#Peg Kin

[ecstarry]

hello !! first of all. arcane js eating my brain. second of all. 12 & 21 for the ask game 🫶

del!! <3

firstly tho, i cannot believe i have not gotten a single yap about arcane smh

12. Talk about a new friend you made this year

this is going to make me so emotional oh my god. i know it says one but damn this year my friendships have done so so many things for me. two of my best friends have been in my life for some years now and while i felt incredibly happy with them, this year i've just been fucking blessed honestly. i got way way closer to some college friends, i see them like 3 times a week and i'm even starting a year long work project with one of them, they have made my life so so much happier.

and now oh god, i joined this fandom in february this year so the friendships i've made this year have been so beautiful and istg make my heart fuller <3

some have been since the beginning like my broriage, ngl atp renn deserves monetary compensation for listening to my drama all year he he some came a tini bit later like my turkish-brazilian-mexican trio, some friends we might not talk as much atm but we are up to date with each other even through insta stories like angel and anna and then during the second half i met even more amazing people like eli, my parents and jesoops and ofc my precious baby who i can't believe how lucky i am to have in my life <3

i know this is long af i know i know but fr this year was so so intense for me with so many changes that i just could not had gone through all of it without my irls and online friends like legit no words

21. What’s something new about your place of residence (room, home, or general location) now vs the start of the year?

i changed the curtains in my room and oh my god it looks so so much better shoutout to my best friend for doing my home renovation

end of the year asks

[suntyde]

got a tickle in my throat so going out for a smoke to counteract it

[lpsgirl109]

"When you show them your favorite video game and they say they don't understand" but it's a character you relate to on a very deep and personal level you can't even begin to explain in words that everyone does nothing but make fun of and put you down for enjoying. "How could you like that character theyre an asshole" maybe because that character is Me, Jennifer. Maybe, just maybe, that character resonates with me in a way they didn't for you. I'm sorry you're so close minded that you can't understand other people liking a character because you can't relate to them

[miyaz6ki]

Thinking about fem!reader who presses Kinich down and says "I need to get you pregnant" with the utmost seriousness

when he does something ever so slightly attractive like the hand on the passenger seat as he backs up. or his hand over the plush of your thigh.

or when he was such a sweetheart, subconsciously opening the door for you when you entered his car. but maybe you preferred the moments when he'd pull out the chair for you when you both went out for a date.

it could've been the way he didn't mind planning baby names whenever you brought up the topic. or was it the way he daydreamed about how your kids would look when you mentioned it?

"kin'. i want to get you pregnant." "you want to what?"

he tilted his head, confused at the statement, at first. not that he would really mind you pegging him or anything, but he definitely wanted to know how it'd work.

"you know what, whatever works for you, babe." he sighs and goes back to what he's doing, but he feels a pressure from behind him, further leaning him onto the desk. "i meant it." "oh."

[yeoldenews]

While we’re on the subject of names, is there an explanation for how traditional nicknames came about that are seemingly unrelated to, or have little in common with, the original name?

ie- John/Jack, Richard/Dick, Henry/Harry/Hank, Charles/Chuck, Margaret/Peggy/Daisy, Sarah/Sally, Mary/Molly, Anne/Nan, etc

I am actually over a week into researching a huge follow-up post (probably more than one if I’m being honest) about the history of nickname usage, so I will be going into this in much, much more detail at a hopefully not-so-later date - if I have not lost my mind. (Two days ago I spent three hours chasing down a source lead that turned out to be a typographical error from 1727 that was then quoted in source after source for the next 150 years.)

As a preview though, here’s some info about the names you mentioned:

The origins of a good portion of common English nicknames come down to the simple fact that people really, really like rhyming things. Will 🠞Bill, Rob🠞Bob, Rick🠞Dick, Meg🠞Peg.

It may seem like a weird reason, but how many of you have known an Anna/Hannah-Banana? I exclusively refer to my Mom’s cat as Toes even though her name is Moe (Moesie-Toesies 🠞 Toesies 🠞 Toes).

Jack likely evolved from the use of the Middle English diminutive suffix “-chen” - pronounced (and often spelled) “-kyn” or “kin”. The use of -chen as a diminutive suffix still endures in modern German - as in “liebchen” = sweetheart (lieb “love” + -chen).

John (Jan) 🠞 Jankin 🠞 Jackin 🠞 Jack.

Hank was also originally a nickname for John from the same source. I and J were not distinct letters in English until the 17th Century. “Iankin” would have been nearly indistinguishable in pronunciation from “Hankin” due to H-dropping. It’s believed to have switched over to being a nickname for Henry in early Colonial America due to the English being exposed to the Dutch nickname for Henrik - “Henk”.

Harry is thought to be a remnant of how Henry was pronounced up until the early modern era. The name was introduced to England during the Norman conquest as the French Henri (On-REE). The already muted nasal n was dropped in the English pronunciation. With a lack of standardized spelling, the two names were used interchangeably in records throughout the middle ages. So all the early English King Henrys would have written their name Henry and pronounced it Harry.

Sally and Molly likely developed simply because little kids can’t say R’s or L’s. Mary 🠞 Mawy 🠞 Molly. Sary 🠞 Sawy 🠞 Sally.

Daisy became a nickname for Margaret because in French garden daisies are called marguerites.

