#Steel Mace

[creeperthescamp]

what (or who) convinced y'all to get into tes?

i think when I was about 15 a family friend showed me skyrim since i was already into fallout, and she was showing me her dunmer assassin with her little house and her wife and I was like 'yea that looks pretty cool, i might try it out sometime'

however as soon as she mentioned there were cat people I immediately went 'OH FUCK I need this game RIGHT NOW' lmao I don't even remember if I knew anything else about the game! the existence of the khajiit was all I needed to know (and that you could be gay)

[kultofathena]

Tod Cutler – Steel Medieval Star Mace 10th -11th Century – 2 Star Version

[thesalonsisters]

steel mace training is going well. Need to re-purple the hair soon.

[bunnymajo]

Surge gives her chocolate to Amy with a nervous smile and Kit and Thristle are watching enviously while holding their own chocolate.

Thistle isn't sitting by and watching, Thistle is coming at Amy with the steel chair

Only for Thistle to be instantly shot into orbit by all three of them. Maybe he'll come back down by next Valentines

[robotsprinkles]

my guy. that's a (steel) khopesh. it's just a sword. you can get decent swords legally on the normal web for 300-3000 bucks (depending on whether you're going for a budget "it'll cut things without shattering and exploding but isn't very good" sword or "better than the best swords you could possibly get in the medieval/feudal/etc period")

also that's not how you cut with a sword (I know it's just a bad photoshop job for the thumbnail but it annoys me)

[colossrat]

Billy likes to be independent, he is a little homeless boy who fights life tooth and nail. He always needs to be strong to show society that he doesn't need, much less want, an adult in his life sending him here and there.

But he doesn't need to fight to prove himself strong when he already looks strong. Billy can't ask for help as Billy because that will bring trouble or an adult trying to dad him

But Cap? he can let himself be vulnerable as Cap, even if he doesn't need help, he can ask for it. Marvel will just be a friend in need of help and no one will treat him like a helpless child for that

So, after a good few months, if not years, of becoming friends with his league colleagues, the captain starts to show how he loves having people around him for little things.

he wants to open a jar from the kitchen. He has the strength to go head to head with Superman, but he would never miss the opportunity to ask Superman himself to do it for him. Clark always gets a little confused, because the pot isn't that tight, or tight at all, but he always helps because he sees how it brings a genuine and happy smile to his colleague.

Does he need a snack? He will ask Flash to prepare something for him, saying that the food he makes is the best and with the best flavor.

captain has a problem with magic, he is completely capable of solving it himself, but he will knock on zatanna's door to ask for advice, potions, a protection spell and even a good luck hug if he feels she wouldn't refuse

There's a new movie, he doesn't even want to see it that much, but he's going to ask Cyborg if he can make the movie show in the watchtower break room because he finds the control and streaming platforms confusing

He will ask Batman silly questions, or even prepare complex questions with Solomon's help so he can ask and listen for hours while the bat explains things to him. Not that he didn't already know the answers or couldn't find them in the rock's library of infinite knowledge. but he likes to have someone talking and explaining things to him with so much patience, teaching and even being happy to have someone to listen to his knowledge

Are they going on a water mission? He will ask Aquaman for tips on how to swim faster or more efficiently

Is he having a slower day? Why not ask the Martian Hunter to accompany him to a cat cafe? Ask what are the best sweets or brands of cookies? ask for help to bake a cake or taste the frosting, a brigadeiro

He's having problems with his communicator, better go see Red Tornado if he has tips on how to use it without confusing the private lines again, or ask if he has some free time to go for a fly through some storms. He makes hurricanes, he must like storms just like him, right?

There is a dangerous magical temple sending dangerous magical frequencies, he can destroy it alone, but he asks the hawkwoman for help to put everything down with her mace

there's a cockroach in the watchtower… better ask dr.fate for help to kill it

A LADYBUG ON THE WATCHTOWER?! Call the jl green lanterns asap so they can conjure up a green safe pot to transport her back to earth!!

Did he fall? He wasn't even hurt, but he's going to ask Diana to check if he doesn't have a bump on his head. Diana understands where her little brother's requests come from, and she never unmasks him, she just takes the opportunity to make her little brother happy without feeling bad about asking for help.

Now, a hero approaches little Billy with a piece of food? oh. he will bite off your fingers and throw the food back in your face (not really because that would be wasteful, but he would return the food and tell you to eat it yourself, that he would get food for himself on his own)

He can be feral, try to teach him a life lesson and he will teach YOU a life lesson.

His shoelaces are untied and he just stuck them inside his shoe? you leave his shoelace inside the shoe. If a hero, be it the Man Of Steel himself, bends down to tie his shoelaces, OH MY, he'll kick you in the face and scream that you're not supposed to touch his stuff

Unless that you are also a child or mr tawny, then he maybe either accept your help or gently refuse

[charlietheepicwriter7]

"Grandfather."

Ra's knew who the boy was the moment he'd snuck into the room. He'd allowed the child--more man than child now, but everyone was a child compared to him--moments to steel himself while Ra's refrained from acknowledging his presence. The boy's breath was barely audible but unsteady, and a drop of something fell to the floor.

His grandson was injured. "Danyal," he greeted and finally gazed upon him for the first time in seven years.

Danyal had grown into his father's height, yet stayed lean in regards to his musculature. His black hair had grown out of the League-regulation haircut, held back in a messy braid. He held himself as strong as he could, but kept an arm wrapped around his stomach. His shirt--standard American teenage garb, he dismissed--was spotted with blood and he could see bandages poking out from under the cloth.

With great care, Danyal knelt before the Demon Head and recited the Oath of Loyalty.

Ra's watched.

The boy's tongue, fat with English, spoke the League's variant of Arabic with the grace of a mace to the head, yet his words were clear. He took his time speaking the oath, carefully sounding out words, working hard to avoid mispronunciation. The Oath in question was the older version, from before Deathstroke's insurrection, but Danyal spoke it with a calm certainty that it would be accepted.

And without a doubt, it would be accepted.

Talia's eldest son had been born from her body instead of through science, a mistake that nearly cost her the child and damaged him upon birth. While the best doctors in the world saved his life, Danyal Al Ghul would always be weak in a fight, always prone to illness, always struggling to excel. When it became clear that the boy couldn't become the next Demon Head, Ra's sent Talia to create a replacement while arrangements were made for her first child to be taught business and science, for the betterment of the League. Danyal, very much his father's child, thrived in his intellectual pursuits while Damian grew and developed into a budding assassin.

But Danyal was more like his father than he'd ever knew. Ra's couldn't miss the signs of one of his family turning away from the League. Not the mission--Danyal had written several university level papers defending the environment by the time the boy was 10--but Ra's methods...

Ra's had a conundrum. Danyal was a dedicated conservationist; once the boy was an adult, Ra's was certain he'd take the world by storm and bring the League to new heights. But if he forced his methods onto Danyal, he could create an enemy of him, just as his father was.

Ra's gave Danyal an offer; Danyal would be allowed to leave the League and live a normal life if and only if he faked his own death in such a way that reinforced Damian's loyalty to the League of Assassins.

Danyal had been hesitant at first, but past his test with flying colors. Instigating one of the more unstable assassins into organizing a coup, cutting the insurgents off near immediately, but "dying" protecting both his younger brother and mother. It was a masterful performance. Even Talia hadn't known about the deceit.

And yet, here he was, on his knees, pledging loyalty. Danyal knew what that meant, knew what he was returning to, which morals he would be allowed to keep.

"And what do you bring with you, child of no one?" Why should the League accept the return of this child, who left once before?

Danyal met his eyes. "I bring with me, my team, who are loyal to me and me alone. I bring with me, research surrounding the Lazarus Pits, in origins and further uses for the waters." Ra's raised an eyebrow, and Danyal smirked. "I bring with me, my knowledge, nurtured within this very home and sharpened in the world outside. I bring with me, my weapons, built with my own hands. I bring with me... my body, finally healthy and whole." He brought his head down to the floor, trembling with pain. "I bring my whole self to the Demon's Head, for Him to accept or reject."

Ra's smiled. "By the shadows that guard our order and the blood that binds us, I accept this oath. From this day forward, you are an instrument of the League, a harbinger of justice, and a weapon in the hand of Ra's Al Ghul."

Danyal returned to his feet, swaying percariously. He needed immediate medical attention. Despite this, he continued, "Long live the League of Assassins. Long live Ra's Al Ghul."

And he collapsed onto the floor.

[pupsmailbox]

ROBOT ID PACK

NAMES ︰ aerobot.　agatha.　ai.　alan.　alethea.　alexia.　algernon.　alistair.　alpha.　amaryllis.　ambrose.　androbot.　androic.　andromeda.　angelica.　antenna.　arabella.　araminta.　arcade.　auto.　automaton.　axel.　axis.　badnik.　bionel.　bolt.　byte.　care.　celline.　cello.　chip.　chipique.　clank.　cloniste.　clonoid.　cobot.　codelle.　cole.　curiosity.　cy.　cyber.　cybette.　cybion.　cypher.　data.　dell.　della.　delpha.　delta.　digi.　dot.　droid.　droidess.　droidis.　dronette.　echo.　elektra.　euna.　eva.　eve.　fritz.　giga.　gizmo.　glitch.　grey.　gynoid.　helix.　holo.　holodir.　hydra.　ida.　jet.　kaput.　kinect.　krudzu.　linion.　mac.　mace.　machibella.　machina.　mal.　malware.　mation.　mech.　mecha.　mechael.　mechan．ace.　metal.　metalia.　metalish.　micro.　motherboard.　motor.　nano.　neo.　nucleus.　nyquist.　orbit.　parallel.　pip.　pixel.　prime.　primus.　proto.　quantum.　radar.　radius.　ram.　ray.　reflect.　reflectette.　robo.　robonaut.　rusty.　satellite.　scrappy.　selsyn.　sentiex.　servo.　shard.　siri.　solar.　sonar.　spark.　sparkie.　sparky.　sputnik.　steele.　sterling.　stochastic.　synchro.　synie.　synthett.　talus.　terra.　tin.　tink.　tobor.　ultramarine.　ultron.　unimate.　unit.　virus.　waldo.　zip.

