#River Tamar

[ltwilliammowett]

The River Tamar, by Henry Thomas Dawson (1841–1918)

[vox-anglosphere]

Early spring in Cotehele, one of England's largest working estates.

[jelly-o630]

Listening to musical theatre is all fun and games until you find a musical that you’re pretty sure all of eight people have listened to and the only social media presence you can find for it is the creators themselves and the same 10 promotional images that every reviewer has and the only way you can talk about it is to trick (force) your friends and family to listen it to it

[apricusapollo]

reading the absolute shitshow that was happening in Europe during middle ages is the worst thing i have ever experienced

[jeanhm]

[ellewritesalright]

Nine Long Years - Part 3

Nikolai Lantsov x Rietveld!reader, Kaz Brekker x sister!Rietveld!reader (platonic)

Part 2 --- Masterlist --- Part 4

Synopsis: After watching your brothers die, you found yourself working on the Volkvolny. In the many years since then, you somehow became the queen of Ravka while your brother somehow survived firepox and life in the Barrel, rising through its ranks. In disguise during a diplomatic trip with your husband Nikolai, you meet Kaz Brekker for what you think is the first time, only to find out that he is your long-thought-dead little brother.

Author's Note: Hello and welcome to one of the saddest things I've ever written. The next part will be a little lighter I promise. Also the next part will not be the last, this story might go one for another like three or four parts lmao.

Warnings: Death, Lots Of Angst, mentions of vomiting, panic attacks, firepox and illness, mentions of the Hertzoon con.

Word Count: 6,000

..........

FOURTH YEAR

"You're lost, and I'm the one who will pay for it!" 

"I am not lost. We're in the woods of West Ravka," Sturmhond said plainly.

"Oh, really?" You exclaimed, wanting nothing more than to smack him upside the head. "I didn't know that, Captain. And here I thought we were in the Wandering Isle!"

He ignored your sarcasm, forging ahead. You followed like an idiot with nothing better to do. No, only one of you was an idiot, and it wasn't you, the person who'd said to steer clear of those Drüskelle for Tolya and Tamar's sake. Your captain was very much the idiot, and now you were separated from the twins and wandering in what felt like an entirely aimless manner.

You had objected to the trip from the very start. Sturmhond wanted to go to Ravka to expand his communication network--for what reason, you did not know. He seemed to already know everything that happened in the Grand Palace even when he was thousands of miles away; surely there was a line of communication to his family, if that's what he was worried about.

But no, he insisted that he needed informants from all over Ravka, not only Os Alta. So he decided to rope you, Tolya, and Tamar into a little "business trip" as he put it. You didn't want to go, but he made it seem vital that you be there as his trusted second in command. Part of you only agreed because you wanted to see more of Ravka than just its ports; you had a fascination with the country. The interest stemmed from your time with Old Lady Trokowsky and the stories she told of her homeland. She made the vast country sound beautiful with its rivers and mountains and forests and tundra; you had only ever known the field and the city between your youth at your family's farm and the bustle of Ketterdam.

Still–despite your excitement at seeing Ravka–the fact that he dragged you out here only to get you lost and split up from the twins made you want to wring his neck.

"Fucking scoundrel," you muttered to yourself in your native tongue.

"You swear like a sailor," Sturmhond said in Kerch, slipping into the language with the refined lilt of a well-tutored prince. His words made your blood boil, and you sent him a glare. Honestly, it was like he made it his job to irritate you.

"I am a sailor."

He dared to laugh. "An apt assessment."

The two of you traveled until the woods gave way to a field of overgrown grass and miserable-looking crops. You stopped at a barn that looked like it might collapse at any moment as you looked past the field at the main house. It looked just as decrepit as the barn.

"You stay here, I'll check out the house," he said.

"Like hell I'm staying here," you argued, starting off towards the house.

Sturmhond muttered something snippy beneath his breath, and you glared at him over your shoulder. Despite his muttering, he still followed you.

You took the main floor as Sturmhond took the upstairs. There was nothing useful to you inside, but through the front window you spotted a well. You went outside and drank and splashed your face with the water before Sturmhond emerged with some blankets and a few dry matches.

"The place is pretty picked over," he said after taking a turn drinking the water. "But it looked like someone might have been squatting there recently, so I'd rather not run into them if they come back." 

You gave him a sour look which he easily deflected. "You want us to stay in the barn, don't you?"

He made no apology or a sheepish look of any sort, though he really should have. This was all his fault.

You shook your head and went back to the field. The crops were mostly unsalvageable, but once you searched the grass you found some gourds that had managed to survive without care. You cut them from their stems and brought them to the barn where Sturmhond had travelled off to.

He was setting the blankets over two beds of hay. You sighed at the sleeping arrangement. You were so used to your cabin on the Volkvolny now, and you dearly missed your real bed.

"I haven't been camped out like this since my army days," he said. "The nostalgia is almost nice."

The last time you'd slept without a real roof over your head was when you were on the streets of the Barrel, and you had no desire to reminisce on those days. You started building a fire with some scraps of wood Sturmhond must have gathered.

"Do you miss the army?" You asked him this question to keep your mind off the cold cobbles of Ketterdam.

"Sometimes. My family was proud of me then," he confessed. "They liked that their son was fighting for his country, but they liked it even more because I was good at it. My mother would brag to the court about how her son was the youngest Major in the First Army."

He sat beside the fire you started. 

"What about you? Does this barn remind you of your home?"

You pursed your lips. "Our barn wasn't quite as big." 

He nodded, letting the topic lapse as he knew you wouldn't divulge more information.

It was completely silent–save for the crickets��as you ate. The sun slowly set in an orange haze, and you had to admit the view was pretty. But once it was gone the air turned cold, a tell-tale of a long and miserable night.

……….

You shivered awake. The cold was something you hadn't borne since the nights you and your brothers spent on the streets of the Barrel. It leeched through your veins like the freezing northern waters of the True Sea. You were too numb to move your body, and you could only rub your arms to keep warm. Then you heard Sturmhond speak.

"We're going to freeze to death out here," he said, his teeth chattering.

"An apt assessment," you responded.

"I shouldn't have made our beds so far from each other."

"I'm not moving them now. I think my legs are frozen through."

You heard him get up, and in the next moment he was standing beside your bed, his blanket around him. Your eyebrows scrunched together as he nudged you.

You snapped at him, “What?”

“Move over,” he said, nudging you again.

“You’re not sleeping beside me on this shitty little bed.”

“I made that shitty little bed, thank you very much, and it’s either I sleep beside you or we both spend a night in frozen agony on separate beds and get killed on our travels tomorrow because we're too exhausted to think properly." He nudged you once more. “Now, move over.”

With a frown, you rolled onto your side, making space for Sturmhond to lay down beside you. He pulled his blanket over the two of you and huddled closer to you. His hand was shaking as he slowly brought his arm around you. When you didn't elbow him in the ribs he slunk closer to you.

He gave you some warmth as he rested against you, but he was still shivering and it made sleeping beside him more than a little uncomfortable. So with extreme hesitancy, you grabbed his shaky hand in yours and drew it close to your chest. He stilled for a second, but then you felt him chuckle, his arms softening. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as the cold in your veins ebbed.

“Not so bad, now is it?” He said lowly, his voice close to your ear.

“Shut up, you twat.”

……….

In the morning, neither of you spoke about the night before, though you could tell Sturmhond wanted to. He kept staring at you and then looking away when you caught him.

You woke up with your face in his chest and your hands gripping his shirt for dear life. He was still asleep, and you thanked the saints that you were spared the humiliation of being caught in that position. You slipped away from your bed before he awoke and went to find food. The whole morning was spent dancing around the sleeping arrangements of the prior night.