Nan for Anne is an example of a very cool linguistic process called rebracketing, where two words that are often said/written together transfer letters/morphemes over time. The English use of “an” instead of “a” before words beginning with vowels is a common cause of rebracketing. For example: the Middle English “an eute” became “a newt”, and “a napron” became “an apron”. In the case of nicknames the use of the archaic possessive “mine” is often the culprit. “Mine Anne” over time became “My Nan” as “mine” fell out of use. Ned and Nell have the same origin.

Oddly enough the word “nickname” is itself a result of rebracketing, from the Middle English “an eke (meaning additional) name”.

I realized earlier this week that my cat (Toe’s sister) also has a rebracketing nickname. Her name is Mina, but I call her Nom Nom - formed by me being very annoying and saying her name a bunch of time in a row - miNAMiNAMiNAM.

Chuck is a very modern (20th century) nickname which I’ll have to get back to you on as I started my research in the 16th century and am only up to the 1810s so far lol.

[bhaalble]

Insane about Orin again. What makes me nuts (/pos) is the wildly different impressions you get of her on a Tav run vs a Durge run. On a Tav run Orin is functionally murder royalty. Her assassins are kept well in-line, she bears the mantle of slayer. Sarevok tells you about her lineage of Bhaalspawn and how early on she was singled out as special. She was the youngest ever Unholy Assassin and a literal mouthpiece of Bhaal as a child. Gortash definitely views her as unstable and plans to sever the alliance regardless, but it feels much more like a concern for his own safety than anything else.

Contrast this to a Durge run where she's talked about as the perpetual upstart. Scleritas of course contributes to this in a big way, needling at her sheltered Temple existence as opposed to Durge's experience of the outside world. Sarevok is MUCH more dismissive of her and her accomplishments, all but saying he's rooting for you to take her down a peg. You find journal entries from Durge calling her murder tableaus a waste of not only her time, but Bhaal's. Its up for debate how much Gortash MEANS anything he says to Durge but his clear preference seems to be something even she's aware of. I haven't yet found any dialogue that indicates whether or not the incident when she killed her mother where Bhaal used her as a mouthpiece still happened in a Durge run. Assuming it did, how must that feel to have all that happen and yet your father still passes his favor to someone else! His Chosen, not you but some purer incarnation of his blood. His Slayer, not you who have killed even your own kin in his name, but the lobotomized wreck of your half-sibling who may even be working against him. There's so much you can reflect off of how Bhaal treats the Durge if they lose the duel, the way his favor (or lack thereof) can dominate the whole of your existence. The sibling trauma is DEEP and visceral

[writer-of-the-lamb]

narilamb marriage

“oh, it’s not a joke…?”

lamb, lounging around by the farm : great job, guys, we’re gonna have enough grapes in no time!

narinder, folding his arms : i could use a drink in a time like this. the weather is cold, and my coat is not enough to warm me for work.

lamb, snug in robes and his wool : speak for yourself

narinder, frowning : as your partner, i assume i will not have to do this?

lamb, grinning : nah.

narinder, genuinely surprised : oh. i assumed you would be placing me out there for your own sadistic enjoyment. as….well, as usual.

lamb, snickering and digging his hands in his pockets : i’m not always out to get ya.

narinder, watching the followers work : i am surprised by that. in your place i would enhance whatever suffering you could feel to punish you.

lamb : me making fun of you does that enough. i’m merciful. occasionally.

narinder :

lamb : i have a heart. at the end of the day im a lamb, nari. the last one. ever. like, nobody can say they can manipulate or read me because there’s no other sheep to practice on. *laughs* i’m almighty in every way.

narinder, amused : you wedding me was the most humorous choice, then. i will accept the punishment.

lamb, humming in thought : that was partly a joke. *turns to narinder* i do like you.

narinder : oh

lamb, sheepishly (lol) laughing : what, you think i toss you around because i hate you?? it’s my love language.

narinder, suddenly clutching his chest : you have made me ill.

lamb : okay, rude-

narinder : i applaude the clever tactic - but - what is this curse, you cruel-

lamb, watching narinder writhe around and cover his face :

narinder : if i had that crown, i would snatch it from your head and pound it into the ground, before following with you and- and perhaps imprisoning you! or such-

lamb, smiling goofily : you like me

narinder, pausing in his ‘agony’ : i-

lamb, bouncing on his heels : you like meee

narinder, letting go of his chest : curses

lamb : you wish they were

narinder : i suppose i do favour you.

lamb, giggling : you better, cause that ring is bound to you.

narinder, staring at his ring : hm. i am content with that.

lamb, batting his stupid little eyelashes :

narinder : may i see your ring? is it bound as well?

lamb, flourishing out his hand : no, but i’d like it to be. *winks*

narinder, inspecting his hand : gold suits you, lamb.

lamb : oh you flatterer

narinder, smug : i am skilled, lamb. i was once a god like you.

lamb, grinning : are you…are you smiling???

narinder : ….you bring it out of me.

lamb : when i saw you for the first time, i did not peg you as a romantic.

narinder : what were your initial thoughts, then?

lamb : id tap that

narinder, deadpan :

lamb : what? you’re the romantic, clearly

narinder :

lamb, grinning : love you

narinder : you are alright.

a pause

lamb : alright, heket! go eat, narinder’s tending the farms now.

narinder : LAMB, IT IS COLD

lamb : TELL ME YOU LOVE ME

narinder, hissing : STOP YELLING IN FRONT OF MY KIN

lamb : OH PLEASE, THEY SEE THE WAY YOU LOOK AT ME

narinder : LAMB.

lamb, glaring :

narinder : ….fine. i enjoy your prescence. and your banter.

lamb, giggling : good enough

[witchofthesouls]

You got me hooked on the battle couple and since your the only dealer I'm making it your problem!

