only by getting back the former, she will have the confirmation to her doubts.

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Omg am dead and I finally managed to finish Hiraeth's bio FML.

I am so happy to be able to post this on the day that I finished the gameplay as wel, it was so emotional.

I hope you will enjoy this!

--Nemo

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template by @arcandoria; abridged profile template by @lairofsentinel)

[feeshies]

too early to make assumptions, but the fact that disney is rewriting captain nemo's backstory in their upcoming series so he steals his submarine from the english instead of building it himself feels gross to me

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Monday Draft

-Mind you all that this is going to be a short fragment of what I wrote in Italian, so you might have to translate, if you want to read it. It's mostly for myself, to keep myself accountable and just keep on writing once more in Italian-

(.....)

“Guardalo come dorme,” Shay mormoró, mentre sul suo viso si dipingeva un sorriso che racchiudeva in sé un misto di levitá e affetto.

Dopo un travaglio durato piú a lungo di quanto il suo spirito potesse sopportare, suo figlio finalmente giaceva tra le sue braccia, sano e salvo, ignaro di tutto ció che lo circondava, avvolto com’era dalla calda coperta di lana che portava i colori della casata di sua madre.

I suoi occhi, cosí scuri e penetranti e completamente rapiti, guardavano il neonato sognante, come se cercassero di mandare a memoria ogni singolo dettaglio di quel piccolo visetto paffuto.

Aveva I colori di sua madre - gli stessi occhi color delle pervinche che crescevano nei prati fuori Lannisport, le stesse lentiggini dorate che puntigliavano le guance morbide e la fronte bombata di entrambi; un Lannister in tutto, persino nel cipiglio del pianto... se non per gli scuri capelli piumati che ricoprivano quel capino cosí minuto, l'impronta inconfutabile che il sangue dei Mormont - il suo stesso sangue - scorreva nelle vene del bimbo.

Shay alzó lo sguardo, e ció che vide sciolse la severa maschera del suo viso in un’ espressione di profonda amorevolezza: Dorothea sonnecchiava pacifica tra le fresche lenzuola che ancora profumavano di pulito, in quell’immenso letto che era stato il loro rifugio sin dalla prima notte in cui avevano deciso di lasciarsi alle spalle qualsiasi parvenza di decoro, e di seguire invece soltanto I dettami dei loro cuori.

Con passo leggero e con accortenza nel non svegliare il pargoletto che si stringeva al petto, Shay si avvicinó all’amata dormiente, e posó sulla fronte di alabastro un tenero bacio.

Ma nonostante la sua accortenza, Shay vide Dorothea battere le lunghe ciglia dorate e destarsi dal sonno ristoratore, richiamata dal mondo dei sogni da quei baci che avevano sempre avuto il potere di risvegliarla.

“Perdonami, amor mio,” sussurró il guerriero con sguardo corrucciato che mal celava l'irritazione che provava verso sé stesso. “Non intendevo svegliarti.”

La labbra della giovane donna si dipinsero in un sorriso ameno e Shay vide rifulgere in quello sguardo una luce serena, la stessa che impermeava ogni singola fibra del proprio essere. Se lei fosse provata dalle lunghe ore del parto o dalle poche ore di sonno, non sembrava darlo a vedere. Tutto ció che lui riusciva a scorgere sul suo viso era amore, un amore che trascendeva tutto il resto. “Da quando Lorcán é nato, ho acquisito gli stessi tuoi poteri: sento anche i bisbigli della servitú da dietro le pareti,” disse lei scherzosamente, puntellandosi sui gomiti per meglio guardare l’amato e il figlio.

(.....)

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

[nemolfc]

2024 taught me a lot of things but honest to god I am so fucking grateful for the people I've befriended here, telling the world that I obsess over 11 men playing ball is kinda hard but this community made me feel less weird, I love you all so much 🥹🫶🏻

happy 2025 ( despite everything lol )

with love ... tasnim aka nemo 🫶🏻

[prokopetz]

Okay, so: in early drafts of Jules Verne's 1870 novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Captain Nemo is a Polish guy bent on revenge against the Russian Empire for the murder of his family in the January Uprising. Verne's editor objected on the grounds that Russia was a French ally at the time of the book's writing, and in the actual, published version of the story, Nemo's national origin and precisely which empire he's pissed off at are left unspecified.