You had no idea how you'd survive the rest of this unexpected journey.

After you ate, the pair of you packed up your things and took to a road off of the farm. It was a long and lonely walk, but after forty minutes you reached a village.

Sturmhond posted a letter to an address in Novokribirsk, a contact in the network that he had been building before your untimely encounter with Drüskelle. The contact would reach Tolya and Tamar and the four of you would be reunited soon enough, or so Sturmhond assured you. But, for now, you were to lay low in the village. 

There was the issue of where you would stay, but Sturmhond left you in a pub to order food and said he would sort it out. When he returned the first thing he did was grab your hand. You narrowed your eyes at him as he slipped a ring on your finger and pressed his lips to your knuckles. You had half a mind to punch him with your new ring, but you held off because of the people around you. There was no need to attract attention, especially when you were supposed to be laying low.

"Hello, my dear," he said, sitting down. "You should be more excited that I found your misplaced wedding ring, you know."

"I'm over the moon," you told him, rubbing a thumb over the flat gold band. Sturmhond had worn it since the first day you met him, but it fit you surprisingly well for a hand-me-down.

He hummed in response, picking up his knife and fork. You followed suit, suspicious and slightly confused, but too hungry to bother. 

On the walk through the village, he held your hand and explained to you that he told the innkeeper he was spending a few days in town with his wife.

"He seemed the old-fashioned type so I thought he might start asking questions about the two young people sharing a room." He gave your hand a squeeze. "This was easier."

"Alright, but why did you have to kiss my hand in the pub and why insist on holding hands now?" 

He flashed you a smile, his green eyes crinkling a bit. "We'll be stuck here for who knows how long; we have to keep up appearances."

You weren't thrilled about this, but you nodded to yourself. "Fine. What are we to be called?"

"Pytor and Ilse Ivanov. I gave you a Kerch name to explain away your accent."

"And here I thought my Ravkan accent was perfect."

"It's passable at best."

"Now you tell me."

When you arrived at the inn, you learned that Sturmhond was right about the innkeeper. The man had a razor-sharp stare on your hand, eager to spot a ring. Only then did he give you a polite nod. 

When you got to your room you weren't surprised to find a double bed instead of two singles, yet the sight of it still made you frown. You didn't want a repeat of last night in the barn and the embarrassment that came along with it.

"One bed," you commented.

"It's more cost-effective." He took off his drab coat; brown was an odd colour for him. "Plus, I thought you wouldn't mind seeing as we've slept together before."

He phrased it like that just to see you squirm, you were sure of it, but instead of giving him a reaction, you walked into the bathroom where you promptly began muttering swears at him in Kerch; he would still understand them, and you would still be giving him some kind of reaction, but you were too tired to bottle it up completely. 

You were glad to scrub off your travels with a warm bath. While you were at the pub, Sturmhond booked this room and went to a nearby shop to pick out an outfit for the both of you, so you were able to change into something clean, thank the saints. Once finished, you sat in a chair by the window as Sturmhond took your place in the bathroom. You started reading a slim book he also purchased. 

He'd spoken of cost-efficiency, and yet here he was making unnecessary purchases.

When he came out of the bathroom he looked rather put-together. The sight wasn't what you were used to from him. He was usually a rugged scoundrel, but right now he looked almost respectable with his face clean and his hair slicked back from the water. It wasn't a bad change, especially not when the ties at the top of his shirt were open and you could see droplets trailing his chest.

What was it about him with his shirt undone that sought to poison your mind? You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck as best as you could and returned your attention to the book. 

He was your captain–your employer–and you would not get more involved with him than you already were. A freezing night spent in each other's arms was one thing, but actually pining over him was something else entirely. 

And then there was the issue of his feelings toward you. You knew he liked you as more than a captain liked their second--he had practically told you that night in the Ketterdam harbours--but you couldn't encourage his crush. It wouldn't be right to lead him on when you did not intend to be with him.

"What are you doing?" He asked, leaning against the bed post.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I mean, how are you--a lovely sailor from Kerch--reading a book in Old Ravkan?"

You turned your page. "Because I know Old Ravkan."

He chuckled to himself, laying down on the bed. "Never a real answer with you, is it?" Once he was settled against the pillows he spoke, "Read to me."

"Was that a request or an order?"

"That book is the entirety of our entertainment budget and I'm frightfully bored just sitting here with nothing to do, so read it to me, please."

You rolled your eyes and flipped back to the beginning, reading it aloud this time. He listened peacefully, staring at the ceiling as he laid back. After a while, you peered over and his eyes were shut, so you closed the book and climbed into your side of the bed.

"Why'd you stop?" He asked, definitely not asleep. 

"It's late and that book isn't very long. We have to pace ourselves since we're stuck here until further notice."

"It should only be a few days, a week at the most."

"Still," you said, "it'll be done and we'll be bored out of our minds."

"It's nice being read to." He turned on his side to face you. "It didn't happen much in my childhood; the nanny said I was too impatient to sit still and listen, though I suspect she just didn't want to read through the boring histories that collected dust on the shelf. But besides that, your voice is pleasant to listen to."

"I used to read to one of our neighbours. She was Ravkan."

"And I presume she's the reason you know Old Ravkan," he speculated, a light smile tracing his lips.

"Wouldn't you like to know," you teased.

"That's the thing," he said, his hand reaching for yours. "I'd like to know everything about you."

The sincerity in his eyes had you at a loss, and you pulled your hand away. Facing the wall, you murmured goodnight and turned out your lantern.

……….

You started your second day in the village with arms around you. Sturmhond couldn't keep to himself when he slept, and he was leaning the entirety of his weight into your side as you lay there on your back. Your head was tilted towards him when you opened your eyes, and you could see the top of his head from this position. His red roots were no longer red, a blond colour bleeding into his hair.

It seemed strange to you that his real hair colour was blond, but you supposed it wouldn't not suit him; he seemed like he could sport any look. 

A part of you was interested to see his real face and hair. Though it might pose problems if the people in the village caught on to his changing appearance. Worse still, they could recognize him as prince Nikolai and ransom him or commit some other terrible act. You were stuck in West Ravka, after all, and there was not as much support for the royal family to be found on this side of the fold.

When he woke up he didn't immediately remove himself from you. He slowly looked up at you, meeting your waiting stare.

"I'm surprised you didn't push me away," he said, a smirk encroaching on his features.

"My arm is numb from being trapped by you, how could I ever manage to push you away?" You asked. He still hadn't shifted, but you moved the conversation along anyways. "There's an issue with your hair."

"I've only just woken up," he grumbled. "You should see your hair."

You glared at him. "That's not what I meant, idiot. You're going blond."

That got him up. He hurried to the mirror in the corner of the room and peered at his hair. "Tolya re-tailors my hair and face every week. I'll probably be back to myself by the time we see him again."

"Will people here recognize you if you look like yourself?" you asked, rubbing the feeling back into your arm.

"They might." 

"Then maybe you should stay inside. I can bring you meals and--"

"I can't stay inside," he complained. "I'll go crazy being pent up in here."

"What other choice is there?"

He pursed his lips. "You could get me a hat. And a scarf for my face. Maybe some glasses for when my eyes change."

"We'll be spending too much money."

"How about we stay here one more night so we can hear back from Tolya and Tamar then move on to another village tomorrow?" He sat down beside you on the bed, reaching for your hand again. What was it with him and holding your hand?

"How many nights did you pay the innkeeper for?"

"Two."

You gave him a look. "You knew we would be leaving."

"Preposterous." He waved you off with a smile. "It's nothing but a happy coincidence, my dear."

You stood and went into the bathroom. His antics were getting on your nerves.

He called after you, "I wasn't joking about that hat, though. By tomorrow I'll be blond again."

..........