Imagine its not poetics or gifts or even battle prowess that wins miko over no. its his fucking musical ability!! Tarn gets it in his head to serenade his beloved with someones freshly removed head as a gift for good measure and for some reason that's what does it for miko who pounces him once the song is done. The next day tarn is walking with a limp hanging off her arm like a pampered trophy wife looking like he got mauled by a bear and miko looks far to pleased with herself.

It's funny because Tarn exhibits many qualities her kin appreciate, and frustrates her even more!

Her cousins would definitely roast her in a good-natured way because of the mysterious mech's dedication with fresh kills and lovely courting gifts.

Oh, and they match, too. Pink and purple complement each other!

Miko is sulking underwater because Cybertronians like to stay from it.

Of course, Tarn plants himself on the beach, bank, pier, or rockside to wait for her. If there's wide space, then he's writing scripts into the dirt and sand via his tank treads or using pretty rocks.

I don't know if it's funny or terrible if Tarn's ability doesn't injure Miko. Not out of fated bondmate bullscrap, but because her seablood heritage came out and sees it as not only a siren-like potential mate but entwined in the words are the undeniable score of her other half of a Soulsong.

Instead of pain, it enraptures.

Think of it as some sort of seablood catnip to the average seafolk, but on Miko? She can't tamp down the instinctual urge to warble out her own part.

Tarn is delighted over the fact that they'll have a private duet. Meanwhile, the others (minus Raf, Jack, and June) are increasingly disturbed by the haunting, ethereal noise that is enemanting from everywhere and nowhere as Miko gets back into singing in sea-tongue.

Not even the exquisite temperatures of a hotsprings could overcome their collective anxiety over it.

Jack and Raf calls them out for it because they managed to go against robot Satan and hordes of the undead, and yet a mating call is what spooks them the most.

It's the ambiance, they said. It's the middle of wild nature with an eerie back-and-forth echo of lovely yet haunting notes. Nothing else is disturbed by their sensors. Where is it coming?

It's Miko. Underwater. She knows how to suppress herself and hide her presence. She's enjoys hunting.

Probably culminates into this:

Miko: "What if I fuck him?"

Jack: "Don't do it."

Miko: "But I do it in a way he wouldn't expect it."

Jack: "Miko, I love you, and we spent lifetimes together, but I'm finding out things I don't know if I want to know."

Miko: "I'm gonna peg his ass."

Jack: "... What if he likes it?"

Miko (not listening): "I always wanted to peg an ass."

Jack (giving up): "Find a good harness then."

Raf (who's been there the entire time): "Ask about lube. You'll need it for aft ports."

Miko: "Ratchet’s been running away from me. I'm gonna need a trap because I need more info."

(Cue a reluctant sex ed for Cybertronian frames starring Ratchet with special guests' input on war-frames from Soundwave and Knock Out.)

[careyakane]

To you with my cloudy blue eyes and blonde falling hair. To you, child of Sicily and of the Irish coast too. To you who stared with my same conviction and wonder at the stars and across the sea, who sang songs and rode horseback in traveling fairs and endless green pastures. To you who have loved just as I have loved. Who break just as I break. To you who bridge one piece of lineage to another, leaving traces of yourself a thousand years later.

To you who found the courage to leave or to stay, who threaded the thinnest line and the highest tightrope just so I could exist. To you who wept silent tears and set aside the most precious treasures so that today I may be all that I am.

To you who became mother and father, then grandmother and grandfather, a hundred pegs down I now sit in both my own life but no less in yours. To you documented and preserved, faceless and forgotten. To you whose name has changed hands from vows and necessity again and again since the very beginning. I look back to you from the front line. I am the youngest. I am the siphoned material, the strained essence of all you set into motion.

I do not know if there is some grand purpose of it all, but the thought of how nuanced and human my bloodline must’ve been for me to feel the things I feel makes me want to weep. It makes me want to scream, to sing, to make people realize their own mortal webs that they play part in. God, if only I might see just for a few seconds all of the colors and celebrations of my ancestors. All of the disasters and tragedies too. If only I could see the subtle interactions and chance encounters that rippled into inseparable characteristics and qualities, gifts and diseases. If only I could comfort the widowed mothers and orphaned children of my kin. If only I could laugh alongside my predecessors as they broke soil on new lands and raised sails to reach the strong winds that might show them more of the world.

And then I think, rather foolishly I must add… of my place on this board. Am I the end? Maybe I am indistinguishable from the beginning on some scale of eternity… well, I’m getting carried away. That’s enough for now.

[anxiousthoughts365]

So something I love about shipping across different fandoms is that there is always somewhere to feel like you fit.

Like, I love the Marauders' fandom, but when I would see people kinning with the characters I always felt a little left out. I feel the most association with Remus, but it was like an oval peg in a round hole. Close enough, but not quite.

ENTER BAGGINSHIELD OK

Bilbo. I am literally Bilbo fucking Baggins istg. Curly hair - check. Bookworm with an over-inflated pride in my own writing - check. Loves nature and the outside but also a warm cozy fireplace - check. Food-driven - check. Short-ass spitfire who forgets to temper himself every so often and effectively but accidentally puts the shits up everyone - check. Sassy but tries to keep it in line due to fears about social repercussions - check. Pining over big dumb stubborn hairy guys that are a good head taller than me - check. Hairy toes - check.

I'm home. Bring me my Thorin.