PRONOUNS︰ ai/ai.　algo/algorithm.　android/android.　app/app.　auto/auto.　auto/automated.　auto/automaton.　axis/axi.　beep/boop.　bio/bionic.　bio/bioplastic.　blast/blast.　bo/bot.　bolt/bolt.　bot/bot.　buffer/buffer.　byte/byte.　cell/cell.　chaos/chaos.　chi/chip.　click/click.　clo/clone.　code/code.　coil/recoil.　command/command.　compute/computer.　core/core.　cyb/cyborg.　cyber/cyber.　data/data.　dev/device.　device/device.　dig/digital.　digi/digital.　droi/droid.　droid/droid.　e/exe.　electric/electric.　entry/entries.　exo/exoskeleton.　gear/gear.　gli/glitch.　glitch/glitch.　hack/hack.　ho/holo.　holo/holo.　hologram/hologram.　in/install.　intra/intranet.　link/link.　machi/machine.　mal/malfunction.　mal/malware.　mech/mech.　mecha/mechanical.　mechanic/mechanic.　metal/metal.　metro/metro.　motor/motor.　neo/neo.　neon/neon.　nuclear/nuclear.　propeller/propeller.　radar/radar.　retro/retro.　robo/robo.　robo/robot.　robot/robot.　rubber/rubber.　satellite/satellite.　sca/scan.　shard/shard.　shine/shiny.　signal/signal.　solar/solar.　steel/steel.　stem/stem.　swi/switch.　syn/synth.　syn/synthetic.　tech/tech.　techno/techno.　test/test.　text/text.　turing/turing.　vi/viru.　web/site.　web/web.　whirr/whirr.　wi/wifi.　wire/wire.　wired/wired.　⚙️/⚙️.　🔧/🔧.　🔩/🔩.　🛠//🛠.　🤖/🤖.

[writers-potion]

Writing Weapons (4): Clubs, Maces, Axes, Slings and Arrows

Clubs & Maces

Maces are refined versions of clubs, usually made from steel and flanged or spiked.

Perfect for smashing and plate armour and for crushing skulls.

When used on horseback, the rider uses continuous swining motion and leans to the side to hit.

Type of Fight Scene: gritty, historical fiction, smashing armour

Typical user: brawny male with broad shoulders nad bulging biceps

Mostly used in: historical fiction - Stone Age to Middle Ages

Main Action: smash, crush, bludgeon, batter

Main motion: downwards

Typical injury: crushed bones, crushed skull

Strategy for lethal fight: crush skull

Disadvantages: heavy, need to get closer to the opponent

Batle Axes

Used by a peasant or lumberjack

Special battle axes are bigger and heavier, with longer handles

A weapons for attack rather than defence, good at cleaving through armour

Can break through enemy shields and kill a charging horse.

They require intense training, so users are highly skilled elite soldiers, often aristocrats.

Types of Fight Scene: gritty, brutal, battles, attack, historical fiction, fantasy fiction, cutting through armour

Typical User: tall brawny male with broad shoulders and bulging biceps, courageous, elite soldier, Viking, Saxon

Mostly Used In: European Dark Ages to Middle Ages

Main Action: cleave, hack, chop, cut, split

Main Motion: downwards

Typical Injury: severed large limbs, split skulls, cleaved torsos

Strategy for Lethal Fight: severe the arm which holds the sword or the shield, or cleave torso from top to bottom, or cut off a lef then split the skull

Disadvantages: big and heavy

Bows and Arrows

They are weapons of mass use. Hundred of arrows are shot at the enemy to inflict as mcuh damagne as possible from a distance.

In the middle of the battle and for close combat, they're useless.

Castles were designed for the use of bows and arrows, with narrow windows called 'archer slits'. The top of the outer walls were desgined so archers could shoot while remaining under cover.

Arrows are relateively cheap and quickly to produce. Tips an be metal or sharpened stone, wood, bone, glass splinters, etc.

Pieces of feather at the end help the arrows fly better, but knowing which part of the feather to attach how and where is much -treasured knowledge.

Characters can learn the basics of archery can be done quickly at an emergency. However, to be really good it takes years of practice.

Most important skill is to be able to shoot many arrows in quick succession.

Stone Slings

Stone slings are cheap to make - it only takes a piece of leather, string and ammunition are simply pebbls lying around.

This makes it good for low-tech historical periods and for characters of all ages and physical capacities.

Doesn't require great physical strength, but a lot of practice is required to achieve accuracy.

Different cultures have different techniques for holding and releasing, none of which includes the continuous frantic whirling around beloved by moview makers. Rotatin is usually done once or twice, or not at all.

(1) the slinger hooks the end of the sling over her fingers (2) holds the hand above the shoulder so the sling's bag with the stone in it hangs down behind her shoulder. (3) flings it straight forward.

Blunders to Avoid

Depicting an axeman as an unkilled brute who chops blindly.

Battles where the archers shoot when sword fighters are already engaged in close fighting

[novaursa]

Legacy (dragonfire)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There are unspecified time jumps that go back and forth.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene)

- Previous part: of dragons and gods

- Next part: contingency

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The square before the Sept of Baelor was a sea of unease. Hundreds of citizens of King's Landing had gathered, their anxious whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves rustling in a storm. The massive steps of the Sept loomed above, flanked by the grim figures of the Faith Militant, their crude armor and spiked cudgels marking them as zealots loyal only to their cause. Opposite them, an immovable wall of crimson and gold—the Lannister men, their polished armor shining under the sun—stood ready. Beside them were the Tyrell soldiers, banners of green and gold fluttering in the breeze like delicate silk juxtaposed against the steel beneath.

The High Sparrow emerged last from the shadow of the Sept, his frail form dwarfed by the host of his followers. His hands were clasped before him in a show of humility, but the fire in his gaze betrayed his resolve. He was a man unbending, unafraid.

Before him stood Tywin Lannister, unyielding as ever, his crimson cloak flaring slightly in the breeze. At his right was Mace Tyrell, puffed with self-importance, while at his left, Lady Olenna Tyrell stood with her sharp-eyed scrutiny, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips. And you, the Targaryen bride of the Lion, stood beside Tywin with the imposing form of Viserion looming just behind you. The dragon’s golden eyes watched the square, unblinking, her massive wings tucked close to her scaled body, though her tail coiled faintly with anticipation.

The people in the crowd murmured prayers and gasped softly at the sight of the she-dragon, their gazes darting from the beast to you—silver-haired and dark-cloaked, a figure as regal as you were terrifying.

Tywin’s voice shattered the quiet, carrying across the square like a blade cutting through silk. “High Sparrow,” he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Have you come to your senses, or must I continue to demonstrate how futile your resistance is?”

The High Sparrow tilted his head, regarding Tywin with that infuriating calmness he wore like armor. “I answer to the Seven, Lord Tywin,” he replied, his voice soft but carrying. “Not to you. I am here only to speak for the gods.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. “Then let us speak plainly. Queen Margaery Tyrell is to be released immediately. She has been falsely imprisoned, humiliated for the sake of your petty zealotry. You will relinquish your hold over this city and return to the shadows where you belong.”

A murmur swept through the Faith Militant at the demand, hands tightening on weapons. Behind Tywin, Olenna’s lip curled in disdain, her cane tapping against the stone with quiet finality. “Release her, you pompous fool,” Olenna muttered loudly, though her voice carried only to those nearest her.

The High Sparrow, however, did not yield. “Your daughter is a sinner,” he said, turning his gaze to Mace Tyrell, who shifted nervously beside Tywin. “Her pride and lies brought her low. The Faith cleanses sin, my lords, and the people of this city have seen her crimes. Would you now undo the justice of the gods?”

Tywin took a step forward, the faint scrape of his boots against stone audible in the heavy silence. “Justice?” he echoed, his voice laced with icy disdain. “You call this chaos justice? You have turned this city into a breeding ground for fear and fanaticism. The gods do not command you—they are your excuse. You twist their words to suit your own power.”

The High Sparrow turned his gaze to you then, his calm eyes alight with something unreadable. “And you,” he said softly. “You stand with this man. You command a beast of flame and blood, yet you would march against the will of the gods. Do you not fear their judgment?”

The crowd hushed further, heads turning to look at you. Behind you, Viserion stirred faintly, the ground trembling as she shifted her weight, her claws scraping against the stone square. Her rumbling growl resonated through the silence, low and ominous, a reminder that she was there—waiting.

You stepped forward, your violet gaze fixed on the High Sparrow, unflinching. “The gods?” you replied, your voice clear and sharp. “The gods have no claim over me. Dragons bow to no one—not kings, not gods, and certainly not men who preach with lies on their lips.”

A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. Some gasped audibly, others began to murmur fervent prayers. Even Mace Tyrell paled, his mouth opening to object before Olenna silenced him with a sharp look.

The High Sparrow’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands still clasped but his voice turning colder. “Pride,” he murmured. “The sin that brought your ancestors low. It will bring you low as well, child of fire.”

You smirked faintly, tilting your head. “The last men who threatened me met their end in ash.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze sharpened. “And do you think you are above the wrath of the gods? I see you for what you are—an abomination. A woman who clings to power she cannot hope to control. The gods will strike you down, just as they strike down all who defy them.”

Tywin’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You overstep, Sparrow. Tread carefully.”

But the High Sparrow ignored him, his focus entirely on you as he stepped forward. “Turn back from this path, dragon-rider,” he said, his voice rising, carrying over the crowd. “Turn back, or the fires you wield will consume you—body, soul, and name. Just like your father.”

Behind you, Viserion let out a sharp hiss, her head lowering, smoke curling from her nostrils as her eyes locked onto the High Sparrow. The Faith Militant tensed, their hands gripping weapons, but they did not move. The crowd murmured in fear, shrinking back, as though sensing the rising storm.

You stepped forward again, your voice unwavering, your command absolute. “Enough.”

Viserion growled louder, her tail sweeping across the stone with a deafening scrape.

The High Sparrow stopped, his calm mask breaking for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as the beast behind you loomed closer.

“You speak of fire consuming me,” you continued, your voice low but carrying across the square. “But it is you who stands in the path of the dragon.”

The High Sparrow opened his mouth to respond, but you did not give him the chance. Your voice rang out, clear and commanding.

“Dracarys.”

Viserion responded immediately, her head snapping forward as she opened her jaws. A torrent of fire erupted from her throat, a blinding stream of gold and crimson that roared across the square. The heat struck like a physical force, searing the air as the High Sparrow’s final scream was drowned by the sound of the flames.

The Faith Militant staggered back, their faces lit with horror as the fire engulfed the High Sparrow, consuming his frail form in a heartbeat. His robes disintegrated to ash, his figure silhouetted for the barest moment before collapsing into a charred ruin.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Cries of terror filled the square as people scattered, falling over one another to escape the inferno. The Faith Militant turned, panicking, their courage broken as they dropped their weapons and fled.