FIRST YEAR

Sleeping on the streets was less than ideal, but it was the only way you could stay with your brothers.

Working reception at the Exchange barely afforded you lodgings with one bed, and the houses you had looked at were strict with their tenants. Lodging houses were either split in gender, meaning your brothers wouldn't be allowed to join you, or they had a ratio rule of beds to people so renting for three was impossible. You were saving your money for a sufficient room for your family, and the Kruge that would help you do so felt heavy in your pockets.

After the Hertzoon scheme that Jordie talked you into fell through you insisted that you should be the one responsible for what little money the Rietvelds had left. Jordie couldn't argue much, and the money he and Kaz scrounged in odd jobs always went straight to you. 

Tonight as you shivered on a bridge, staring at the Barrel flash and hoping for one moment of rest, you felt particularly run-down. You had to look presentable and clean for your office job, yet it was easier said than done when you were living on the streets. You knew a woman from work who was kind enough to let you get ready at her house every morning, but she was not kind enough to do more than that. She had once offered you a room in her home, but when you asked if your brothers could come with you she shook her head. 

"Not enough space for rambunctious boys," she'd said.

"But they're not like that," you defended. "They behave very well."

"Look, I can take you alone or I can't take you at all."

In the end, you chose to stay with your brothers. They needed you, and you wouldn't leave them. You couldn't.

Kaz was slumped over in your lap, and even Jordie was leaning against your arm. The elder of the two wasn't asleep, but he had lost enough pride that he was no longer too good to cuddle up to his big sister. He would pass into a realm of bad dreams soon enough, though, and it would only be you staring at the gaudy lights.

It was the early morning, and in a few hours you would make your way to the more respectable neighbourhoods and enter through a backdoor so that none of the neighbours saw a Barrel rat coming into your associate's house. You would emerge respectable-looking, walk to the Exchange and scribe letters and brew coffee all day, then you would meet your brothers at the abandoned coffeehouse and try to find a safe place to sleep for the night.

It was the same as it always was, and you left as the sun started rising, shifting Kaz into Jordie's arms. They would try to find work during the day, but you imagined all they would find was trouble. It was the Barrel, after all, and there was no place there for little boys with decent hearts.

When you met up with them the sun was setting. There was the issue of dinner, and you shared something unfulfilling from a street vendor. You took the smallest portion because you always did. They fed you lunch at your work, but you never knew what your brothers might have had during the day. Every morning you left them enough money for one meal shared but it was hard to say what they could have gotten.

Kaz was against your side as soon as he saw you, and he barely separated himself once you were eating your dinner. He sat next to you, packing food into his mouth like a squirrel about to hole up for winter; you had to remind him to slow down. 

Jordie didn't have that issue tonight. He ate with small bites, as though the taste of it was abhorrent. It wasn't particularly bad, and saints knew you all had eaten worse from the street vendors of the Barrel, so you looked your brother over with wary eyes. When you pressed your hand to his forehead and he barely swatted at you, you knew something was amiss. He was burning up, and in the dim light you could see a patch of inflamed skin on his neck.

Firepox.

You had contracted it as an infant and survived, meaning you would be immune to it now, but Kaz and Jordie had never been exposed to the detrimental disease. You tried to contain your panic as you watched Jordie's eyes gloss over.

He was sick, and there was only so much you would be able to do for him. When you were sick with it, your parents had paid an arm and a leg for a Grisha Healer to keep you alive, but it cost them for many years. Now your remaining family was impoverished and without so much as a roof over your heads, and there was no way you would be able to pay for a Healer or university medik. 

You just prayed that Kaz wasn't infected yet, but it was unlikely he would be unscathed. They spent every day together. You let Kaz sleep in his brother's arms, for saint’s sake. There was no way that if Jordie was sick then Kaz wouldn't soon be sick as well.

"I can't finish this," Jordie said, pushing his portion away from himself. "It hurts my throat."

You scooped up his food before your littlest brother could reach for it, mixing it in with yours. Kaz frowned but said nothing as you kept eating.

You couldn't sleep at all that night. Tucked away in a narrow alcove, you kept Kaz on one side and Jordie on the other. He was coughing, a raspy noise that only got worse as the night went on. It was keeping him up, too, even though he needed the sleep if he was to recover. Kaz was safe in your arms, with no symptoms popping up yet but plenty of time for them to make an appearance. 

"It's firepox, isn't it?" Jordie wheezed as a gondel of masked revellers passed. 

"It is," you said, grabbing his hand. "But don't worry, we'll figure something out."

You had no idea what you could do for your brother but your reassurance was enough at that moment, and when you left the boys in the early morning they were both asleep, propped against opposite sides of the alcove.

When you saw them again at the end of the next day, Kaz was sluggish and Jordie was still glossy-eyed. They sat on the ground in front of the coffeehouse, skin burning up. You brought them dinner, but neither of them ate much. For once, you had a full belly, but you felt so sick with worry that you could have emptied it into the canals. 

You slept in the cover of a wall of wooden crates for the rest of the week, and you didn't bother trying to keep your brothers apart. As much as it pained you to think about it, there wasn't much hope for them to survive. You figured if they were going to die they might as well die in familiar arms. You couldn’t give them much, but you could at least give them the comfort of each other.

From then on your family stayed beside the piled-up crates your brothers had named the Nest. You would finish work every day and hurry to them, checking on their worsening conditions before finding dinner and forcing them to eat.

Kaz still attached himself to you like a leech, but his arms were weaker now and when he coughed you could feel his little body shake from head to toe. Jordie had abandoned all his pride and allowed himself the comfort of your arms in his last days. He seemed to know better than Kaz that you wouldn't be able to do anything more for them besides bringing hot chocolate and reciting old bedtime stories. One day you bought a vial of pain relief made by an alkemi, slipped it in their hot chocolates and prayed that it would do something to help them, but it only numbed some of their pain.

The fever did not wane and the cough did not subside. They were still terribly sick, and it was your fault. You hadn't kept them safe like Da had told you to. And now you would lose your brothers in a matter of days, maybe even hours; they were completely pale and clammy, and they both could hardly stay awake.

Every time you approached them after work or when you were bringing them food you had to brace yourself for the fact that they could be dead. And yet, all the preparation in the world couldn’t have made the sight of it any less terrifying.

It was only a week after Jordie had initially fallen ill; you were coming back from the university where you unsuccessfully begged a medik for aid. There was dread in your step, and you had taken to speaking to any saint who might be listening to protect your brothers. Your family wasn’t raised religious, yet you recited every blessing and prayer Old Lady Trokowsky had uttered in front of you. They were made in vain, though, you realized as you finally saw their lifeless bodies. A sob struck you and you fell to your knees, trying to rouse them awake, trying to bring them back to life, but it was no use.

They were dead. 

Though they were limp in your arms, you couldn’t help but hold your brothers. You should have been there when they passed, should have kissed their sweaty foreheads and whispered that it would be alright. But you weren’t there.

You added this to the long list of things you would never forgive yourself for; it would be right at the top. 

You huddled close to them for a long time, breathing in grime and sweat and the residual filth of the Barrel; it was the smell of death.

When the body men came through you had trouble parting with your only family, but after a bit of coaxing, you let go of them. No matter how badly you wanted to look away, to focus on anything besides their limp bodies, you forced yourself to watch them be rolled onto the sickboat. They deserved your attention at that moment, even if it pained you to see them rowed away. 

Then–hours after they were gone and you felt strong enough to move–you wandered up the streets, stopping only to vomit into the canal every so often. It was pitch dark by the time you reached the abandoned fifth harbour, and you were only dry-heaving. You sat there and stared at the boats. Your vision was blurry, your tears had not dried, but that didn’t matter. There was no one to remain strong for, so for the first time in forever, you were allowed to fall apart.