[call-sign-shark]

Basic B(w)itch

Game: What does Amos think of your OC? @evita-shelby

Rules: This game doesn’t reflect the author’s opinion but the thoughts of a fictional character. Amos lacks of interest in people and is mean, sarcastic. Beside, this game is not an ego contest nor meant to be a battle. Your character get roasted, we all laugh, and that’s all. PLEASE don’t go like “blabla my character would say this, they would destroy him” like, Idc bro that’s not the point of the game.

• This is a little humbling and fun exercice aimed at making you laugh. A parody of the love and care we have for each other in the fandom. Enjoy 🖤

“Oh look, it’s Miss No-One-Resists-Me! Would you like a cup of Im-better-than-yall? You know, no amount of luxury, witchcraft or fame could cover how boring you are. You and your kin bleed just like anybody else.”

Amos wouldn’t like Eva at all. Contrary to Heaven who doesn’t care but still has an ounce of respect for her because she’s a witch, Amos would simply despise Eva plain and simple, considering her as stuck up. She might be the sweetest with her family and adorable in domestic settings he couldn’t help but find all the fuss around her utterly ridiculous. She’s no better than anyone else. Nor exceptional either. According to him she comes off as a pompous, know-it-all and show off person, who just deserves one huge smack in her face to come down one peg or two. The type of insufferable girl who should be humbled.

Also, contrary to Heaven, the fact she’s a witch doesn’t matter. Not only he’s got one home, but rumors say he steeped in black magic himself. Should he be in the same room as her for political reasons, he’d just roll his eyes and go back to his business or to Hev. The best he could do would be remain coldly polite and formal. Plus, one mutual mentioned a thing about strong women: it’s not something that influences Amos’ opinion.

The only credit he would give her is that he knows what it is to come from an influential family since he’s from the Von Bismarck lineage. Hence, he acknowledges that, sometimes, its a heavy weight to carry upon one’s shoulders.

Sorry for the burn! :) — and no hard feelings I hope, I warned y’all that it would be real roasts 😓 —

[usedkin]

Minors DNI

Hi! You can call me Kin, I'm a guy, twenties, and have no idea what I'm doing since I've never done this before... like any of it... so I'm a bit on edge.

I'm your usual shy nerdy type so I enjoy video games and anime but also nature and cooking!

As for what we're all here for:

I'm a submissive but with zero experience, I want to explore and discover this side of myself.

I'm into being used, BDSM (mostly being tied down and restrained), pegging (maybe? Never tried it but want to), Pet play, and probably other things I don't know about.

Feel free to ask me anything! I'm happy to answer stuff or talk to people! (although i will be shy about it, and might take a while to respond because of it) And also to let me know if I've done this wrong here because I've not done this before... (thanks in advance!)

[michidrawsathing]

What are your favorite things about Prussia in canon?

Do you have any favorite headcanons about him?

Thank you, Anon, for the ask! My favorite things about Prussia in canon:

I love that even though this man talks himself up to be a huge player/popular guy. He's actually quite the loner. He doesn't really have many friends, except for France and Spain which he has gone to war with plenty of times. The man tends to make more enemies than he does friends.

I also like that while he is a menace he tends to contradict himself quite frequently. He has brash behaviors, he is quite sensitive, even keeping a diary (albeit of himself) since childhood. While it seems like he has a lack of manners/is uncleanly, he actually keeps up with himself as well as "has an anal retentive streak" (as said by Austria) about his clothes (and pretty much himself) being spick and span.

Also, this man is my highest kin, therefore, of course I have headcanons about him!

My headcanons for Prussia:

In my eyes Prussia is gay. Not bi, not pan, not any other sexuality, GAY. There are a few reasons for this, if you want to know, send another ask :3 However, due to his religious origin (aka him previously being the Teutonic Knights) I headcanon him as strictly monogamous.

Since Prussia is a good, faithful Catholic man (and to be a Teutonic Knight he had to swear a vow of chastity) he is a virgin. He's not some playboy/womanizer like everyone pegs him to be.

I also headcanon this man has a big oral fixation, he definitely is the type to smoke.

I believe, he is a huge romantic, in a modern AU I feel he would aspire to be a romance novelist. (Especially because he love to write.)

I believe he is also very expressive and empathetic to those he's close to. He's a huge cryer, though he would kill you if you caught sight of it on accident.

While he is a beer connoisseur, I believe he likes other types of alcohol such as wine and hard spirits.

I also believe he has an extensive vocabulary, however, he only showcases it to those he's closest to.

Thank you, once again, for the ask! I hope you enjoyed these headcanons (and the art) :3 Until next time~

For slightly NSFW headcanons, click keep reading

The more NSFW headcanons:

This man definitely takes pride in marking you everywhere. No spot will be untouched, I promise you.

Is a switch, however, he only bottoms for specific people. (cough cough Austria cough cough.)

Loves speaking German in the bedroom to you, as well as calling you German terms of endearment. (Examples: "liebe" which means "love", "Maus" which means "Mouse", "Schatz" which means "Darling". My favorite term is "Mein Ein und Alles" which means "My one and all" long terms for "My everything."

Loves being called his human name in the bedroom instead of sexy names like "master", "daddy", "sir", etc.

He loves people he can pick up, no matter the size, he just wants to carry you and throw you on the bed (that's why he lifts, ladies and gents).

I admit, he is probably more vanilla in terms of his interests (mans as stated before is a virgin) but once he's comfortable he's a huge experimentalist.

That's all I have! Thank you so so so so much again for the ask if you read down this far! See you all next ask!