Later, in the 1875 quasi-sequel The Mysterious Island, Nemo is retconned as an Indian noble out for revenge against the British for the murder of his family in the Indian Rebellion of 1857 – basically the same as the original plan, simply substituting a different uprising and a different empire. Verne's editor raised no objections this time around, because fuck the British, right? Though Twenty Thousand Leagues and The Mysterious Island aren't 100% compatible in their respective timelines, this version of Nemo has customarily been back-ported into adaptations of Twenty Thousand Leagues ever since.

Now here's the funny part: perhaps as a jab at his editor, Verne made a specific plot point in Twenty Thousand Leagues of Professor Aronnax repeatedly trying and failing to figure out where the fuck Nemo is from. At one point his attempt to pin down Nemo's accent is frustrated by Nemo's vast multilingualism. At another point, he tries and fails to trick Nemo by quizzing him about latitude and longitude.

(To contextualise that last bit, at the time the book was written, there was no international agreement on which line of longitude should be zero degrees, and many nations had their own prime meridians; Aronnax hoped to identify Nemo's national origin by calculating which meridian he was giving his longitudes relative to. Nemo, however, immediately spots the ploy, and announces that he'll use the Paris meridian in deference to the fact that Aronnax is a Frenchman.)

The upshot is that at no point in the course of any of this Sherlock Holmes bullshit does Aronnax ever bring up the colour of Nemo's skin as a potential clue. In light of the book's publication history, this is almost certainly simply because Verne hadn't decided that Nemo was Indian yet. However, taking into account The Mysterious Island's retcon, it retroactively makes Aronnax the least racist Frenchman ever.

[nem0-kn0ws-n0t]

I know the kindest thing (Is to leave you alone)

Maybe that's why he's sitting on his dock, barefeet in cold water, fishing for something he's not even sure he needs in the middle of the night.

He feels a sigh coming up his throat. If only this would help.

OR

Insomnia vs hermits caring for each other, fight On AO3!

The moonlight reflects off of the water, giving it an impression of stillness. The waves lap lazily against the shore and against his legs, but he can barely feel them anymore. The stillness of the scene seems as if in direct contrast with the discordant thoughts in his head. Maybe that's why he's sitting on his dock, bare feet in cold water, fishing for something he's not even sure he really needs in the middle of the night.

He feels a sigh coming up his throat. If only this would help.

"Is anything biting?"

He doesn't jump, thank you very much, but he does flinch at Gem's voice. A glance back over his shoulder reveals her to be in her pajamas, a bathrobe thrown over for modesty and her hair in loose braids falling over her shoulders. He turns back to the water and shrugs his shoulder.

"I think they're asleep."

Gem hums noncommittally and comes closer, to where Grian can almost feel her behind his back.

"Probably tired from all that swimming, makes sense."

Grian doesn't deign to answer, calloused hands clutching the fishing road tighter, his eyes never straying from the bobbin.

Time passes. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, hard to tell this early.

He feels her shift slightly and the next second, a heavy woollen blanket is dropped over his shoulders. He startles, already turning back to her, only to be greeted by a flask held out to him. He meets her green eyes above the steam, confusion meeting amusement.

"Take it" She pushes the flask closer to him, forcing him to grab onto it to prevent a spill. "It's cold out here."

He's about to question it before the smell reaches him- and Gem just handed him hot chocolate. The good kind too, probably nicked or bartered from Doc (probably nicked, that man is possessive over his cocoa mix). He blinks stupendously.

"I'm not a child." Tumbles out of his mouth before realizing what he's saying. He winces inwardly at the words- being tired has always made him more snappish than usual. Before he can apologize, Gem cuts him off with a giggle.