Viserion roared triumphantly, the sound shaking the very stones beneath your feet as she lifted her head, smoke rising from her maw. She unfurled her wings, sending a blast of wind across the square that scattered ash and dust.

Tywin did not flinch, his green eyes watching the destruction with cold calculation. He turned to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Seize the remaining Faith Militant. Let no more harm come to the people.”

Mace Tyrell gaped, speechless, while Olenna allowed the faintest of smiles to curve her lips. “Well,” she murmured, her voice wry, “it seems negotiations are over.”

You stood tall before the flames, Viserion coiled protectively behind you, her golden eyes fixed on the city she now commanded. The people of King’s Landing would remember this day. They would remember the dragon who burned a god’s servant to ash.

And as the fires died down, Tywin stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. “The city will see order restored,” he said. “One way or another.”

You looked out over the square, your gaze unyielding. “And they will learn to fear the fire.”

Viserion’s rumble echoed in agreement, her presence a shadow over the broken remnants of the Faith. The gods had been defied, the High Sparrow silenced, and in his place stood power—raw, untamed, and absolute.

The Sept of Baelor had become a cavernous monument to silence. Its grandeur, once a symbol of the Faith’s unyielding power, now bore the weight of fire and fear. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the smell of charred stone and ash clinging to the gilded arches and stained glass windows. The Faith Militant who had dared hold the Sept were either scattered, seized, or burned. The holy place now belonged to those with strength—not faith.

Tywin Lannister strode through the great doors of the Sept, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the bloodied shadow of victory. You walked at his side, your silver hair still tousled by the wind and faint smudges of ash marking your riding leathers. Behind you, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Mace Tyrell followed, flanked by the Tyrell soldiers who had taken control of the square and now guarded every entrance to the building.

The clink of armor and echo of boots against marble filled the space as the procession moved deeper into the Sept. Candles still burned on the altars to the Seven, their light flickering uneasily as though afraid of the men and women who now strode through these sacred halls. The massive statue of the Crone—her lantern raised high—seemed to watch, its stone face impassive to the carnage that had unfolded moments before.

Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked ahead as a pair of Tyrell soldiers emerged, escorting Queen Margaery Tyrell between them. Her delicate wrists were still bound with rough cords, and her once-pristine gown hung in tatters, dirt and tears streaking the fine fabric. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from days of imprisonment. Yet her eyes—so like her grandmother’s—held a quiet fire as she looked up at the people who had come for her.

“Margaery!” Lady Olenna’s voice cracked through the silence, a mix of fury and relief. She pushed past the guards with surprising swiftness, her cane tapping against the marble as she reached for her granddaughter. “Bring her to me at once, you oafs!”

The soldiers hesitated only briefly before releasing Margaery’s arms. She stumbled slightly, the weakness in her legs betraying her, but Olenna caught her with a surprisingly steady hand, holding her upright. “There now,” Olenna murmured sharply, brushing strands of hair from Margaery’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “They didn’t break you, did they? No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.”

Margaery let out a shaky breath, her voice soft and hoarse. “Grandmother…”

“Quiet now,” Olenna said firmly, though there was no bite in her tone. “Save your strength for later. We’ll have you cleaned up and presentable before long, I promise you that.” She turned her sharp gaze to Mace, who hovered nearby, his face pale with worry. “Stop gawking like a buffoon and fetch her some water!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mace stammered, waving frantically at a nearby attendant to fulfill the request. “My sweet girl, they’ll pay for this. I swear it.”

Tywin watched the scene unfold with cool detachment, his sharp gaze lingering on Margaery for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the Sept. “You are fortunate,” he said evenly, addressing the young queen. “Were it not for the actions taken today, you might still be rotting in that cell.”

Margaery’s gaze shifted to Tywin, and despite her exhaustion, there was steel in her tone as she replied. “I would have endured.”

Olenna turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Endured? My dear, endurance is for fools and martyrs. You are neither. You are a Tyrell, and we do not endure. We survive.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly—whether in approval or amusement, it was difficult to say. He gestured to the guards nearby. “Remove her bonds.”

The Tyrell soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting the cords at Margaery’s wrists. She winced as the circulation returned to her hands, but she said nothing, merely inclining her head in gratitude as her grandmother steadied her.

You stepped forward then, your voice calm but clear. “The High Sparrow is dead. His hold over this city is broken.”

Margaery’s gaze turned to you, her expression unreadable as her tired eyes took in your form—the silver hair, the riding leathers still smudged with ash, the quiet power you exuded. “And his Faith Militant?” she asked softly.

“Scattered,” Tywin replied curtly. “Or dealt with.”

A faint tremor of relief crossed Margaery’s face, though she quickly masked it. “And the king? My husband—Tommen?”

“He is safe,” Tywin answered with authority. “He has been taken to his chambers, where he belongs. You will be reunited shortly.”

Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp eyes fixing on Tywin. “And what now, Lord Tywin? Do you intend to restore the crown to its rightful place, or will you allow another pack of zealots to take its reins?”

Tywin turned to face her fully, his expression hard as stone. “Order will be restored,” he said simply. “The Faith will not rise again.” His gaze shifted to Margaery. “You will return to your duties as queen—nothing more, nothing less.”

Margaery inclined her head faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And the people?”

“The people will learn to trust their king again,” Tywin replied coldly. “Or they will learn to fear him.”

Olenna huffed softly, though she said nothing further, merely offering her granddaughter a supportive arm as they turned to leave the hall. Mace bustled behind them, his face beaming with relief as he chattered about preparations for Margaery’s return to the Red Keep.

Tywin turned to you then, his gaze sharp and considering. “It’s done,” he said quietly, though there was no triumph in his tone—only certainty.

You glanced back at the wide doors of the Sept, where the light of day poured in like a judgment of its own. “The Faith may be broken,” you replied softly, “but this city will not soon forget what happened here.”

“They do not need to forget,” Tywin said, his voice unwavering. “They need only remember who holds power now.”

A faint growl echoed from outside, the sound unmistakable as Viserion’s shadow passed over the Sept once more. The light flickered, and the gathered soldiers below turned their faces to the sky, murmuring in awe and fear as the dragon’s presence lingered.

You turned back to Tywin, your violet eyes meeting his green ones with quiet resolve. “Fear may win you silence, but it will not win you loyalty.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Loyalty is earned in time. Fear ensures time to earn it.”

You did not argue, though a part of you wondered how long fear could hold this city together before it crumbled again. But for now, it was enough. The High Sparrow was ash, Margaery was free, and the Sept had been reclaimed.

As you followed Tywin from the halls of the Sept, the murmurs of the crowd outside grew louder. Some whispered of fire and dragons, others of a lion’s return to power. But all of them watched the sky, where Viserion circled, her presence a reminder that fire had come to King’s Landing once more.

The halls of Meereen’s Great Pyramid were quiet, save for the rustle of silks in the warm, perfumed breeze that rolled through the open windows. The sun burned high over Essos, but within the chambers of Daenerys Targaryen, a storm was brewing. Shadows of fluttering banners danced on the polished stone floor, as if the air itself held its breath.

Tyrion Lannister stood near the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand, though he had barely touched it. His sharp gaze lingered on the map of Westeros sprawled across the table’s surface—a place that, though vast and fractured, seemed far closer now than it had for years. Across from him, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood with her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her silver hair gleamed in the light, cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her violet eyes burned with intensity as they fixed on Tyrion.

“So it is true,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with an undercurrent of fury. “The High Sparrow was burned alive by dragonfire.”

Tyrion inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. “Word travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. The High Septon and much of his Faith Militant reduced to ash in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor.” He paused, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “A show of power, certainly, but one not entirely unexpected.”

“And the dragon?” Daenerys pressed, her voice rising ever so slightly.

Tyrion met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Viserion, yes. Your sister’s dragon, though it seems it has found itself in the service of my father.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her frustration evident as she turned to pace toward the window. “Viserion is no one’s servant. Dragon flew to Westeros for my sister, not for the Lannisters. Viserion is her dragon—my family’s dragon.”

Tyrion let out a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “Perhaps. But dragons do not care for banners or bloodlines. They care for their riders. And your sister… is married to my father.”

Daenerys stopped, turning sharply to face him. “And you believe that makes Viserion a Lannister asset?”

Tyrion lifted his goblet and gave her a pointed look. “Dragons, as you say, bow to no one. But perception matters, Your Grace. My father did not merely burn the Faith Militant—he made a statement. He paraded your sister’s dragon through the skies of King’s Landing, and the people saw. They now see fire, and they see a lion standing beside it.”

Daenerys stared at him, her face hard and unreadable. “So my sister stands with the lions, then? She abandoned her blood?”

“Not by choice,” Tyrion countered, his voice softer now. “Or have you forgotten why she survived Robert’s Rebellion at all?”

Daenerys’s gaze darkened, and she turned back to the window, her hands tightening against the ledge. “Is it true? What they say? That Tywin Lannister smuggled her to the North—into the hands of the Starks?”

“It is,” Tyrion replied, his tone somber. “My father may have hated Aerys, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall. He knew Robert’s wrath would burn your sister as surely as it burned the Red Keep, so he acted. The North was far, and the Starks, honorable to a fault. It was the safest place for her.”

Daenerys turned back to him, her violet eyes searching his face. “And you believe he did this out of the goodness of his heart?”

Tyrion arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Tywin Lannister does nothing out of kindness. He saved her because it was the logical choice—and perhaps because some part of him could not see her slain like the rest. But his actions saved her life. And if what we hear is true, that same life now rides at his side, dragon and all.”

The Mother of Dragons fell silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Does he love her?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion blinked, startled by the question. “Tywin Lannister is not a man given to displays of affection,” he said carefully. “But…” He hesitated, the memory of his father’s cold, calculating eyes flashing in his mind. “I think he values her more than he lets on. Perhaps even more than he understands himself.”

Daenerys frowned, her gaze distant as she absorbed his words. “And her son—my nephew?” She looked back at Tyrion. “Damon. I have heard whispers of him. What do you know?”

Tyrion set his goblet down and sighed, his tone turning more reflective. “Not much. I saw him once—briefly���before I left King’s Landing.”

Daenerys’s gaze sharpened. “When?”

Tyrion looked away for a moment, as though recalling the scene. “It was the night I escaped the Red Keep before they could execute me,” he said quietly. “I slipped into her chambers, thinking I might look at my father one last time… and perhaps find some answers.” His lips quirked faintly before his expression sobered. “But what I found was… unexpected.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did you see?”