..........

FOURTH YEAR

Trembling awake, you sucked in a halting breath. You could see the dull blue wallpaper on the walls. You weren’t in Ketterdam, you weren't huddled against some crates in the streets of the Barrel; you were in a cheap little inn settled in a small town just outside of Novokribirsk.

A hand met your shoulder, and you turned to see Sturmhond's worried eyes in the dark. Without a second thought, you clambered into his arms, welcoming the comfort of his embrace. He smelled of soap and pine, and you were able to shake the scent of death from your head. You couldn't get the image of them being nudged onto the sickboat out of your mind though. How they rolled along the cobbles at the prodding of the bodymen's hooks.

Another shudder went through you and you squeezed Sturmhond tighter. He was sitting up, so you were practically in his lap, but you couldn't care less at that moment.

As always, you were completely unprepared for the nightmare recount of your brothers' deaths. It happened every so often, and you would normally cry alone and wait until morning for things to get better, but this time someone was willing to help you through it.

He leaned his cheek against your head, whispering to you that it would be okay.

"I'm here," he kept repeating. "I'm here."

He held you as your breathing slowly levelled out and you opened your teary eyes. He rubbed circles into your back and swayed back and forth in gentle motions.

It had been so long since you were held this way. Even when you had a living family it was usually you who was doing the cradling, whether that be Kaz on a stormy night, or Jordie when you were kids and he'd broken his arm. Or when they died, you thought with a near-retch.

You swallowed the bile in your throat and forced yourself not to think of that. Focusing instead on the lull of Sturmhond's heartbeat, you were able to distract yourself. It was more than unprofessional to be in his arms like this, yet you didn’t want to be anywhere else. He felt so warm, and after the bitter chill of your memories, you could do with some of that warmth. 

……….

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you must have because suddenly it was morning and you were still lying in Sturmhond's arms. He had barely moved, simply settling the two of you down against the pillows. His shirt was soft against your face, and you pinched the fabric between your fingers, tethering yourself to the world around you through the white linen. Despite how small they were, your movements woke him, and his grip tightened around you for a second then relaxed again. He was a light sleeper.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his cheek resting against your head as it had in the night.

You should have slipped out of his arms and asserted that it was wrong to be so close to each other for the sake of your working relationship, but your position on the matter hadn’t changed since last night when you hurriedly sought his arms.

Maybe it was a defect of being away from the ship for too long, but you simply didn't care anymore about your working relationship. It was a crazy notion–a notion that made so little sense to you yet somehow made more sense than breathing. Suddenly it didn't matter if things would become awkward or stilted between the two of you; he was cozy and warm, and for the first time in so long you were completely comfortable.

Sturmhond shifted, moving down the mattress so that he could be at eye level with you. He studied your face like a book, reading every line with careful consideration. You thought you might collapse under the weight of his stare, but you held steady. When he finally spoke his voice was low and calm.

“Can I ask you about last night?” He inquired.

Dropping your eyes, you let out a breath. You knew there was an explanation to be had, but you weren’t sure you could give it. For so long you had hidden your past, and now it was jumping out at you. 

“I only want to help you,” he said, closing a hand around yours. “You were thrashing and kept repeating ‘don't die, don't die.’ If I'm being honest, it scared me. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

A heavy breath escaped you and you clamped your eyes shut. He wanted to know why you had woken up in the dead of the night, thrashing and sick to your stomach. He wouldn't have to pry–though you were sure he was too polite to pry anyway--because he deserved an explanation for the circumstance in which you willingly sought his arms.

And so you buried your face in his shoulder as you slowly told him everything. You outlined your move to Ketterdam with your brothers, how you had been swindled out of your money, how they’d gotten sick, and how you were powerless to help them.

It took a while, especially since you began crying halfway through. It came out in stuttered, breathy sobs, and you couldn’t look at him the entire time. His shoulder was wet with tears, and you held tight to his shirt.

"It's not your fault," he said once you had finished.

"Didn't you hear a word I said?" You rubbed your eyes. "It is my fault."

"It was an outbreak of firepox. You were in no way responsible for that."

"But I was supposed to look out for my brothers, Sturmhond." You sat up, slipping from his grip. "I should have kept them away from it!"

"You did everything you could," he insisted, leaning forward and gently setting his hand on your back. "I've read about firepox. It's not easily contained or cured. You did the best you could in a bad situation."

"It wasn't enough."

You slumped back down in resignation and he followed. After a moment you sought his arms again. He sighed and gave up trying to convince you of your innocence in the situation. For now, he just held you as he had for hours and hours. 

……….

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment if you want to read more, I really appreciate the feedback! The next part should be out in like a week. If you want to be tagged please comment on this part or send me an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

Part 4

Taglist:

@babyblue-chaos @mischiefmanaged71  @red-ace-in-space @almostjollypizza @gabby10100 @rosexdenis @tayswiftlovebot @cecebridgerton @houseoftwistedspirits @gxdsmonsters @sweet0pia-uw @starrynightsil @ell0ra-br3kk3r @knmendiola @lyria-skyfall @adharanotfound @kato-ptris @unicornfairytail @milkshake0 @inluvkai @wwwlusspace @for-writing-shit @stickyfictioninwriting @4-everm-0-re @reidwritess @fallonaurr @lollulroofl @meg-the-second-greatest  @justsomecreaturewandering @madnessinwrighting @goldenpoison @theghostofshadows @bilesxbilinskixlahey @wolfmoonmusic @nyctophiliiiiaaa @avengers-assemble123456 @catzpawn @angelhxneyy @alinasmcu @itshardtopickaname @pomagranteseeds

[the-jewel-catalogue]

Gift from Plymouth

It was a gift fit for a queen. An 18 carat gold brooch, encrusted with precious stones, was given to Her Majesty by Plymouth to mark the 400th anniversary of the defeat of the Armada.

A similar breastpin was given to Elizabeth I by Sir Francis Drake more than 400 years earlier and Plymouth councillors were keen to present Elizabeth II with something similar.

With the original now lost, John travelled to London’s Victoria and Albert Museum to study similar brooches from the time. He said: “The original doesn’t exist any more, but contemporary ones do. I based it on ones from that period but put a modern touch on it.”

He returned to his Cornwall Street studio and began work with his team, fashioning the piece from 18 carat gold, and decorated it with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. The pearls that hang from it came from the River Tamar.

And to give it a modern Plymouth feel, John incorporated two dolphins, a symbol for submariners to highlight the city’s link to the Royal Navy.

Her Majesty wore the brooch during her visit to Plymouth for the July 1988 Armada commemoration, and John was presented to her - and even invited to lunch. He said: “I had quite a chat with her. I asked her if she would wear it again, she said it was state jewellery and she would only wear it when she went to the place that gave it to her.

[mrsometimes11]

Been quiet in the community for a while, sorry about that, but I recently read a book about Cornwall, and I've come to the realisation that half the things in this series aren't Magyk, they're just Cornish.

Examples:

Petroc Trelawney - This is the name of the man who wrote the book I was reading. He's a Cornish radio host. Jenna's pet rock is named after a radio-host

The Marram Marshes - Marram is a type of sea of grass common in Cornwall. There is also a village called Marhamchurch.

Drago Mills - A play on the name Trago Mills, a chain of Cornish department stores. No wonder Lucy didn't want to get her wedding ring from there.

Wreckers - The actual term for a once common practice of scavenging from shipwrecks, which were frequent.

Literal place names (The Castle, The Port, etc.): Very common across all Brythonic languages, but non-speakers only notice it when you translate the names.

Wendron Witches - Wendron is a village in Cornwall

Tamar Ray Bell - The Apprentice of Hotep Ra is named after the River Tamar that defines the borders of Cornwall.