"Course not." She pats him comfortingly on his shoulder, over the warm orange blanket that is indeed keeping him warm. He hadn't even noticed how cold it'd gotten before being covered. "That's why it's the *good* kind."

A second whiff at the flask reveals a familiar fermented note to the sweet aroma of cocoa. Ah, some of Keralis's flair as well. How...sweet.

"Thank you." He bites out, now cradling the flask against his chest. Gem simply smiles at him and straightens back up.

"Of course." She brushes off her robe. "Have a good night, Grian." She remarks over her shoulder as she turns back towards her boat.

He watches her until she climbs back into her boat, until the lights dim once again in her bedroom before taking a sip of the cocoa. The warmth seeps into his body, into his soul, dulling some of the harshest thoughts. He feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips.

"Good night Gem."

~~~

Somehow, being rocked to sleep by the sea is not nearly as soothing as it should be. The waves lapping against the deck and the slow consistent creaking of the wood tangle to create a haunting type of lullaby, one that simply can’t lull Gem to sleep.

She feels herself shifting again and again, trying desperately to lean into the day’s exhaustion but nothing works. Sighing, she gives up and sits up, digging her palms into her eye socket and letting out a groan.

She cannot afford to be this picky about sleep this early in the season. Not when she needs to be up at the crack of dawn to keep grinding away at her projects.

With a huff she gets up, dragging her blankets over her shoulders and picking up the lantern. Maybe some fresh air will do her some good.

Slowly, groggily, she makes her way to the bow and drapes herself half haphazardly over the railing. Here, staring out into the open waters, she feels almost at peace. There’s something almost hypnotic about the repeated movements, the ups and downs of the boat as it bobs on the river. Here, under the dark sky and the silver of the moon, adrift on the ship, time seems to slip away from her. No responsibilities, no projects, nothing important. Just back and forth and back and forth and-

“Maybe you should get away from the edge” an amused voice calls from behind her “before you fall overboard.”

If Gem wasn’t as drop-dead exhausted, she probably would have jumped. But she did startle, jerking back a bit too hard, momentarily losing her balance.

“Woah!” The voice calls out before warm hands settle on her back, steadying her. She blinks a few times, before shooting a glance backwards only to be met by familiar blond curls. She takes a moment to place them.

“...Grian?” The answering chuckle confirms his identity.

“How out of it are you?”

Gem hums noncommital, slumping forward to lean her arms on the edge, chin resting on her forearms.

“Can’t sleep.” She mumbles, eyes trained on the horizon. His hands shifted until he was rubbing comforting circles on her back.

“And so you decide to fall asleep on the edge of the boat instead.” The smile is clear in his voice “Makes sense.”

Gem shrugs “It’s soothing” Grian chuckles again, hand coming up to massage the back of her neck. A noise builds up at the back of her throat in contentment and she lets her eyes drift shut, just for a second.

Grian hmms, non committedly.

“Alright, scooch over.” The gentle hands turn back to her shoulder and ever so softly, she feels herself shifting around until she’s curled against a warm shoulder, a heavy woollen blanket draped over her shoulders once again. Blearingly, she opens her eyes, only to be met by twinkling eyes and an easy smile.

“What are you…” She mumbles out, curling slightly more into the warmth, a yawn cutting her off.

“Making sure you don’t fall overboard.” Comes the hushed answer, an arm snaking around her waist. Gem hums, eyes already slipping back closed. She does manage to shimmy her blanket over his shoulders as well, enveloping the both of them into a warm cocoon. This close, she can smell the sea salt and fresh wood smells clinging to his fabric, a smell somehow comforting. Somehow soothing.

Somehow, all her earlier reluctance to sleep evades her and she feels herself slowly drift off.

The chest under her rumbles one last time.

“Good night, Gem.”

[nemolfc]

I appreciate everyone that likes and reblogs, no matter how many they might be, you guys are truly the reason I keep going!!! ❤️