Tyrion let out a slow breath. “She was asleep beside him—my father, I mean. I had never seen him so still, so… human. It unnerved me.” He glanced at Daenerys, his expression thoughtful. “And there, in the cradle at the foot of the bed, was the boy—Damon.”

Daenerys’s expression softened, her voice a whisper. “And what was he like?”

Tyrion smiled faintly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “A babe, as all babes are. He had silver-gold hair like hers and, when he stirred, his eyes opened—mostly violet, like yours.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “For a moment, I thought I saw my father’s shadow lean over the child. As if even then, he was preparing to make the boy his heir.”

Daenerys turned her gaze toward the window, staring out across the vast horizon where the Narrow Sea stretched toward Westeros. “My sister’s son,” she said softly. “A dragon raised among lions.”

Tyrion regarded her carefully. “He is a babe now, but the world will watch him as he grows. Tywin will see to that.”

Daenerys nodded faintly, her expression resolute as the wind brushed her silver hair across her shoulders. “Then I must watch as well.” She turned to Tyrion, her gaze unyielding. “Viserion is my family’s dragon. And Damon is blood of my blood. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can wield them for his own ends, he will learn that dragons cannot be chained.”

Tyrion tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “Let us hope, Your Grace, that your sister sees the same truth before it’s too late.”

The room fell silent again, save for the wind that whispered across the stone. In the distance, the faint cry of gulls echoed over the city of Meereen, but both Tyrion and Daenerys stood still, their thoughts stretching across the sea to Westeros—where fire had been unleashed, and the game of thrones was far from over.

The Red Keep was quiet in the aftermath of the previous day’s chaos. The air still carried a faint scent of smoke, lingering like a ghost in the hallways, though life within the castle had resumed with nervous efficiency. The servants walked in silence, their eyes darting toward the windows as though expecting the shadow of the dragon to return at any moment.

In the Tower Hand, the animosity was far less quiet. The room was cast in shades of amber as the morning light filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating the stern edges of Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat at his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes cold and watchful. Across from him stood Cersei Lannister, her back rigid with fury, the remnants of her humiliation from the past months simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, near the hearth, Jaime Lannister leaned against the mantle with his arms crossed. He said nothing, though his gaze flicked between his sister and father with growing discomfort.

The silence stretched just long enough to grate on Cersei’s already frayed nerves. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp as broken glass. “You dare reprimand me after everything you’ve done?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mind your tone, Cersei.”

“My tone?” Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light like a tarnished crown. “I held this city together while you were off parading your Targaryen wife through Westeros! Do you think I wanted to stand before the gods and the people—alone—humiliated and dragged through the streets like some common whore?”

Tywin’s gaze remained unwavering, but his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “And whose fault was that?”

Cersei’s face flushed crimson, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. “You left me. You abandoned me here to fend off enemies from all sides. You took your golden son and left for Highgarden. You sheltered a dragon under our home—under Casterly Rock!” Her voice rose with every word, edged with desperation. “And how convenient that the beast flew across the world to perch on your Targaryen bride’s shoulder!”

Tywin’s eyes flashed, and his hands flattened against the desk as he rose to his full height. “Do not presume to lecture me on matters of power, Cersei,” he said icily, his voice cutting through her anger like a blade. “While I was securing alliances and stamping out rebellion, you were inviting chaos into my city. The Faith Militant rose because of your folly. The king was placed in danger because of your arrogance. You were given stewardship of the capital, and you failed.”

Cersei faltered for a moment, her expression caught between rage and hurt. “What was I supposed to do? Sit idly while the Tyrells schemed against me? While enemies whispered in every shadow?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “Your paranoia does not excuse incompetence.”

Cersei’s fists tightened as her voice trembled with fury. “You speak of paranoia, but you weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by vipers, always waiting for the next betrayal.” She looked over her shoulder briefly, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting someone to emerge from the walls. “Sometimes, I think Tyrion lingers here still—hiding somewhere, watching, waiting. I can feel his shadow behind every door.”

Tywin’s expression remained unyielding, unimpressed by her ramblings. “Tyrion is no specter haunting your failures, Cersei. He is gone. You would do well to stop chasing phantoms and focus on the enemies standing plainly before you.”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “How fortunate for you that you can dismiss my struggles so easily. After all, you’ve built yourself a fine life, haven’t you, Father? A Targaryen bride to bear you more sons. A dragon to burn away your problems. You’ve abandoned me—us—for her, for that fire-blooded witch.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Careful, Cersei. My patience with you grows thin.”

Cersei’s breath hitched, her anger giving way to something closer to desperation as she turned toward Jaime for support. “And you? Do you have nothing to say? Nothing to defend me with?”

Jaime, who had remained silent thus far, shifted uncomfortably by the hearth. His golden hand tapped lightly against his elbow, and his expression was tight, torn between loyalty and truth. “What do you want me to say, Cersei?” he asked finally, his voice low. “That Father is wrong? That you didn’t bring this on yourself?”

Cersei’s eyes widened, betrayal flashing across her face. “You take his side?”

“I take no side,” Jaime replied quietly. “I’m just tired of all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the Red Keep beyond it. “We’ve made enemies everywhere, Cersei—more than I can count. And while you claw at shadows, Father does what he’s always done: he ensures we survive.”

Cersei’s lip trembled as her fury returned. “So you see nothing wrong with what he’s done? With her?”

Jaime’s gaze flicked to Tywin, his face unreadable. “What I see is a dragon in the sky and a city that now fears it. If that means peace, then so be it.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted back to Cersei, his voice as unyielding as ever. “You will accept the realities of our situation, Cersei. My marriage strengthens our position. The dragon ensures our dominance. I did not abandon you; I saved you. If you cannot see that, then you are blind.”

Cersei’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger now tempered with helplessness. “And what of me, then? What do I do now, Father? Stand in my chambers and pretend this city doesn’t hate me?”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, his voice steady. “You will do as you are told. You will present yourself as the dowager queen—composed, dignified. The people must see unity in this family. I will not have your petty grievances undermine what we have built.”

Cersei opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s raised hand silenced her. “Enough. You will not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to anyone else.”

Jaime pushed himself away from the hearth, his posture rigid as he moved toward the door. “Are we done here?”

Tywin inclined his head sharply. “Go. And take your sister with you.”

Jaime glanced at Cersei, but she refused to look at him, her eyes locked on the far wall. He let out a faint sigh before turning to leave. Cersei lingered for a moment longer, her face pale and taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t over, Father,” she muttered, her voice low. “It will never be over.”

Tywin did not reply. He simply watched as she turned and swept from the room, her steps echoing down the hall like fading thunder. When the door closed behind her, the room fell into silence once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth.

Tywin sat back in his chair, his hands folding over the polished wood of his desk. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, his face betraying nothing.

For all her fire, Cersei remained a child in his eyes—one who refused to see the world for what it was. He had secured the power she could not; he had given House Lannister fire and dominion. And he would not allow her pride to burn it to the ground.

The air in the solar was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers—Queen Margaery’s doing, no doubt—bouquets of bright blooms set in vases across the room to banish the memory of gloom and ash that had lingered within the castle. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the faint sounds of life returning to the city beyond.

At the center of the room, you knelt on the thick carpet, your silver hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders as you tickled Damon’s chubby feet. The babe squealed in delight, his high, toothless giggles filling the space like music. Damon was a healthy, happy boy. His silver-gold hair glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes were wide and curious as he wiggled on the blanket spread beneath him.

“Did you hear that?” you teased, grinning down at him as you gently tapped his belly. “Such a fierce laugh! A dragon’s laugh, is it not?”

Damon cooed, flailing his little arms as his tiny hands reached for your fingers. He caught one in a tight, surprisingly strong grip, tugging with determination that made you chuckle softly.

From the divan nearby, Lady Olenna Tyrell watched the scene with a critical eye, though there was unmistakable fondness in her gaze. “It’s always the little ones,” she mused, leaning on her cane. “They smile at you sweetly and steal your heart before you even notice.” Her tone turned wry. “And before long, they’re walking, talking terrors who rule over everyone.”

Queen Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her grandmother, smiled softly at the words. She looked much improved, her hair brushed to its shining glory and a rich gown of emerald silk draping gracefully over her frame. Though shadows of her imprisonment still lingered faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, the life in her eyes had returned.

“I think he’ll be a fine lord one day,” Margaery said, her voice gentle but confident. “With such a mother guiding him.”

You looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Margaery’s gaze was warm and steady as she inclined her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did—for freeing me.”

You smiled faintly, though something heavy tugged at your chest. “I only did what was right. No one deserves to be caged, least of all you.”

Olenna snorted softly, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “Spare us the modesty, dear. You set fire to a godly nuisance and knocked some sense back into the city. That’s more than most would dare.”

“Viserion set fire,” you corrected lightly, glancing toward the open window as though expecting to see the dragon’s cream-and-gold form pass by. “I merely gave the command.”

“And that’s precisely the point,” Olenna countered, her gaze sharp as ever. “The command matters. You wield fire, my dear, and that makes all the difference.”

You turned back to Damon, who had managed to grab one of his toys—a small lion carved from polished wood—and was now gnawing determinedly on its ear. His eyes shone with curiosity as he turned the toy in his small hands. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, and you allowed yourself the quiet joy of watching him.

Yet your thoughts drifted—unbidden and dark—to the vision you’d seen at the High Heart. The Wall, impossibly vast and ancient, shrouded in mist and shadow. The frozen ground beyond it crawling with death, a tide of pale, hollow faces marching under the banner of an endless night. You had seen fire battling ice, dragons against death, but even then, the outcome had been shrouded in uncertainty.

You swallowed, turning your attention back to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the laughter of your son.

“What troubles you?” Margaery’s voice broke the silence, soft and perceptive.

You looked up, forcing a smile. “Nothing that needs to trouble you now.” You hesitated, then spoke carefully, your tone quieter. “But when the time comes, will I have your support?”

Olenna raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Support for what, exactly?”

You glanced at Margaery and Olenna in turn, your gaze steady. “When Westeros is faced with something far greater than crowns, banners, and blood feuds. When the world will need fire to combat the cold.”

There was a pause, Olenna watching you closely while Margaery tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” Margaery asked carefully. “Or something else?”

“Something else,” you replied, your voice firm but vague. “I cannot yet say when or how it will come, but I’ve seen the signs. When it does, fire must stand ready.”