[transformers-spike]

my gf keeps egging me on to be horny on main but i'm still too embarrassed 💔 she very much encourages my megatron thristing though. she says she can't imagine fucking a robot but it makes sense for me because it's "bottom behavior" in her eyes (the people who wanna peg them say otherwise but i can't argue in my case) but she still seems very into the idea of megatron fucking me? does she want a threesome? does she kin megatron? does she want to get cucked by megatron? the world may never know

If you ever decide to open up your horniness, I'll be waiting with open arms. And listen - this is just how Megatron is. You can kin him, fuck him or get cucked by him - anything goes.

[orchideous-nox]

Shout out to my favourite person in the whole entire world @futurequibblerjournalist on our wedding anniversary < 3 we are no longer divorcing!!!!

When my sanity has been holding on by a single thread he has helped me put myself back together one stitch at a time. Throughout the last year I have had times where I have felt so lost and he's been there to help me while I figure it out. He knows me better than I know myself and there are moments where I have needed this. As a very legitimately married couple, we truly meant it when we said for better or for worse.

Quibblernox jokes aside (this is very serious), I have so much love for Alexander and there is no-one I'd rather call my best friend and life partner. Whether I'm on the brink of breakdown or stuck on the characterization of Edmund Avery Jr, he's there. From Barty's whorish waist, to summoning dilfs, from goldenshower anons (which totally aren't me) to concerning others with our Rosekiller kinning. You are the Barty to my Evan, the quibbler to my nox, my birds of a feather and my true blue, I don't know what I'd do without you. I never used to believe soul mates could exist, that there's someone who you technically should never have met but who you were always meant to find, and then I met Alex and I think that says it all.

Counting down until I get to see you again next year, gonna peg you so hard < 3

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Stabilize, pt. 3 (Multi-part story, extended war timeline)

PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3 (you are here) // PART 4

Overall Summary: What should have just been an outreach mission to help heal and treat citizens of a recently captured city goes wrong. Arya finds herself tossed into her own mind with little to no control over anything around her, watching confused and in pain as the world whips by. Outside her body, Eragon, Saphira, Glen, Blödhgarm and the other spellcaster guards work franticly to stabilize her, uniting as a family Eragon and Saphira had not quite realized had formed around them.

(Pt. 3 A/N: Let's get some fluids on board and some blood circulating in the right places rather than onto the floor, yeah? Eragon comes to and finds that the elven guard is already hard at work, while Arya gets another visit from a familiar yet...not so familiar face.