The Castle - geographically, it heavily resembles the town of Bude, which also features a famous castle. It even has a barge based restaurant analogous to Sally Mullin's place.

The Isles of Syren - ARE the Isles of Scilly

Merrin Meredith - Saint Merryn (ironic I know) is a village in Cornwall.

[cycas]

+ fishing line and lures and hooks left tangled in trees or along the shore, lethal to any animal that gets tangled in it.

+ fishing clubs that buy up the banks of rivers and close them off to the poor working communities that originally grew up fishing, working and using the rivers. Sometimes they will even try to close the footpaths so the community can't even see their own river, and they don't even maintain the banks.

+ fishing clubs that think they own the rivers and will yell at anyone in a kayak or a canoe daring to use them.

Can you explain why fly fishing is as bad as golfing? Never heard that before and I'm curious

They're different kinds of bad but they have the same root cause that makes me associate them with each other. Namely, they attract rich, entitled upper-class twits.

Disclaimer: I'm sure there are plenty of fine, upstanding golfers and fly fishers out there. Real salt of the earth folks that wouldn't harm a (heh) fly. This doesn't invalidate the fundamental issues that I'm going to talk about here.

You've probably heard about how golf takes perfectly good land that could be used for parks and turns them into sterile, boring, manicured lawns for rich assholes to toss their balls around.

Fly fishing... there's probably a lot you could say about sport angling as a part and why it's bad for fishes and the environment, but I'm focusing on fly fishing, and this book is largely to blame.

Published in 1895, this accumulation of dead trees was what pushed the idea that a good fishing fly should be made of exotic feathers, the more exotic the better.

And with anglers being a superstitious lot (perhaps as superstitious as professional athletes, who we all know are the most superstitious people in existence), it makes it far more likely that those with the means will shell out top dollar for feathers from rare, even extinct birds. They will buy research skins from museum collections for the sole purpose of tearing them to bits and making gaudy simulacra of insects that may bestow a higher chance of a salmon biting them.

This is what led to a guy breaking into the Tring Museum and stealing almost 300 bird skins to sell off on eBay for fishing fly materials. And it's happened elsewhere too. I know this because one of the museums I worked at had a researcher walk in to look at birds, and when they left a number of skins were gone. There are still enough people out there ready and willing to pay for those feathers that the market is there.

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Vardzia, a Medieval Cave City in Georgia (South Caucasus), c.1150-1200 CE: Vardzia was built as a fortress/monastery, and it was accessible only through hidden passageways; it contained more than 6,000 caves, 15 chapels, 25 wine cellars, an apothecary, a forge, a bakery, farming terraces, and an irrigation system

The monastic caves at Vardzia cover an area of about 500 meters. They are carved into the cliffs along the Erusheti mountains, which are located in Javakheti (a southern province near the borders between Georgia, Turkey, and Armenia).

Vardzia was originally meant to serve as a fortress, particularly in the event of a Mongol Invasion. It was protected by defensive walls, and the cave system itself was largely concealed within the mountain (though much of it is now exposed); it also contained a secret escape tunnel and several dead-end tunnels that were designed to delay/confuse enemy forces. The cave city could only be accessed through a series of hidden passageways that began near the banks of the Mtkvari River (which runs through the valley below the cave complex). Water was supplied through an irrigation system that was connected to the river, providing the inhabitants with both drinking water and agricultural irrigation, as the site contained its own terraced farmland.

The cave complex also functioned as a monastery, with a large collection of manuscripts and relics ultimately being housed at the site.

In its prime, the complex at Vardzia was inhabited by tens of thousands of residents.

Unfortunately, most of the original structures at Vardzia were destroyed by an earthquake that struck the region in 1283 CE, just a century after its construction; the earthquake sheared away the outer layer of the cliffside, exposed many of the caves, and demolished almost two-thirds of the site. The surviving structures represent only a fraction of the cave complex that once existed at Vardzia, with only about 500 caves still intact.

When the earthquake tore through the site in 1283, much of the fortress and many of its defenses were also destroyed, and Vardzia lost most of its military/defensive purposes. Still, it continued to operate as a Georgian Orthodox monastery for several hundred years after that. It narrowly escaped the Mongol Invasions of the 1290s, but it was raided by the Persians during the 16th century; the invading forces burned many of the manuscripts, relics, and other items that were stored within the cave system, leaving permanent scorch marks along the walls of the inner chambers. The site was abandoned shortly thereafter.

Medieval portrait of Queen/King Tamar: this portrait is one of the Medieval frescoes that still decorate the inner chambers of Vardzia; Tamar was the first queen regnant to rule over Georgia, meaning that she possessed the same power/authority as a king and, as a result, some Medieval sources even refer to her as "King Tamar"

Vardzia is often associated with the reign of Queen Tamar the Great, who ruled over the Kingdom of Georgia from 1184 to 1213 CE, during a particularly successful period that is often known as the "Golden Age" of Georgian history. Queen Tamar was also recognized as the Georgian King, with Medieval sources often referring to her as King Tamar. She possessed the powers of a sovereign leader/queen regnant, and was the first female monarch to be given that title in Georgia.

The initial phases of construction at Vardzia began under the command of King George III, but most of the complex was later built at the behest of his daughter, Queen Tamar, who owned several dedicated rooms at Vardzia and frequently visited the cave city. Due to her relationship with the cave complex at Vardzia, Queen Tamar is sometimes also referred to as the "Mountain Queen."

Despite the damage that the site has sustained throughout its history, many of the caves, tunnels, frescoes, and other structures have survived. The site currently functions as a monastery once more, with Georgian monks living in various chambers throughout the cave system.

I visited Vardzia back in 2011, during my first trip to Georgia. It's an incredible site, though some of the tunnels are very narrow, very dark, and very steep, which can get a bit claustrophobic.

Sources & More Info:

Atlas Obscura: Vardzia Cave Monastery

CNN: Exploring Vardzia, Georgia's Mysterious Rock-Hewed Cave City

Lonely Planet: Vardzia

Globonaut: 5 Facts about Vardzia, Georgia's Hidden Cave City

Wander Lush: Vardzia Cave Monastery (complete visitor's guide)

[ltwilliammowett]

The River Tamar, by Henry Thomas Dawson (1841–1918)

[samuel-star]

Hello there, 👋

I am Tamer Aldeeb, a dentist from Gaza.

We have suffered greatly from fear, displacement, and the destruction of our home and my clinic, and everything we literally own...

We want to save ourselves from what seems like an inevitable death.

I hope you can take a look at my campaign on the pinned post on my profile ,and help us by donating or sharing our campaign to reach the largest number of supporters.🌹🌹

Our campaign is verified by @90-ghost , @ibtisams , @el-shab-hussein , @nabulsi and @fairuzfan 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

Thanks a lot in advance ❤️❤️❤️

This fundraiser has been verified. Please go help them however you can!

Thank you for reaching out to me, Tamar.

From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free. 🇵🇸

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Everyone's Fate Is Up To The Saints, Except Hers - Tolya Yul-Bataar

Prompt: “If you wish to keep your fingers, I’d take your hands off her.”

Warnings: Canon Compliant Threat

This is really just a drabble but what can ya do.

Not proofread because "no beta we die like men"

Had anyone asked, Tolya would have made it very clear that he 'never doubted her for a moment', that 'her capability was easily beyond that of the task at hand' and he knew, given the opportunity, 'she would've likely taken it on alone'. But Sturmhond, in a brief moment of clear insight, had drawn the conclusion that Tolya would have been very little help carrying out his duties if his mind had been following someone out on the mission. Waiting, wondering and worrying were three things not very conducive with carrying out duties to their requirement. So Sturmhond sent the both of them. No one questioned him, everyone else because he is the captain, but Tamar because she held the same knowledge that Sturmhond had based his call on: her twin for all his openness and cheer, was not letting on quite how deep the river of his care flowed when it came to one particular crewmate.