Olenna’s lips pursed as she considered you. For all her crude tongue, she was not a woman who dismissed warnings lightly. “I’ve lived long enough to know when someone speaks with conviction,” she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. “And you, dear, are not one for empty words.”

Margaery nodded faintly, her expression softening. “If such a time comes, you will have my support—and that of House Tyrell.”

Olenna made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her gaze belied her flippancy. “I’m too old to march anywhere, but I’ll ensure the banners are raised if you ask. Consider it a promise—one rarely given, I assure you.”

Relief warmed your chest, though you kept your composure as you inclined your head graciously. “Thank you.”

Damon let out a happy squeal, as if voicing his approval, waving his wooden lion triumphantly in the air. You laughed softly, scooping him up into your arms as he giggled against your shoulder.

Margaery’s gaze lingered on the babe, her expression wistful. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “And strong. The realm will know his name one day.”

You kissed the top of Damon’s head, the softness of his hair brushing against your lips. “He is my greatest joy,” you replied quietly, though your words carried an edge of steel. “And I will see him safe—no matter the cost.”

Olenna tapped her cane again, nodding faintly. “Then we are agreed. For now, we play the games set before us. But when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

You smiled softly, though your gaze drifted to the window, to the clear blue skies beyond. Somewhere in the distance, Viserion’s faint cry echoed—a reminder of the fire that lingered at your command.

And in your heart, you knew that fire would be needed before long. The vision of the Long Night had been no idle dream. It had been a warning. And when the cold crept southward, threatening to swallow the world, you would ensure the fire was ready to meet it.

For your son. For the realm.

And for the future yet to come.

The chamber of the Hand of the King was a place of quiet authority, its walls lined with maps, ledgers, and reports, all illuminated by the faint flicker of candlelight. The faint scent of ink, wax, and parchment lingered in the air—a mark of the constant work that defined Tywin Lannister. Here, where decisions shaped the realm, the man at its center sat, as composed and calculating as ever.

Tywin was at his desk, quill in hand, as he signed a final document with a flourish. The Lion of Lannister looked utterly imperious, clad in a dark crimson doublet adorned with gold embroidery, his presence an unshakable force. A small stack of sealed scrolls lay to one side, ready to be dispatched to lords across Westeros, while his unfurled map of the kingdom dominated the table.

You stood quietly at the far side of the room, watching him with curiosity and something softer. Tywin rarely stilled for long; his mind was always at work, and yet here he was, quietly overseeing the duties that he had reclaimed with an iron grip. Since his return to King’s Landing, the city itself seemed to be breathing easier—or perhaps, more cautiously. It was difficult to tell.

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Tywin glanced up, his sharp green eyes settling on you. “Exhaustion accomplishes nothing. Work must be done.” His voice was calm, even, but there was no mistaking the faint edge of weariness in it.

You moved toward the desk, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. “You’ve reclaimed the city, Tywin. You’ve reestablished order, stamped out the Faith, and silenced the murmurs of rebellion. Can it not wait a single evening?”

“Reestablishing order is not the same as securing it,” Tywin replied without missing a beat. He set down his quill, his gaze steady. “Loyalty must be maintained, weaknesses identified and corrected. Power is not a fleeting thing to those who understand how to wield it.”

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer until you stood at the side of his desk. “And what of you? Are you to wield power until you collapse over that desk one day?”

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Tywin’s mouth—a rare, fleeting expression. “I am not so frail as that.”

“No,” you agreed softly, your tone carrying a touch of warmth. “But even lions must rest.”

Tywin said nothing at first, watching you with that calculating gaze of his. You had long grown used to the weight of it, how he measured everyone in silence before responding. Finally, he exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do? Lounge about while the realm crumbles into complacency?”

“Lounge?” you echoed, allowing a faint smile to cross your lips as you circled the desk. “I would never dream of accusing you of such a thing, Lord Husband.”

His gaze tracked your movements as you stepped behind his chair. Resting your hands gently on his shoulders, you could feel the tension in him, the weight he carried in the stiffness of his posture. Slowly, you began to knead at the fabric of his doublet, your touch light but purposeful. “You are allowed a moment of peace,” you murmured. “The realm will not fall apart in the space of an evening.”

Tywin’s shoulders shifted beneath your touch, though he said nothing. For a long moment, the silence held between you—comfortable, familiar, though tinged with something unspoken. You moved back around to stand before him, meeting his gaze with a softness that few others ever dared to show him.

Without a word, you stepped closer, leaning down and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. It was a simple gesture, one you knew Tywin Lannister did not often receive, nor expect. You held him gently, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his doublet.

For a moment, Tywin remained still, his sharp mind likely questioning the intent of this rare show of affection. And then, almost imperceptibly, his hands moved. He brought an arm around your back, his touch steady and uncharacteristically careful, returning the gesture with a restraint born of years spent hardening himself against the world.

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment of calm. The weight of his arm settled around you, and you felt, for the first time in days, as though the fire and chaos of the world beyond these walls had quieted.

“Your father would call this foolish,” Tywin said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You smiled faintly against his chest. “My father would call most things foolish.”

Tywin let out a soft, low hum—something that might have been the barest hint of amusement. His hand lingered at your back, unmoving, as though he had forgotten to let go. “Affection rarely wins wars,” he said, though the edge in his tone had dulled.

“And yet,” you murmured, lifting your head slightly to meet his gaze, “it sustains those who fight them.”

For a long moment, Tywin regarded you, his green eyes softer now, though still sharp with thought. “You think I need sustaining?”

“I think you are human,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you, as though taking your measure once again. Finally, he shifted, his hand dropping gently from your back as he leaned away. “You are insufferably stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words.

“As are you,” you countered lightly, stepping back with a faint smile.

He let out a quiet huff of breath, straightening in his chair as he regarded the stacks of work before him. “This is what keeps us alive,” he said, gesturing to the documents, maps, and orders laid out like pieces on a game board.

“And this,” you replied softly, resting a hand over your heart, “is what keeps us whole.”

Tywin glanced up at you then, and for once, there was no retort. His gaze softened—just slightly—and though his lips did not curve into a smile, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “One evening,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “No more.”

You smiled, inclining your head in satisfaction. “That will do, Lord Husband.”

He watched you for a moment longer before turning his attention briefly back to the papers on his desk, though his movements were slower, less driven. You had seen through his armor—cracks that no one else would dare look for—and for once, he did not seem to mind.

For tonight, at least, the lion would rest.

[earthlybeam]

https://www.tumblr.com/earthlybeam/773181417454731264/could-i-request-how-glorfindel-celebrimbor-and?source=share

Please Thranduil, Gil galad and Adar version.🙏🏻

How would Thranduil, Gil-Galad, Adar react to a reader who possesses magical healing powers similar to Rapunzel in Tangled?

The you the reader’s long as (your own hair colour) but turns golden and glows when you sing a special song, releasing healing magic that can heal wounds, cure sickness, and even restore life. Their magic, known as “Healing Magic” or “Sun Magic,” is connected to the power of the sun and can even reverse aging.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The battlefield was chaos incarnate, a cacophony of screams and the relentless clash of steel against steel. The once-pristine forest now bore the scars of war—trees felled and splintered, their ancient roots charred by fire; the earth trampled and soaked in blood. Smoke hung low over the field, thick and suffocating, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh. Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, stood at the heart of the fray, a vision of deadly grace. His twin swords gleamed silver, moving with an elegance that belied their lethality. Each stroke was precise, each step deliberate, his cloak of rich green and gold billowing as he cut through the oncoming horde of orcs. He was a storm given form, the light of his kingdom’s ancient glory flickering amidst the dark tide of death.

His every movement was a dance, his swords singing as they found their mark in one foe after another. The king’s fair face was streaked with ash and blood, his long platinum hair pulled back and gleaming even in the dim, smoke-streaked light. But even he, for all his centuries of skill, could not outpace every shadow on the battlefield. It happened too quickly. A hulking orc, its monstrous figure obscured in the gloom, stepped into view behind him. Its mace—a jagged, cruel thing bristling with spikes—rose high into the air. Thranduil sensed it a moment too late, the looming presence casting a shadow that fell across him like a shroud. He turned, his blades already lifting to counter, but the swing came faster. The weapon descended with brutal force, slamming into his side.

The sound was awful: a wet, crunching thud as the spikes of the mace punctured his armor, rending both metal and flesh. The impact sent him flying, his body twisting through the air before he hit the ground with bone-jarring force. Pain exploded in his ribs, sharp and unrelenting, spreading through him like wildfire. His breath left him in a choked gasp, the coppery taste of blood rising in his throat. For a moment, the world tilted, the edges of his vision darkening as the cacophony of battle grew muffled. Thranduil’s silver and leafed crown, once a proud emblem of his majesty, was knocked from his head, tumbling into the dirt and disappearing amidst the debris of war. The blood pouring from his side stained the fine emerald and gold embroidery of his robes, the fabric now torn and clinging to his trembling frame. He lay there for a moment, his hands clutching at the earth beneath him as he fought to draw breath. The air felt thick, heavy with smoke and the weight of his wounds.

But Thranduil was no ordinary elf. Pain did not cow him; it only sharpened the fire that burned in his heart. With a groan that turned into a snarl, he forced himself onto his knees, though every movement sent searing agony through his battered body. His twin swords, once extensions of his will, now lay discarded in the dirt mere feet away. He reached for them, but his hand faltered, trembling as his strength waned. Blood dripped from his fingers, mingling with the darkened earth. His vision swam, but he refused to fall further. Raising his head, he cast his gaze upon the enemy advancing toward him. His ice-blue eyes, piercing and unyielding, burned with a fury that not even the weight of his injuries could extinguish. His face, marred by streaks of blood and ash, was a portrait of defiance—a king who would not bow, not even at the edge of death. His lips curled in a snarl, sharp and regal, a promise of retribution to all who dared cross him.

The orcs closed in, their grotesque laughter and guttural snarls filling the air as they saw the king of the Woodland Realm kneeling, vulnerable yet unbroken. His breath hitched, each intake shallow and ragged, but his eyes never left them. He would not beg. He would not surrender. He would face them as he always had—unyielding, even if the next moment would claim him. The ground beneath him was stained with his blood, but it would not claim his spirit. For even in his pain, Thranduil was a king, and his defiance was eternal.

But then, through the din of battle, a sound reached him—faint at first, like a thread of light breaking through a storm. It grew louder, clearer, cutting through the oppressive haze of pain clouding his mind. “Thranduil!” It was your voice. Desperate, raw, and filled with something that pierced deeper than any blade. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, opened just enough to see you. You were a vision amidst the chaos, a beacon of light in a world consumed by darkness.