More medical stuff and some Dream State for you all. Hope you like drop ins from family members!)

~~~

MODERN INHERITANCE: STABILIZE, PT. 3: DRIP

The next thing Eragon knew were firm hands guiding him to sit against…cabinets? Cabinets, yes, those were cabinets, his vision fading in from a gray haze. A cup was being pressed into his hands, Saphira calling out to him as he curled in on himself and put his head between his knees. He couldn’t stop shivering, the lukewarm water sloshing out of the mug and onto his hands. Sticky. Bloodstained.

Saphira was a galeforce that nearly bowled him over as he tried to bring the juddering rim to his lips. ‘Little One! Please, answer me.’

Lifting his head made lights surge behind Eragon’s closed lids. He could hear the rise and fall of voices working together in the Ancient Language, spells for repair and clearing and binding. ‘What happened?’ He did his best to sip the water without spilling it, barely managing half a mouthful at the awkward angle.

Worry fluttered and flitted around every edge of his consciousness, Saphira fretting over him like some lost hatchling. ‘You went blank. Your mind was slate. I could touch and speak to you, but you did not respond.’ The sensation of her wings pulling him against her chest, tail wrapping heavy around his legs. ‘Angela said it was a grey out from the stress.’

‘Grey–’ The cup dropped to the floor as Eragon bolted to his feet. “Arya!”

“Shut up and sit down!” Angela’s snapped command was unnecessary. Colors and light swirled, and Eragon found himself fumbling for the edge of the sink as he groaned and lowered himself back down. His arms and legs were lead, his eyes pounding with his pulse. “We’re working on her. Stay there until you’re useful.”

Four of the gathered elves were seated at the table’s benches, Yaela and Laufin the only ones still standing. The silver haired woman was slipping something around her arm, lips a thin line of focus while her black haired counterpart unraveled loops of IV tubing. They moved so smoothly that it took a dark liquid filling the line for Eragon’s still hazy brain to comprehend that Laufin had deftly slipped and taped a needle into Yaela’s arm, repeating the process to an access port in place at Arya’s elbow. An IV bag already hung crinkled and wrung empty from a peg behind Angela’s head, the tubing still leaking minuscule drops of clear liquid to the floor.

Yaela caught him staring and gave a small smile. “Arya and I matched blood type during the Queen’s selection process.” She nodded towards the rest of her kin at the table, their heads bowed as they murmured spells and fed energy into the mess of broken vessels and torn veins that were sapping away Arya’s strength. “Each of us has at least one match among ourselves. It was considered wise in case of emergencies such as these.”

He nodded numbly. Eyes still flaring in jolts, he dragged his bloodied hands down his face and winced as something tacky slipped at his cheek. He pulled them away and swallowed hard at the slick of still-wet blood and scrubbed a somewhat clean cuff of his sleeve against the patch of his face. The smear in the splatter by Angela’s feet told him all he needed to know.

Angela. Right, she was taking control of the situation. Arya would be fine, she had to be, and Angela would make it happen. Even now she was standing at the head of the table, holding a bag mask firmly over Arya’s mouth and nose while squeezing in regular, steady intervals.

“Do you want me to intubate her?” Laufin’s voice was nearly buried under the spells being cast, his head close to Angela’s. “We have the supply for it.”

“No. No, not yet.” The witch sighed and nodded downward where Arya’s mangled ribs were rising and falling with each forced breath. “Just keeping her lung from collapsing is what I’m doing for now. We’ll need all our hands free soon, though. I have a diffusion spell that can oxygenate her blood while we heal the bones and remove this piece without all the shifting, but it’s a tricky thing. I can’t hold it for long without risking a full collapse.”

“Put a sphere of increased pressure.” Eragon grunted as he slowly hauled himself up. He could feel Angela watching him rise from the corner of her eye, but she did not admonish him. “Increase the concentration of oxygen, compress the air further in a set rhythm.” Saphira fed energy into him as a wave of nausea surged at the sight of beads of blood trickling down Arya’s side. “We’ll breathe for her still. Just have to keep her airway open and clear.”

Laufin nodded slowly, his eyes going wide for a moment. “Improvised ventilator.”

“Yes.” Eragon gave him a wan smile, grateful the man had understood him. “Yes, exactly. Don’t need to keep bagging.”

“It’ll work for now. I’ll keep the diffusion spell in reserve for the bone healing.” Angela touched the dark eyed elf’s shoulder. “Help him shape it. And Yaela, for star’s sake, sit down! Are you the only one with her blood type?”

Eragon was across the room in less than a moment as he saw Yaela’s shoulders tremble. He just managed to catch her under her arms with a soft “Whoa, easy,” as her knees buckled.

“Forgive me.” The silver haired woman mumbled as Laufin quickly stood from his seat at the bench and helped his commander ease his teammate to sit with her back resting against the bloodied table. “I am…fine. Simply dizzy.”

“That’s enough out of you.” Angela chided. “Quite literally.” Even as she spoke aloud, Eragon could feel the threads of the magic she wove changing without so much as a hitch. To both speak aloud and cast wordless magic at once was frightening. Though, of course, it was Angela doing it. The impossible and the terrifying seemed to bend to her will as easily as wilted daffodils.

Yaela weakly protested, free hand coming up to clasp at Laufin where he was closing the flow regulator, but Angela cut her off. “No, I don’t need one of you bleeding out to save the other. Again, are you the only one in the group with Arya’s blood type?”

It was Amaris who spoke up when Yaela simply stared blankly, the rich tone of her voice like warm water flowing over smooth stones. “I am universal. As is Uthinarë. If someone can take my place here then I am more than willing to donate.”

“You’ll do. Auggie’s shorter than you, we’ll keep him as a backup.” A flicker of a frown passed over the witch’s brow, the tip of her tongue peeking out between tensed lips. “The bleeding is slowing. We shouldn’t have to push you so hard, and we have three more bags of Ringer’s to supplement besides.”

“We’re halfway through patching.” Glenwing’s voice was far softer than before, though a hint of that former panic remained. Eragon placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, a gentle flex under his palm filled with unspoken gratitude. “Once that’s done, we should…should give her a chance to rest. While she’s stable enough.”

“Agreed.” Blödhgarm was watching Eragon from under his furred brow, fingertips gently resting against Arya’s abdomen. “We will need to do the removal and healing in shifts. We cannot leave Eragon and Saphira completely bereft of protection.”

Eragon carefully sat at the far end of the table, trading places with Amaris as she began setting up another transfusion line. He knew they would not let him argue against them saving energy for him and Saphira, not when it was their main purpose and certainly not when Arya’s future wrath at leaving them defenseless loomed. It had to, she was getting better, Angela and Glen said as much, right?