The she in question, had picked up a pace while Tolya had been somewhat lost in his thoughts.

"Falling behind there sesh?" You ask, turning around with a wicked grin, continuing to walk in the direction you both were headed, but now watching Tolya instead of the path. Walking backwards was something you had gotten very good at with the years of sword training, if you lean to step back with balance enough times, learning to follow the pattern is easy. Yet now, it was certainly more to show off than for practical use.

"You're still not using that correctly," Tolya smiled, an abundance of laughter in his voice. His shadow was being cast by a far off light and the distance made the silhouette looking deceivingly small, compared to the reality. Tolya was just as tall as he was handsome, which is to say more so than anyone really hard the right to be.

"Well if you gave in and told me the word I am looking for," you tease, the sentence hung in the air, feeling unfinished and incomplete. But the years have taught Tolya that sometimes you spoke in half, and it was up to the one hearing the words to decide if it was their turn.

"I will not teach you words in Shu just so you can mock me," he means the words he is saying but his tone is far from mean.

"I'm not mocking you," you defend. "I'm attempting to describe you."

"Describe me in your own language," he pulls his graze away, hoping that maybe if he stops staring, you might start looking where you're going, but to no avail.

"So you'll read me poetry in a language I do not know, but you shall not teach it to me?"

"Not when I know your interest lies in different intent, if you wish to understand the poem I'll happily explain it-" he is suddenly silence by a quiet and quick whistle, a signal that stops him in his tracks.

You look on edge, looking around the dim lit street with such concentration and apprehension that Tolya notices how small it makes you look, the fear. He isn't used to seeing you look afraid.

"Sorry," you say pulling yourself back in, raning it back and composing yourself. "I didn't mean to interrupt you when it's about poetry."

"I don't take it personally," he says. "You know Tamar well enough."

"Exactly, I try to let you talk about it as much as possible when there is no one to tell you to stop," the comment is offhand and absentminded, you hadn't meant much by it. It was a truth, and you did not choose to shy from the truth often, but it wasn't something you had meant to declare in any kind of way. Yet the look in Tolya's eyes makes you run the words back, trying to find the secret of the universe, the strangely powerful compliment that had to be hidden in the words you'd spoken without a second thought.

"Thank you," he says, his voice so soft, it hits like whisper.

"There's no need, there are few ways to show someone how you matter to them, and this is mine," if you had to break it down, the moments before, the reasons that this moment unfolds, you could lay out each factor in pieces. The light being so low. The quietness being so rare that sound is a welcome visitor and therefore can lull into a false sense of security. Maybe even your own foolishness, having not turned around despite your previous scare. But if you were honest with yourself, truly honest, it was not your ego or your environment that betrayed you in this small moment. It was your heart. Had you not been searching for something tangible in the unspoken distance between the two of you, there was no way someone could have gotten close enough to place a blade into the small of your back before you reached for your weapon.

"I wouldn't try it," the blade is pushed closer as you move for the weapon, the voice is dark and quiet, but the accent isn't from around here, and there's a gruffness that shows the man's age.

"I am guessing you are exactly who we are looking for," you reply. Tolya reached for his own blade the moment the assailant had stepped out of the dark, he holds it tight and his eyes are fixed over your shoulder. "We aren't here for a fight."

"Tell that to your friend," the man replies.

"Tolya," you say calmly. Tolya is reasonable, Tolya is smart and above all Tolya knows better than most, much better than his twin, when there's not a need for a fight. But he doesn't look willing to backdown.

"Perhaps I might be more inclined to step down if you remove the blade from my friends back," Tolya says slowly.

A hand grips your shoulder tight, and the blade moves from your spine to your side. A much more defendable position, but a still a threat. "Better?" The man asks.

"If you wish to keep your fingers, I’d take your hands off her.”

You watch him and your heart, against your practiced calm, races in your chest and his eyes flicker to meet yours. It dawns on you why he hasn't calmed the situation, why he is defensive and not quite like his normal self. He senses your confusion, your fear and he is not used to that in you. He isn't paying attention to the man's heartbeat or his emotions because he is still fixed on you. And that realisation makes your heart jump in a way you should know better than to let it do, and Tolya feels it. "He won't repeat himself," you tell the man, and he drops the blade to his side. "We were sent to get you, alive was the preference."

"Who sent you?" The man asks.

"Sturmhond," Tolya explains, listening to his heart now, sensing the fear, the anger, the loss. "We are here to help." Tolya's expression softens, he has been in the world and really seen enough of it to know that there's danger in the most unexpecting of places, but one of the many things about him that is never unsurprising, is how he still sees the opportunity for kindness and grace amongst them.

Sturmhond stares at the two of them and is quick to dismiss Tolya, who walks out on the deck and is soon shoulder to shoulder with Tamar.

"You seem tense brother," she muses, eager to hear what had happened.

"I shouldn't have gone," he thinks aloud. Tamar frowns.

"How did you come to that ridiculous conclusion?" She asks, pulling at a piece of the bread she is eating.

"Because it was my presence that made her vulnerable," he explains. "She was scared, I've not seen her scared before."

"Are you sure it was fear, and not anxiety?" Tamar asks nonchalantly. "Besides, Everyone's fate is up to the saints, is it not?"

"Not hers," Tolya says without pausing to think. Tamar gives him a side glance and he shoves her shoulder.

"Not hers?" Tamar echoes. "Not if you can help it."

[captain-price-unofficially]

HMS Tamar (P233) River-class OPV arriving at the Pitcairn Islands, 18 January 2024

[foxounderscorecube]

Oohh the talk about ask game :)

16 and 23

That's all good!

16 - Talk about the best party you’ve ever been to.

Oh, god, I haven't been to many parties, really. You know, it's a loose use of the word "party", and it's for weird reasons, but I actually think probably prom.

Our prom was at the end of secondary school, so we were 16 (we had a dinner organised by the school followed by wandering off to the cooler of the bars in town/the singular nightclub after Sixth Form - much less fanfare). It was, of course, mostly unremarkable in its own right - a buffet, one (1) complimentary orange juice and lemonade, and dancing to pop music. Unfortunately, the memory is somewhat sullied too by the fact I snuck in my boyfriend at the time (he was homeschooled and we weren't really allowed +1s), who didn't actually do anything awful for once, but it means the Polaroids I took are liberally scribbled with permanent marker.

None of this sounds like it would constitute the best party I've ever been to, but the important thing was what it represented to me. My time in secondary school was miserable. Just awful. Prom was the end of it. Of course, I still had Sixth Form ahead of me, but even so, I cannot express the sheer joy I felt all evening because that part of my life was DONE. I wore a beautiful dress that had belonged to my grandmother in the 70s and I almost even felt okay about myself. I remember little about it because of how unremarkable it was, but the one thing that remains is the elation that I don't think I've felt since.

32 - Talk about a place you remember from your childhood.

So, I grew up on a farm. We didn't own the farm - we lived in an annexe to the farmhouse, and our landlords were the farmers. They had kids that were probably 10-15 years older than me at a guess, and I loved the family and would spend a lot of time round theirs or "helping" on the farm. I was basically free to wander about, although on my own I only really ventured in the field that was just beyond our garden.

The boundary between that field and the one beyond it was a small stream which I think (could be wrong) was a tiny part of the river Tamar. I just Googled it and it may have been, but it may also have been an unrelated stream and the Tamar was very nearby. Either way, that's where Teimahr gets his name from!