Your hair, flowing behind you like a cascade of starlight, caught the faintest glimmers of light from the fires raging around you. You ran toward him, the edges of your robes sweeping over the blood-soaked ground, heedless of the danger that surrounded you. “No,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the chaos. The word tore from his throat, hoarse and pained. “Stay back… it’s not safe.” His chest heaved with the effort, the agony radiating from his wounds threatening to pull him back into darkness. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t falter. His warning fell on deaf ears as you reached his side, dropping to your knees with a grace that seemed incongruous amidst the destruction around you.

The sight of him—the proud Elvenking brought so low—struck you like a dagger to the heart. His once-pristine armor was battered and streaked with blood, rents in the metal exposing pale skin that now glistened with sweat and the crimson stains of his own lifeblood. His hair, always so immaculate, was matted with ash and dirt, tangled around his face. His ice-blue eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were dulled by pain, their focus flickering. And yet, even in his broken state, there was a defiant beauty to him—a majesty that the battlefield could not entirely strip away.

You bit back a sob, your hands trembling as they reached out to him. Gently, you cupped his face, your fingers brushing away streaks of dirt and blood. His skin was unnaturally cold beneath your touch, and the realization sent a jolt of fear through you. “Thranduil,” you whispered, your voice breaking with the weight of your emotions. “Hold on. I can save you.” His brows furrowed faintly at your words, his expression softening into something almost apologetic. He tried to shake his head, but the effort was weak, a mere twitch against your hand. “Futile,” he murmured, his voice rough, a shadow of the commanding tone it once held. “You cannot—”

“You can’t tell me that,” you interrupted, your voice fierce despite the tears that threatened to spill. “Don’t you dare give up on me, Thranduil.” Your fingers moved to your hair, trembling but determined, brushing through the silken strands as if seeking something. “Trust me,” you whispered, your tone laced with an urgency that left no room for doubt. For a moment, he looked at you—truly looked at you, as though seeing you for the first time. He wanted to argue, to demand that you leave him, that you save yourself and let him face whatever fate awaited him alone. But there was something in your eyes, a conviction so powerful that it stilled the words on his tongue. He exhaled shakily, his gaze softening, the fight leaving him as he closed his eyes. “Do… what you must,” he whispered, his voice so faint that it was almost lost to the cacophony of the battle raging around you. His head fell forward slightly, resting against your hand, as though surrendering to the only hope left to him—you.

You pressed a section of your hair to his wound, your hands trembling as the silky strands turned dark with his blood. The sight of it—the contrast between the glowing silver of your hair and the deep crimson staining it—was almost too much to bear, but you steeled yourself. Your heart thundered in your chest as you leaned closer, your lips parting to release a melody that seemed to rise from the very depths of your soul. The words were ancient, a song of healing passed down through countless generations, yet it felt as though they were yours alone in that moment. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine, What once was mine…”

As the melody spilled from your lips, it seemed to weave itself into the very air around you, a thread of light in the darkness. The battlefield, filled with the clamor of swords and the screams of the wounded, seemed to fade away, drowned out by the power of your voice. The air shimmered, bending to the ancient magic that laced your words. Your hair began to glow, softly at first, then brighter, golden and radiant as though a thousand stars had descended to touch the earth. The light spread from the strands touching his wound, rippling outward in waves that illuminated the battlefield in a warm, otherworldly glow. It wrapped around Thranduil like a cocoon, the edges of the light flickering and pulsing in rhythm with your song.

Thranduil gasped softly, the sound almost imperceptible beneath your melody. His breathing hitched as the warmth of your magic seeped into him, driving out the icy chill that had begun to spread through his body. He could feel it—the jagged edges of his wound knitting together, the sharp agony replaced by a gentle tingling warmth. It was unlike anything he had ever known, this power—ancient, unyielding, yet impossibly tender. It felt as though it carried not just magic, but the essence of you: your love, your hope, your determination. You continued to sing, your voice unwavering even as tears slipped down your cheeks. Each word carried a piece of your heart, the raw emotion of your plea saturating the melody. The light around him grew brighter, until it was as if the darkness of the battlefield had been banished entirely.

When your voice finally faltered, the last notes of the song lingering in the air like a soft sigh, you opened your eyes. Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away, desperate to see him. The sight before you stole your breath. Thranduil lay still for a moment, but the deathly pallor of his skin was gone, replaced by a healthy, luminous glow. His face, once twisted with pain, was now calm, his breathing steady and deep. The terrible wound that had marred his side was no longer there; in its place was smooth, unbroken skin, as if the injury had never existed.

He stirred, his body shifting slightly as a soft groan escaped his lips. Slowly, his lashes fluttered, lifting to reveal the piercing blue of his gaze—those sharp, icy eyes that you had feared you’d never see open again. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world stilled. The chaos of the battlefield, the distant cries of war, the acrid stench of smoke—all of it melted away. There was only him, alive and breathing, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart ache. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken feelings. Then, tentatively, his hand lifted. His fingers, long and elegant despite the strength they carried, brushed against your glowing hair. There was a reverence in his touch, a gentleness that seemed to belie the fierce warrior you knew him to be. His fingers lingered, tracing the silken strands that still shimmered faintly with the remnants of your magic.

“This power,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and heavy with wonder. “It is… beautiful.” His gaze softened as his fingers continued to brush through your hair. “You are beautiful.” The sincerity in his voice broke something inside you. A laugh, shaky and raw, escaped your lips, but it was edged with the sob you were desperately holding back. “You scared me,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “I thought I’d lost you.”

He exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You saved me,” he said, his tone soft but filled with a gravity that left no room for doubt. “You brought me back from the edge.” His hand moved from your hair to cover your own, where it rested against his chest. His touch was warm and steady, grounding you in a way nothing else could. “You are a light in this dark world,” he continued, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. “A gift unlike any other.” The intensity of his words stole your breath. His gaze held yours, unflinching and full of a gratitude so profound it felt almost sacred. For a moment, the battlefield felt like a distant memory. It was just the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of your magic and the bond that had grown between you—stronger now, forged in the crucible of pain and salvation.

With a quiet groan, Thranduil began to sit up, his movements slow but steady as his strength returned. You instinctively reached out to steady him, your hand brushing his arm, but he managed to rise on his own. Once upright, he turned to you, his face inches from yours, and cupped your cheek in his hand. His palm was warm against your skin, the touch as tender as it was deliberate. “I owe you my life,” he said, his voice low but resolute, the words carrying the weight of a vow. “And I do not give my loyalty lightly.” His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the gesture almost reverent. “Whatever happens next, know this—you will always have my gratitude…” He hesitated, the pause laden with emotion. “And my heart.”

The breath hitched in your throat, his words wrapping around you like a promise. Your lips parted to respond, but no words came. What could you possibly say to match the depth of what he had just given you? Before you could find your voice, the distant clash of swords and the roar of battle intruded, reminding you both that the world outside this moment still burned with chaos. Thranduil’s gaze shifted briefly toward the horizon, his expression hardening as he returned to the present. He rose to his feet fully now, the regal air of the Elvenking settling over him once more. Reaching down, he retrieved his twin swords, the blades gleaming wickedly in the faint light. Yet even as he turned his attention to the battle, there was a tenderness in his movements—a lingering connection that tethered him to you.

He looked back at you, his expression fierce but softened by the depth of feeling in his eyes. “Stay close to me,” he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a king but tempered with a warmth reserved only for you. “We will finish this together.” You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as you rose to your feet. The faint glow of your magic still clung to you, casting a soft light around the both of you as you prepared to rejoin the fray. As he turned and led you back into the chaos, his steps sure and steady, you knew this moment had irrevocably changed everything. Thranduil, the proud and unyielding Elvenking, now carried a piece of your light within him. And as you followed him into the darkness, you knew that bond—born in pain and sealed in magic—would endure, unbroken, through whatever trials lay ahead.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The battlefield sprawled endlessly, a bleak wasteland of shattered bodies and broken steel, shrouded in a choking veil of smoke that turned the midday sun into a faint, amber glow. The acrid stench of blood mingled with the sharp tang of burnt wood and ash, thickening the air with the weight of destruction. The earth beneath your feet was churned and uneven, soaked with the lifeblood of countless warriors. Broken banners lay tangled in the debris, their colors dulled and meaningless amidst the carnage. The distant clash of swords, the guttural cries of orcs, and the anguished screams of the wounded faded into a dull, unrelenting roar, like the heartbeat of the dying world itself. Yet none of it mattered.

Your eyes locked on the crumpled figure just ahead, half-hidden in the shadows cast by a shattered marble column. The remnants of the once-proud structure jutted into the ashen sky, stark against the ruin, a silent testament to the fury of the battle that had raged here. And there, slumped against its jagged base, was Gil-galad. His silver armor, which had once gleamed like starlight, was a grim ruin. Deep rents marred its surface, the intricate etchings of elven craftsmanship obscured by the soot and blood that coated every inch. The flowing blue of his cloak was torn and blackened, clinging limply to his frame, weighted down by dirt and gore. His once-proud form, so commanding and unyielding in the heat of battle, now seemed small and vulnerable, as though the world itself had turned against him.

A jagged gash tore across his chest, the edges of the wound raw and angry. Blood pooled beneath him in dark, viscous streaks, soaking into the dirt and spreading like an ominous shadow. Each shallow rise and fall of his chest was an agonizing labor, his breath coming in uneven, rasping gasps that rattled through his body. His head, once held high with the regal bearing of a king, rested limply against the column, his hair—normally as radiant as molten silver—now clinging to his face in damp, matted strands streaked with grime. “Ereinion!” you cried, your voice breaking as you rushed toward him, your heart pounding with a desperate urgency. Dropping to your knees beside him, the impact sent a jolt through your body, but you hardly noticed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, as you struggled to comprehend the sight before you. The image of him—majestic and unshakable—was seared into your mind, making the frailty before you all the more unbearable.

His head lolled weakly toward the sound of your voice, the faint motion almost imperceptible. The once-brilliant light of his eyes, so piercing and filled with unyielding resolve, was dulled and unfocused, shadowed with pain. His gaze flickered, struggling to find you through the haze that clouded his vision. “You…” he rasped, his voice faint and broken, barely louder than the rustle of the wind through the battlefield. “You shouldn’t… be here.”