“As long as she’s stable.” He tucked his head down and began searching his mind for the proper words to form the spell he had devised, Saphira lending her help when she could. Air was her domain after all, its changes and shifts through magic and nature some of her favorite lessons with Glaedr and Oromis.

Once he had the phrases ready he checked them with Laufin, the elf mulling over them for a handful of seconds before giving his approval. Angela let Eragon take her place, watching carefully with two fingertips resting on the injured woman’s ribs to feel for the rush of air into her lungs.

And when she felt it, Angela finally gave Eragon a true, broad smile, small hand squeezing his bicep. “Well done, Eragon.”

“It worked?” His mouth felt dry despite the little water he had taken in earlier. Arya still looked so pale. He couldn’t help himself and carefully brushed stray fringes back from her forehead, other hand resting against her cheek and thumb tracing the contours of her face. Her skin was clammy, tiny ripples of warmth arising with the miniscule shivers coursing through her body before it faded to coolness against his fingers.

“It worked.” Another brief squeeze, her tone gentle. She could feel him shaking, relief and trepidation mingling into one convoluted rush. And she didn’t need him passing out again. “Sit. Help the others.”

Glenwing’s mind was a carefully sealed fortress when Eragon took his place beside him. It took only a brush against his barriers for the elf to let him entangle their energy together, carefully reached out a metaphorical hand to allow Eragon access to the weave of word and magic that the one armed elf was working with.

Glen had been correct about the bleeding. It was less than before, but there was still a steady stream around each piece of debris. Eragon could see the dark lines of free flowing blood in his mind’s eye with each pulse of Glen’s soundwave spell, and with a gentleness of speech he did his best to connect broken vessels back together, held veins steady for Glen to merge them. Healing as detailed as this had never been his strong suit, not when Glen or Blödhgarm had been so helpful throughout the years, but now he found the lessons from Oromis and the medic a true boon to his work.

Saphira lent him energy when she felt him flagging even slightly, a tendril of thought still tagged to him while her focus turned to ensuring the guards that had come from the Varden’s camp collected every piece of evidence around the mage’s body. Some wary workers from the city had arrived as well, collecting broken cobblestones and carting them into organized piles. Only one of them was brave enough to work near Saphira, and to her half buried amusement he was using the back of a long handled street broom to drag pieces of rubble towards himself from areas closest to her glittering form.

A tiny grin flickered Eragon’s lips as his partner choked a snarl at one of the workers. The poor man had bent to pick up Wyrda from the broken ground, and with a warning hiss Saphira reached out one long claw and snagged the fallen sword. She dragged it over the stones to rest, protected and secure, between her two paws and tucked it under the edge of her chest. Like some massive cat pinning a favorite toy under her body for safe keeping.

‘Arya will need her favorite fate-claw back.’ Saphira grumbled softly. ‘I’ll have to tell her you left it on the ground.’

Eragon knew she was trying to bring some form of ease to his mind. The rush of fear was draining as their war sister came closer to stabilizing, not quite out of danger but inching further and further from sudden death with each passing moment. And despite the tightness in his chest, the worry he could still feel fretting behind his Partner of Heart and Mind’s barriers…her teasing threat had him crack a genuine smile.

‘I’m sure Arya will understand why I left it in the moment.’ Eragon delicately connected two more broken vessels, clearing away a forming clot. ‘When we have a second, I’ll bring the sheath out. Could you hold on to it for now?’

She sniffed, as if the question was a clear insult. ‘Of course. I am a dragon. Protecting shiny things is my greatest pastime, or so your little human stories say.’

‘Arya will bring you a proper horde as payment.’

‘Bah! Too much to carry.’ Eragon could feel the dismissive flick that Saphira did with her head, so akin in motion and meaning to the one he did with his hand. ‘She can pay me back with keeping her insides inside for the next two days at least.’

The mock scorn of the dragon’s voice faded, words coming soft as she risked a quick glance through her Rider’s eyes. ‘...How is she?’

Eragon swallowed. ‘Pale. And cold. Yaela already gave nearly three pints of blood, and Amaris is giving more, but at this rate they’re both going to be down for a while unless we control the bleeding better as we remove these things.’ The mere thought of inching out the multitude of debris embedded in Arya’s body while simultaneously healing and preventing further bleeds made his stomach clench. ‘Angela and the others agreed that this is…this isn’t going to be done all at once. Arya’s body needs to stabilize between each stage, and we’re going to need to rest as well.’

A soft, low rumble vibrated through the ground, tingling at the base of Eragon’s boots. Saphira’s deeper thoughts flickered past for the briefest of moments, frustration and a sharp wish for the injured elf to simply shake off the wounds with a bared-tooth, feral grin and hop up as she typically did dragging against his mind. The emotions were quickly subdued, replaced by uneasy acceptance. ‘If it is the safest option, then they are wise to follow such a plan.’

“That’s it.” Wyrden gripped the table with a rough exhale, his shoulders tense. “That should be it. All the major bleeds are healed, and a few others besides.”

“Yes.” Blödhgarm’s voice was equally tense. “I took the liberty of decreasing the swelling. As long as your spells hold, Eragon, then we have a moment to breathe.”

Eragon waited for Glenwing to disengage his magic from his own and pulsed a quick, comforting brush of his mind to the one-armed medic before nodding to the others. “If Angela is sure–”

“Yes, yes.” The small witch flapped her hands at the lot of them, head still bent and eyes still locked on Arya’s chest as it rose and fell. “Go. Twenty minutes will give her time to adjust to the transfusions and settle this bloody heart rate. Solembum is bringing my materials for the next stage.” Never looking up, she first gestured vaguely in Amaris’ direction, then Laufin’s. “You, unhook yourself, take Yaela to lay down and both get fluids. I’ll hang another bag of Ringer’s solution, it’ll tie her over for now. And you, Laufy, take Auggie with you and get some of that fortifying drink you lot keep in your tents. The medicinal ones, not the party ones.” Laufin’s mouth opened as if to protest the nickname, then promptly clicked shut at the order. “Well? Go! Scram! Scatter to the wind! Do I need to repeat myself? Honestly! You children these days!”

Eragon offered Laufin an apologetic shrug when the elf looked to him for confirmation, though inwardly he felt a twinge of relief. Angela’s commands cut through the haze of worry clinging to his thoughts, her sharpness grounding. He couldn’t have picked a better pair if he were honest. Laufin and Uthinarë were the fastest of the elven guard, and even with the added weight of several heavy jugs of fortified Faelnirv they would have no trouble in making it to and from the Varden’s camp in the designated time.