DnD characters aside, there were wire fences either side of this bit of stream as well as banks, presumably to stop cows getting stuck or whatever, leaving a long strip of land across the edge of the field more or less left alone. One time some cows had managed to get in there, surprisingly sneaky bastards as they are, but usually I could play there uninterrupted. I had a backpack shaped like a teddy that I'd pack sandwiches into and I'd go down and explore. The ground was sort of dusty there and the undergrowth varied quite a lot in density - there were some places I couldn't get to, but most of it was dirt or plants that didn't grow especially high. The stream was small and shallow enough that worst case scenario I could just splash through with my wellies. There were banks that could be a bit annoying to climb up because they were steep and relatively narrow, but there were enough trees along them that you could usually grip them to help yourself up.

I used to feel like such an explorer going down there, although I really didn't do much. I'd wander around a bit, eat my sandwiches, and probably wander slightly more. I did once find some bones down there, though: a jawbone and some vertebrae. All I could tell you is that they were from a herbivore, most likely a deer. I don't know why I didn't bring them back home, but it was a cool thing to find, anyway!

The only problem, though, was going back home. For whatever reason, about halfway up the field, was a patch that got way goopier than the rest when it was damp. Usually I was okay at avoiding it, but I got my wellies stuck in the mud more than once, the worst time finding me with one leg and both arms stuck. One leg wasn't, because I'd tried to pull out my boot and only pulled out my foot (which I subsequently dropped in the mud, ruining my tie-dye orange sock, devastatingly). I had to yell until someone (I think my mum) came to pull me out.

[aoibhinnslater04]

SOC x ACOTAR

Chapter 9: The deal’s the deal

Word count:2985

I've also started posting this on ao3

Jesper didn’t know how he was going to react when he saw Rhysand and his gang today. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night, choosing instead to go watch the sunrise on Inej’s favourite roof ledge. She had brought him here before, when it was just Jesper, Inej and Kaz, after a particularly frustrating night of Kaz refusing to tell them anything he had planned for a job, just expecting they would trust him blindly. They had, and it had worked out, but Inej and Jesper had sat up all night, discussing how to tell their boss that he could never do that again without angering him, before watching the sunrise together. 

He didn’t know when he had started seeing Inej like the sunrise, dark and hidden at times, but when she was happy she was radiant, she brightened the whole sky. He really hoped she was ok.

Kaz had known, from the moment he answered the phone, the caller ID saying ‘Inej’, that they held the upper hand over Rhysand. How, Jesper would never understand. Rhysand held their friend’s mind in his hands. She could have been killed many times, especially once he realised she had called them to beg for help. Jesper would never forget the terrified sobs from that call. If there was one thing Inej needed, it was control over her own body, especially after her years under Tante Heleen’s thumb. And it had been taken away from her in a single moment. 

But Kaz had managed to get them to agree to his choice of venue for the parley, as well as allowing Inej to go free for the simple price of agreeing to hear them out. They clearly were desperate, only asking for the dagger Inej had stolen in return. 

So tonight, Kaz, Nina, Wylan, Matthias and Jesper would go to Black Veil Island. Tamar and Tolya, who had just returned with a letter addressed to Inej from Queen Zoya, as well as their captain “Sturmhond”, would be waiting in their ship in Fifth Harbour to hear from the Crows, so if Rhysand decided to kill them or steal their minds, at least they would be aware. But they had brought something else of value also: they had brought the secrets of a technique called ‘mental shielding’, which should protect them from Rhysand.

The game was on.

~~~~~

Cassian watched his brother pace back and forth, his face like thunder and a swirl of shadows swirling around around his legs, like the darkness was trying to soothe him. Kaz Brekker held all the cards and Rhys knew it. The Crows were a bunch of kids, but they were resourceful and knew Ketterdam better than they ever could. If anyone could help get Nyx back, it was likely to be them, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Cassian was currently on ‘get Rhys to get his shit together’ duty, but if Feyre couldn’t get him to pull himself together (and honestly he didn’t want to know what she tried, cause his imagination could do a lot with what he heard from the next room- no way anyone could beat that), then no one could.

“Rhys,” he said, going for the safe option that likely wouldn’t get him thrown in the river by his balls. But Rhys did not answer.

 “Rhysie poo?” he tried, smirking a little before Rhys actually did whirl to meet his gaze. That smirk fell flat awfully fast. The fire in Rhys’s eyes… shit, Cassian thought the reason Nesta and Rhys didn’t get on was because they were too alike, and this was just more proof of his theory.

He gulped quickly before rushing on. “We need to get going. The Crows are going to be waiting, and you’ve been wallowing long enough.”

“They can wait,” Rhys responded, icily. “They won’t move against us when we have Inej.”

Cassian glanced quickly at the girl who sat calmly on the couch, ignoring them. Rhys hadn’t let her mind go yet, despite it being part of the conditions from the call with Kaz. 

“Don’t you think we should let her go first? Obviously not to go bolting off again, but so she’s aware of what’s going on? They won’t see us as potential allies if we’re keeping their friend under our control. Let’s just go in, with her free, as a gesture of good faith. We can’t afford new enemies if we already have some we don’t know anything about.”

Rhys glared at him, but there was less fire in it, as he sighed and released Inej. She blinked a couple of times, and glanced around, before her entire body stilled as she took in the two winged males before her. Cassian couldn’t be sure she was breathing, if he was being honest.

 She had the stillness of the Fae, but her eyes were human. And they were terrified. 

Rhys took a step back, his wings disappearing, before he gestured to Cassian, a silent not my monkey not my zoo, although Cassian would argue it was very much his zoo, and they were all definitely clowns. They thought this change would be so simple, and everything would be better. It’s just been getting so much harder, and not only for them, he realised, before tucking in his wings and crouching to be less imposing for poor Inej, one of the casualties in their dream. 

She stiffened slightly, but it was like she had completely given up. She wasn’t trying to run, probably because she realised Rhys could just stop her again. She was right, but it broke Cassian’s heart to realise how poorly she viewed his kind hearted brother, and honestly, all of his family. And his heart only cracked more when he realised how they had taken this teenager and broke her trust in herself completely. She wouldn’t be the same person after all this was over, and they all knew it. 

He touched her knee gently, and she flinched slightly but didn’t move. “It’s ok, Inej. We’re gonna meet with your friends now. You’re gonna be home, and Rhys will stay out of your head. Ok?”

Her voice cracked slightly when she answered, as her gaze flicked between him and Rhys. ”Why? What are they giving you in exchange for me?”

Ah, Ketterdam. A place where nothing good came without a catch, clearly. 

Cassian turned to glare at Rhys, who was looming imposingly against the back wall, and he could swear that Rhys was making the room darker on purpose, before turning back to the Wraith. “Nothing, Inej. It’s a show of good faith. We need some help, and we offered you back if they would just hear us out.”

“I’m not some collectible that you can trade back and forth. I’m a person!” she bit back, tears threatening to fall.

Cassian glanced helplessly back, but Rhys already had moved forward and crouched beside him. Inej went deathly still again, but this time he could hear how fast she was breathing. The girl was close to a panic attack before anything really had been said, and he had no idea how to help. She was hardly likely to agree to train with him in this state, right?

But Rhys was answering her now, his tone smooth and gentle, like he was trying to soothe a frightened animal. “You are, Inej. I’m sorry that this went so far. I thought Kaz had taken something from me, and I wanted to take something from him in return, and I thought you would be the most useful to me. And I was right, but I couldn’t understand how you of all people didn’t know where he was. Until you and Az went into that house. And I saw your memories from it. He’s not with your Kaz. He’s with them.”

“Who’s with them?” she whispered, her eyes not moving away from Rhys’s, like if they did, he would attack. 

“My son”, he finally responded. “They took my son.”