Each word was a laborious effort, his breath hitching between syllables, as if even the act of speaking threatened to drain the last reserves of his strength. His lips, cracked and pale, trembled as he tried to form more words, but the effort was too much. He winced, a low, pained sound escaping him as his body sagged further against the column, his armor groaning faintly with the movement. “It’s… not safe,” he managed at last, his voice no more than a whisper. His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment, and in their depths, you saw a desperate mixture of fear and defiance—a king still trying to protect his people, even as he lay broken and bleeding on the battlefield.

Tears stung your eyes, blurring the devastation around you, but you refused to let them fall. Shaking your head fiercely, you denied the weight of his words, even as they pressed down on your heart like a stone. “I couldn’t leave you,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady, a quiet plea wrapped in defiance. The quiver of emotion was undeniable, yet behind it burned the resolve of someone who would not—could not—abandon him. “Not like this,” you added, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

For a fleeting moment, a faint, shadowed expression crossed his features. Was it a smile? Or a grimace of pain twisted by fading humor? It was impossible to tell, and yet it brought a flicker of warmth to the icy fear that gripped you. His lips, pale and bloodied, twitched faintly. “Stubborn,” he murmured, his voice rasping and soft, as if the word cost him more strength than he could afford to lose. There was a glimmer in his dimmed gaze—a whisper of the man you knew so well—but it was fleeting, almost drowned beneath the sheer effort of staying conscious. His hand moved, a barely perceptible twitch at first, his gauntleted fingers trembling as they struggled to lift from the bloodstained ground. The motion was agonizingly slow, faltering and weak, but it was unmistakable—he was reaching for you. The gesture, though small, carried with it the weight of his unspoken thoughts: a need to hold on, to connect, to find something in you that could anchor him to the rapidly slipping thread of life. Yet his strength failed him, and his hand fell limply to his side with a soft, metallic clink, his breath hitching as the motion sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body.

For Gil-galad, each breath was a battle, a desperate effort to push against the darkness that loomed closer with every passing moment. The gash across his chest throbbed with unrelenting fire, the raw edges tearing at his resolve with every shallow rise and fall of his lungs. The world around him felt distant now, muted and slow, the roaring of the battlefield reduced to a dull hum in his ears. Even the smoke-filled air seemed to press down on him like a suffocating weight. Yet through the haze of pain and weakness, there was you. Your voice, tremulous but determined, broke through the fog, and it grounded him, calling him back from the brink. He wanted to tell you not to waste yourself on him, not to sacrifice anything for a life that was already slipping through his fingers. But even as he tried to speak, his chest tightened, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his throat, where they burned unspoken.

He felt the warmth of your presence, the way your trembling hands hovered near him with desperate purpose. It cut through the cold spreading through his limbs, a fragile thread of comfort in the encroaching void. He couldn’t see clearly anymore; his vision blurred with pain and fatigue, but he thought he caught the golden shimmer of your hair, bright even in the smoky gloom. And then, a strange sensation stirred within him as you began to move, deliberate and measured, as if you were preparing for something monumental. Through the fog of his thoughts, he felt the lightest brush of your fingers against his chest, the silken strands of your hair brushing the edges of his torn armor. It was a delicate touch, gentle but unyielding, and somewhere deep within him, the faintest flicker of hope awoke—a fragile thing, like a single spark in a vast, dark void.

For Gil-galad, it was a strange mixture of sensations a deepening awareness of his own fragility, the oppressive weight of his injuries, and yet, beneath it all, the soft hum of your power stirring against his skin. It was faint at first, like the distant rush of water in a still forest, but it began to grow—a steady, rhythmic pulse that reached into him, seeking out the places where he was broken and fragile. He wanted to speak again, to ask what you were doing, to tell you it wasn’t worth it. But even as he opened his mouth, the words faltered. Instead, he let himself drift into the sensation—the warmth of your gift pushing back the cold, the hum of life within your golden strands, and the steadying presence of your will. For the first time since he had fallen, the pain seemed to recede, just slightly, and in its place was the faintest whisper of hope. It was fragile, precarious, but it was there.

Closing your eyes, you drew in a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your emotions to settle into stillness. The noise of the battlefield, the lingering cries of the wounded, and the acrid scent of smoke and blood faded into the background as you turned your focus inward. And then, without thought or effort, a melody welled up within you, rising like the dawn. It was ancient and familiar, as though it had been etched into your very soul, waiting for this one moment to emerge.

Your voice, soft and hesitant at first, trembled on the first note, the words tumbling forth like a fragile stream. But with each passing breath, it grew, steadied, and strengthened, carrying with it all the love, hope, and fierce determination that burned within you. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine… What once was mine.” The melody swirled around you, weaving itself into the air like a living thing, delicate and ethereal yet unyielding in its purpose. As the song poured from your lips, the very world around you seemed to hold its breath. The clash of swords and the distant cries grew faint, the weight of the battlefield retreating, as though time itself had slowed to honor your plea.

A faint, golden light began to bloom, first from the tips of your hair, then spreading outward like the first rays of sunlight piercing a heavy fog. It was warm and luminous, chasing away the gloom and shadows that clung to the edges of the ruined field. The glow radiated through each strand, spilling down to your hands where they hovered over Gil-galad’s broken body. The light wrapped around him, tendrils of golden radiance curling and twisting, seeking the places where his wounds ran deepest. Slowly, the glow seeped into the jagged tear across his chest, its soft, unyielding warmth mending torn flesh and shattered bone with a gentle but deliberate grace. It wasn’t harsh or sudden—it was like the steady growth of a tree, natural and full of purpose, filling the spaces where death had begun to creep.

As the magic coursed through him, you felt his body stir beneath your hands. A low, pained groan escaped his lips, weak but unmistakably alive. The tension in his frame, once so taut with pain, began to ease as the warmth suffused him, chasing the chill from his limbs. His breathing, shallow and labored only moments before, grew deeper and steadier, each breath less of a struggle. Color returned to his pallid face, faint at first but spreading with every moment, a soft flush blooming in his cheeks. The harsh lines of anguish etched into his features began to soften, his expression relaxing as the weight of his injuries faded. And then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing silver-grey eyes that shone brighter than you had dared to hope.

His gaze found yours almost instantly, locking onto you with an intensity that sent a tremor through your chest. There was clarity in his expression now, a sharpness that had been dulled by pain and exhaustion before. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the world around you forgotten. His eyes, still lined with the echoes of his ordeal, held a silent question, a mixture of awe, gratitude, and something far deeper. You didn’t need to answer him—not with words. The glow that lingered in the air around you spoke for itself, as did the steady hum of life now coursing through his body. He was whole again. He was alive. And for the first time, you dared to believe he would stay that way.

“What…?” His voice, though hoarse and still faint, carried a steady strength now, a grounding quality that hadn’t been there moments before. He struggled to lift his head, his gaze trailing over the glowing strands of your hair, then settling back on your face with a look that made your heart ache. “Your light…” he murmured, awe thickening his tone. “It is like the Silmarils… like the Trees of old.” His voice faltered, not from pain but from reverence, as though he were speaking of something sacred. The wonder in his eyes was enough to take your breath away.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, unchecked, a mix of relief and the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The fear, the helplessness, the agonizing moments where you thought you would lose him—all of it fell away, replaced by the quiet, profound joy of seeing him alive. “You’re safe now,” you managed, your voice breaking and trembling under the weight of your relief. “You’re going to be alright.” For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if trying to reconcile the miracle of what had just happened. Then, slowly, his trembling hand lifted. Though the movement was unsteady, it was deliberate, his fingers brushing gently against the strands of your hair. The light still lingered there, soft and radiant, casting a warm golden glow over his pale skin. His touch was barely there, reverent, as if he feared disturbing the fragile magic that had just saved his life.

“You…” His voice broke, thick with emotion. He swallowed hard, his silver-grey eyes never leaving yours. “You are a miracle,” he said finally, his tone raw, each word weighted with meaning. “I thought I was lost. I thought I had fallen too far. But you…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as though words could never fully express the depth of his gratitude, or the wonder you had awakened in him. Your hand found his, stilling its trembling with your touch as you brought it to rest between you. “You owe me nothing,” you said softly, the sincerity in your voice unwavering. Your other hand still rested over his chest, where the wound had been, as if grounding yourself in the knowledge that he was whole once more.

“Just stay with me. That’s all I ask.” His eyes searched yours, deep pools of emotion swirling in their depths. There was pain there, yes, but also resolve and something else—something fierce and unbreakable. “I will,” he promised, his voice quiet but filled with a steadfast determination. “For as long as I draw breath, I will stay by your side.” The words settled into your heart like a vow, binding in their simplicity and power. Around you, the battlefield remained—a grim tapestry of ruin—but in this moment, it felt as though the world had stilled. All the pain, the chaos, the shadows of despair fell away, leaving only the connection between the two of you.

The golden glow of your hair began to fade slowly, retreating into the silken strands until it was just a memory of warmth and light. Yet even as the light dimmed, its presence lingered—soft, radiant, and unforgettable. Gil-galad’s hand tightened slightly over yours, his strength returning, a silent reassurance that he was still with you, that he would not leave. You gazed at him, the bond between you forged anew, stronger now than it had ever been. It felt eternal, a connection born not just of love, but of trust, of sacrifice, and of something neither of you could fully name but both understood. You knew, with every beat of your heart, that this bond would endure, unyielding even in the face of the storms that lay ahead.

🔥𝓐𝓭𝓪𝓻

Adar was not one to show weakness easily. His centuries of life had been filled with war, loss, and burdens that would break lesser beings. He had carried the weight of kings and battles, the anguish of personal sacrifice, and the scars of old wars. Yet, now, as he staggered back from the sharp blow that had struck him, a gnawing realization crept through him—the inevitable truth that perhaps this time, his strength might not be enough. The gash across his side was deep, the jagged edge of the wound still bleeding freely, crimson staining his armor and the ground beneath him. It was a pain unlike any he had known before, not just from the physical injury, but from the suffocating weight of something far more pressing—the slow, creeping sensation of his life force ebbing away with every labored breath. His body, usually a pillar of endurance, now felt fragile, betraying him in a way he could not ignore.

His hand, once steady and resolute, trembled as he pressed it to the wound. His fingers, slick with blood, failed to staunch the flow. Each pulse of his heart sent a sharp pain through him, as though his very veins were protesting. He could feel the coldness creeping up his spine, seeping into his bones, and it was as if every fiber of his being was being pulled toward the ground, toward something darker, something final. His breath grew ragged, his chest heaving in shallow gasps, as though he were trying to hold on to something that was slipping further out of reach with each passing moment.