The small group dispersed to their tasks. Blödhgarm excused himself to confer with the spellcasters left outside, while Wyrden began clearing away the used gauze and linens, separating them out to burn and clean respectively. Angela began setting up an IV bag, muttering to herself and the unconscious elf under her care the whole while.

Glenwing seemed content where he was, quietly staring off with shoulders hunched. He nodded only slightly when Eragon patted his back and mumbled that he was fine at a gentle question after his state, flickering a wan smile the Rider’s way.

“Do you know where they put her gear?” Eragon whispered. He didn’t quite know why. Arya was deep in magic induced sleep, probably teetering on the edge of slipping into the Dream State if she wasn’t already in the metabolic trance. “Saphira found Wyrda and is going to start collecting more shiny things if we let her sit on it too long.” His chuckle was forced, though the slight grin was genuine.

The joke was enough to strengthen the smile still trembling at Glenwing’s lips. “Can’t have that, can we? She’s already eyed my arm a bit too greedily for my tastes.” He lifted the hand not stroking a thumb along his war sister’s scarred knuckles and pointed with a mechanical finger towards the space Blödhgarm had vacated. “Under that bench.”

As Eragon knelt to disentangle the shoulder harness Arya used to keep Wyrda sheathed at her back for travel, Glen cleared his throat. “Hey, be careful going outside,” he said, his golden eyes weary when Eragon looked up. “She’d cuff me upside the head if I didn’t say that. And, uh… you just have to pull the clips at the rotation points.”

Eragon glanced back down, a helpless little laugh escaping him. Glen was right—two sliding pucks along the strap held securing clips fastened at the rotation points. He tested the mechanism, gripping the sheath and belt firmly. With a bit of applied force, the sheath rotated a full ninety degrees, then swung back smoothly, clicking into place once he released it.

“I wondered how she manages to draw Wyrda from over her shoulder so quickly,” Eragon said, shaking his head as he worked the clips free. “She’s always moved too fast for me to catch it.” With a final twist and a bit of pressure against the clips, the sheath popped free of the contraption. “Thanks. I’d have been here all day trying to figure this out.”

“No problem.” Glen’s grin sobered. “Really. Be careful. I know Saphira and the others are outside, but stay alert.”

“I will.” Eragon placated, gently touching the elf on the shoulder on his way to the door. “Call me if there’s any change.”

“Of course.”

Falling.

That’s what it felt like. Falling straight down when direction and gravity didn’t exist.

If physical form existed here, Arya would have cursed and coughed and swore at her impact with the dusty packed earth. As it was she stared up at the canvas hanging over her head, chest still tight, mental form wheezing as her body struggled for breath. Some things transitioned over. Not always. But the worst typically did.

Take a few moments. Could be minutes or hours out there. Just. Collect her thoughts. Everything was a jumbled mess, her physical form an utter wreck to the point that it refused to let her back in for the time being. Not even to check. That had never happened before. Not even when Glen had her practice.

When nothing was forthcoming, thoughts muddled, Arya winced and carefully rolled first to her stomach, then quickly onto hands and knees before finally staggering upright. Her surroundings were the same as always, a standard issue Varden tent with a few sparse pieces of furniture. A cot, a camp stool. And, like the one time before–

“Hey, Stringbean.” The voice was gentle, filled with warmth and an aching sort of longing love. Filled with outstretched arms, waiting embraces, tight hugs and an appreciation only known to those who never would be there again, who knew what they lost. “Another rough one, huh?”

Arya turned. Felt something deep in her chest relax. She was already taking the steps to him, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder as an upwelling of confusion and worry and ache filled the newfound space.

“Da.” Her voice, not really there and not really real, was muffled in that fine tunic of his, the same one she had clutched to while curled against Evandar’s cold side on the funeral dias. Her fingers scrunched in it once more, clinging to the comfort she so desperately needed but still couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

“Da, I’m sorry. I think I got hurt and– I’m– I’m lost, and I can’t– I don’t–” She pressed harder against him, shivering as a wave of cold swept from the tethers to her body. Even though she wasn’t dwarfed by the elven king’s height as many others were, having him here suddenly made her feel very small again. 

Arya forced her voice into a whisper, struggling to keep the emotions in check where they raged, confused and whipping around like untamed cables snapped in a gale, just below their feet. “Da, I think I’m dying again and I don’t know what’s happening. My friends...they're in danger. I need to get back.”

Evandar hummed, gently rocking his daughter in his arms and rubbing soothing circles between her shoulders. “It’s alright, kiddo. You got hurt. Your friends are going to put you right, okay?” He pulled back and gently tucked wild fringes away from Arya’s face, remembering with a pang that his own hair had the same messy habit when he was far younger. She looked so scared in that moment, unable to fully comprehend the jumbled memories and flashes that her rattled mind was trying to feed her in heavy drips and drops. He could catch snippets, saw them from the outside, understood the general path that had led her here. “Don’t worry, now. Your friends are safe, they’re making sure you’re going to make it through.”

Arya was shivering. “...You promise? They’re safe?” Her grip on his shoulders felt weaker than before, and Evandar eased them both to sit on the cot. His child did not protest when he tugged her legs over his and tucked her head to his chest, cradling her close as he had all those decades ago.

“I promise, Stringbean.” He wrapped her in his arms and cursed his lack of warmth, pressed apologetic lips to the side of her head. “King’s promise. Your friends are safe. You can recuperate here. I won’t leave you.”

The young elf sniffed once. Grasped the folds of his tunic in her hand again. Still heard and felt no heart beating in his chest. Took comfort only in this memory, this...thing that still defied explanation ever since she remembered him after waking in Tronjheim. Since she asked her mother of the letters, since she asked Blagden of his prophecy.

She nuzzled closer to her father’s chest and decided that once again…once again, she could take a moment in the fevered mania and blood loss addled Dream State to simply…believe in it. For just a moment.

“Okay.”

They sat like that for what could have been five seconds or five days, Evandar’s soft crooning of the cradle song he wrote for her drifting through her mind.

Then:

“Mum said if you ever showed up again to tell you you’re a bastard for leaving when you knew you would die. And that she loves you very much.” Arya paused. “Blagden had some bullshit to say too, but I ignored him. He was being a prick.”

Evandar just laughed, and held his daughter closer.