~~~~~

Feyre finished tying her braid, then stepped back, regarding herself in the mirror. Her face was drained of colour, and the dark rings under her eyes said plenty about her current sleep habits. Oh, what an impression she would make on the Crows. She jumped as her door swung open, Nesta striding in.

"Oh good, your hair is done. That only leaves the makeup to do."

Feyre shook her head in disbelief. "What do you mean, Nesta? I'm ready, I wasn't planning on wearing makeup."

Nesta grabbed Feyre's shoulders, holding her still as she looked her up and down, something like sympathy in her gaze. "Feyre. You look like shit. You are High Lady of the Night Court, and no matter how little that means here, it means a lot to all of us. You are a leader, and for anyone else to believe it, you need to believe it first." She sat down, patting the piece of bed beside her, before noting Feyre's hesitance, and she sighed. "You're hurting. I know. I miss him too, and we'll bring down hell until Nyx is back. But you need to keep your armour up until we get home. You can scream, and cry, and do whatever will make you feel better then, but for now? Armour up."

Nesta finished Feyre's makeup quickly, and stood up, checking her watch, before informing her they were to leave in ten minutes. She turned to leave, before hesitating. "I love you Feyre." Feyre smiled sadly at her older sister, who still struggled to say those three words aloud. But she was trying. Feyre was trying too. "I love you too."

~~~~~

Nina was wringing her hands in anticipation as the other Crows stood tense beside her. She had the Shadowsinger's blade in her belt, the only weapon other than Inej's knives, which should be returning with her, that were allowed. That being said, Jesper and Wylan had spent all morning hiding some of Wylan's bombs and Jesper's pair of guns, if things went wrong, just in case. It wasn't like the Court of Dreams didn't have their own powers to protect themselves, anyway. Better safe than sorry, after all.

There was no sign of any boat coming, but she had no doubt the Fae could come up with their own impressive entrance, if only to prove how much lesser the Crows were to them. And sure enough, with a sudden shift in the air, there came a group of tall, beautiful people who did not look of this world. Kaz didn't wait for a second before stepping forward, Saints bless him.

"Rhysand", he greeted, somehow looking down on the male who stepped forward, power rippling off of him. "I believe you have someone of mine?"

Inej crept forward from where she was hidden within the crowd, bolting across as soon as she was over an arm's length away, to where Jesper was waiting, who pulled her into a bear hug, before pulling back and looking her up and down.

"She hasn't been harmed, Jesper," came Rhysand's cold, amused voice, the darkness in it sending a chill down Nina's back. Inej shrank behind Jesper at the sound. "Of course, why would I ever think that? You only kidnapped her and kept her under your control for how long, exactly?" Jesper snapped back, his anger only seeming to amuse Rhysand further.

"You've all got mental shields up now", he observed. "How... Quaint. I could break through them without much more than a thought, but the effort is appreciated."

Nina grabbed Inej's hand, and squeezed it tight. She couldn't tell if it was Inej or herself that was trembling. They had been preparing for this meeting since Inej had called them, they had done their research and did everything they could to get their mental shields ready for his inevitable attack, but it was a lot harder to keep it up when they were standing in front of him. He had hundreds of years of experience, they had only been practising for a few days. But they weren't planning on backing down now. Inej had needed them, and this old bastard would not be the end of them yet.

The Fae lady beside him stepped forward, her hands lifted in a peaceful gesture. She was thin, and pale, and had so much pain in her eyes, but the other Fae beside her stepped back, looking at her with so much respect that this could only be their High Lady, Feyre. "We don't intend on breaking through your shields", she said, throwing a glare towards Rhysand. "I'm sure Rhys only meant that as a warning, should you face any other daemati, right, Rhys?"

Rhysand lowered his gaze sheepishly and picked at the shoulder of his dark suit. "Of course, darling." He turns to speak directly to the Crows. "My apologies. Although I would appreciate at least an attempt to keep them up when you’re all screaming ‘old bastard’ towards me. Please?”

Nina glanced uneasily around at the rest of the Crows. Apparently it’s more difficult to keep a mental shield up than they thought. Who knew?

~~~~~

Kaz kept his expression cold as he stared down Rhysand. He could feel the tension in his Crows, and he wasn’t going to let that OLD FAE BASTARD (Coincidentally, said Fae bastard winced at this exact moment) screw with them. The Fae lost every bit of leverage they had when they gave Inej back, and so Kaz would let them say their piece, as he had agreed, but if they didn’t get started soon, he would be taking his Crows and leaving.

Feyre shot a look at Rhysand, and Kaz could almost hear their silent, mental argument, before Feyre turned back towards them with a quick smile. “Thank you for agreeing to hear us out. We-”

“Don’t make that sound so civil,” Kaz interrupted. “You had taken my Wraith hostage, we only agreed to hear you out in order to get her back. Let’s not try to appear like any of us wanted this. You were desperate. Likely because whatever happened in that house left Inej with free will, the free will YOU took away from her. Now I’m guessing there’s more to it than that. Probably you wouldn’t have let her in without an escort, likely your shadowsinger -by the way Nina, he’s probably eager for his dagger back- but something happened in that house. Something which blocked your power over Inej, and probably affected your shadowsinger’s powers too. There is something in that house which you want, something you can’t get to, and you need non-Fae people who aren’t under your power to get it. So that means you have to trust us. My only question is why, in the name of all the Saints, you thought WE would be willing to help you, after everything you’ve done to us.”

Feyre’s mouth had fallen open, and Rhysand had gradually gotten paler with every word. Saints, he loved being underestimated. It made beating high-power people so much more entertaining when they didn’t see it coming. But even though he had a little smirk on his face, he raised his eyebrow in a clear challenge. Feyre coughed slightly to clear her throat, before she hurriedly continued. “We know it mightn’t be…the MOST appealing of jobs. But we can pay well, and…”

“And what makes you think we want your money?” Jesper interrupted. Usually Kaz would stop him here, but he and Jesper had talked on the way over to Black Veil Island, and both agreed that they would rather not accept the job than just roll over at the mere mention of kruge. The damage between both gangs ran too deep, and they wouldn’t make Inej work with them because of greed. “Don’t think just because you’re desperate, and sorry, and whatever, that it makes up for what you did. You took Inej-”

“And they took our son!” “And why would we care about anything to do with your family?”

“We thought YOU had taken him!”

“So taking Inej was your solution?”

“You don’t know what you would do in that situation.” “Sure we do, we’ve done it before. All we did was take Wy’s stepmother, and we gave her cookies, and let her sing, despite how shit it was, and-”

“You clearly don’t know shit about family, and what you should do for them.”

At this Kaz’s cane banged on the ground, and everyone, even the huge Fae, fell silent. He stalked forward between the groups, and turned to the Fae. “We know what we would do for our family. You TOOK part of our family, and we are here, listening to you, because of it. You started this war between us, and you came to regret it. That? It’s not our problem. As far as I’m concerned, you haven’t suffered enough,” he said, his voice as cold as ice. 

Rhysand stepped forward, his face white with rage, and Nina quickly threw her hands up, slowing his heart before he could do anything. The two Illyrians snarled and ran at her, but Matthias blocked their way with a roar of rage as they began to fight. Jesper and Wylan ran forward to grab him when he was knocked to the ground, leaving a crater in his wake. Those Batboys clearly weren’t holding back. Nina growled with anger, not loosening her grip on Rhysand as the bones of the dead began crawling towards them, and they began to move hurriedly backwards yelling at her, but before anything else could happen, Inej stepped forward, and all the Crows turned to look at her. She was shaking, and Kaz reached out towards her without thinking but she raised her voice over all the commotion. 

“Enough!” She looked at Kaz, a plea in her gaze. “Can we talk?”