The battlefield around him—once so vivid, filled with the sounds of clashing steel, shouts of victory and defeat, and the sharp cries of the fallen—now seemed distant, muffled, like the echoes of a dream fading with the dawn. The smoke, thick and choking, hung in the air, curling around him like tendrils, making the edges of his vision blur and shift. The screams of the dying seemed far away, as though they were happening on another plane, not here where he stood. His world was narrowing, his mind sinking into a fog as the weight of his years and the exhaustion of the battle pressed down on him. For the first time in centuries, Adar felt the unmistakable pull of mortality—of being human again. In his long life, he had endured so much, but this wound, this agony, seemed different. The sensation of his life slipping from him wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual, as though he were being drawn into the shadows, away from the living, from the war, from everything he had fought for.

He staggered slightly, trying to hold himself upright, his knees buckling as the world around him seemed to tilt. His once-proud stature faltered, and he could feel the weight of all his choices pressing down on him, the ghosts of his past whispering in his ears. Yet he fought to hold on, to remain anchored to the world he had fought so hard to protect. But the cold was relentless now, and his vision—already clouded by the growing darkness—began to fade. His body felt heavy, as if it were made of stone, and every movement, every breath, seemed like a struggle against an inevitable force. For the first time, Adar wasn’t sure he could fight it.

But then, like a beacon cutting through the storm, you appeared. Through the haze of blood and exhaustion, Adar’s bleary eyes strained to make sense of what he was seeing. His body was failing him, but still, there you were—moving toward him with a grace that seemed to defy the chaos of the battlefield. Your presence pierced the dissonance around him, a light that cut through the crushing darkness, a warmth he hadn’t known he still longed for. His heart, which had long since learned to steel itself against all emotions, gave a weak flutter at the sight of you. He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to pull you close and shield you from the brutality that had consumed him, but his body refused to obey. The gash on his side burned with a ferocity that seemed to steal what little strength remained in him, and the darkness, relentless in its grasp, began to creep back over his vision.

Through the fog, he heard your voice—a sound like the calm before a storm, full of resolve and something else he couldn’t quite place. It was a lifeline, a tether pulling him toward the last remnants of himself. “Adar!” you called again, your voice edged with fear, but not for him. No, it was the fear of what was to come, the fear of losing him. He tried to speak, to reassure you, to tell you that this burden was not yours to bear. But the words, the familiar comfort of his own voice, refused to come. His throat felt like dry stone, his breath shallow and ragged. Instead, he could only manage a faint sigh, a sound that conveyed the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His body was failing him in ways he had never imagined, yet in that fleeting moment, as he lay there before you, there was something else—a flicker of hope sparked within him, kindled by your unrelenting presence.

You didn’t hesitate. There was no fear in your gaze, no hesitation in the way you moved toward him with such purpose. It was as though nothing else in the world mattered except reaching him, saving him. And there was something else there too—something deep in the way you looked at him. Something ancient, something far beyond the mortal realm. In that moment, the pain of his wound faded into the background, overtaken by the force of that unspoken connection between you.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady despite the storm of emotion swirling in your eyes. Your touch, gentle but firm, brushed against his bloodied side. Adar’s breath hitched at the contact. The tenderness of your touch sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he forgot the battlefield, forgot the war, and forgot the agony wracking his body. It was as if you had reached into the very core of him, grounding him, reminding him of what it felt like to be human again, to be cared for, to be seen. “Hold on,” you whispered, the words soft but filled with a power that seemed to resonate with something far beyond your years. Your voice was a balm, and despite the dark tide pulling him under, he felt a warmth spreading from the place where your hand rested on him, steadying him in ways that no blade could ever do.

His heart raced, a desperate echo of life, fighting against the pull of oblivion. But with you there, with your gaze unwavering and your touch so sure, he felt the stirrings of something—something more than hope. It was as if, in that moment, he was no longer alone. And though he could not move, though his vision blurred and the cold crept in, he found a new strength rising in him, a quiet defiance against the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. It wasn’t just a flicker anymore. It was a spark. And that spark, ignited by your presence, was enough to keep him tethered to this world—at least for a little while longer.

You reached for his injury with the care of someone who had touched the very fabric of life itself. Your hand brushed lightly against his bloodied side, and the sensation of your touch sent a tremor through his body, a shiver that wasn’t born from cold but from the sheer force of the energy you radiated. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was imagining it—the way the light seemed to gather around you, how the very space around you seemed to hum with something beyond him, beyond anything he had ever known. His breath stilled in his chest as he watched, wide-eyed, as your long, (your hair colour)—once lifeless and heavy—began to shimmer. The strands of it caught the dim light of the battlefield, then glowed with an ethereal radiance, soft and vibrant like starlight reflecting on the still surface of a deep lake. The glow pulsated gently, almost as if it had a life of its own, curling in the air around you like an extension of your being.

With a steady, graceful motion, you leaned closer, the light from your hair wrapping around his wound like a warm, shimmering ribbon. It was as though your hair itself had become an extension of your will, an instrument of healing—its glow bathing him in a tender warmth, coaxing his body to respond, to fight against the ravages of injury. Your voice broke through the chaos, a soft yet powerful melody that seemed to echo in his very soul. “Flower, gleam and glow, Let your powers shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine, Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates’ design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine, What once was mine.” The words, unfamiliar and yet oddly comforting, seemed to wrap around his heart, wrapping him in an embrace that transcended the physical realm. As you sang, he could feel the magic pouring through him, like a river of light and warmth filling every corner of his being. The wound on his side, deep and cruel, began to respond to the energy surrounding him. The jagged edges of his torn flesh smoothed themselves, the bleeding slowing and then ceasing altogether. It was as if time itself bent to your will, erasing the pain, erasing the damage, and with each passing second, the agony that had once clung to him began to fade away. The blood-soaked fabric of his tunic no longer clung to his skin, the crimson stain receding as though it had never been.

Adar could feel the weight lifting from his body, the exhaustion that had pulled at him for so long beginning to ease. His breath, which had been shallow and labored, slowly began to even out, the tightness in his chest loosening with the soothing magic you invoked. The light from your hair wrapped around him like a blanket, gentle but insistent, coaxing the wound closed, mending what had been broken. Each pulse of the glow seemed to pull him further from the edge of darkness, and though he could barely grasp the magnitude of what was happening, he felt the healing begin to take root in him.

The gash that had once seemed so insurmountable was now no more than a faint line across his side, the skin already knitting itself back together, leaving only a trace of the injury behind. His body, once heavy and unresponsive, now felt lighter, as though the burden of the battle had been lifted from his shoulders. And though the pain still lingered at the edges of his awareness, it was no longer the consuming force it had once been. Instead, there was a quiet calm that settled over him, a peace that only deepened as the last notes of your song faded into the air. His breath, once ragged and strained, grew more steady and assured with each passing moment. Slowly, the fog of exhaustion began to clear, replaced by a sharpness that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The clarity in his mind came as a surprising relief—like the mists parting to reveal a sky he thought he’d never see again. Adar blinked, feeling the weight of his body ease, but he was still weak, still trembling slightly from the ordeal. And yet, he could now focus, his eyes locking onto yours.

The glow from your hair bathed you in an ethereal light, casting a soft radiance that made everything around you appear to fade into insignificance. It was as though you were not entirely of this world, something more, something beyond. In that moment, as he looked at you, there were no words that could encompass the depth of his feelings. He had lived a life filled with loss, pain, and the burdens of responsibility, but in this instant, before him, was something he had long ago abandoned—a flicker of something beautiful, something sacred. Something that made the world seem just a little more bearable.

“You…” His voice came out hoarse, weak from the strain of the battle and his body’s fragile state. He cleared his throat, trying again, but the words felt too small, too inadequate for what he was experiencing. “What are you?” It was a question born from awe, from confusion, and from something deeper—something that had stirred in him the moment your magic had touched him.

You smiled softly, your lips curving into something gentle, something reassuring. Your hair, still glowing faintly, pulsed in time with your heartbeat—a rhythm that somehow felt like a promise. “I am just someone who won’t let you fall.” The sincerity in your words struck him with the force of a thunderclap, and something in his chest clenched painfully. The raw, unguarded emotion in your voice—how it came from a place of such quiet strength—made his heart ache in ways he had long forgotten how to feel. In all his years, he had seen many faces of suffering, many moments of hopelessness, but never had he encountered something so purely selfless. The magic you wielded, the way it flowed from you with such ease, was beyond anything he could comprehend. It was not just a force of nature—it was a gift. A gift so rare that it seemed as though it had no place in the broken world they lived in.

Adar’s trembling hand reached out instinctively, as if drawn to you, as though he needed to touch you to make sure you weren’t some fleeting illusion. His fingers brushed against the soft strands of your hair, and a strange sensation washed over him, as if by touching you, he was touching something far older than even himself. It was as though the very fabric of the world itself had passed through him in that brief connection.

“I owe you my life,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion—rare, raw, and unguarded. The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet they were the truest he had ever spoken. He had always been one to carry his burdens alone, to face the storm without ever asking for shelter, but now, in the wake of your magic, there was no denying it. He owed you more than he could ever express. You shook your head, a soft, almost imperceptible motion, and gently, your hand closed around his. “No,” you murmured, your voice tender and firm. “You owe me nothing. Just live, Adar. That’s enough for me.” The weight of your words settled into his chest, heavier than anything else, and for a moment, the world seemed to still around him. In that quiet space between the past and the future, he felt the enormity of what you were offering him—not just life, but the chance to live without the burden of guilt, without the crushing weight of a world that had never been kind.

He couldn’t speak at first. The words that hovered on his tongue felt too insignificant to capture the depth of what he felt in that moment. But when they came, they were a whisper, barely audible yet clear in their sincerity. “I will stay, for as long as you’ll have me.” And in that moment, surrounded by the ruins of a battle, amid the wreckage of war, there was a warmth that seemed to push back the cold shadows that had once threatened to consume him. The light of your hair, still glowing softly in the aftermath of your magic, seemed to envelop them both. The world outside seemed distant, almost irrelevant, as the promise in your eyes shone brighter than any star could. Whatever came next, whatever storms the world would throw at them, it no longer seemed like an insurmountable challenge. Not with you by his side.

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fight, killing, death, whipping.

A/N : Chapter one guys, so excited to introduce that version of Anakin. It’s kind of a knightfall Anakin, or unburnt Vader. I tried to write as good as I could but I remind you, I’m not English. Enjoy.

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ : ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ | •

The Colosseum roared like the mouth of the gods, hungry for blood.

THE GATES OF THE COLOSSEUM CREAKED OPEN, revealing the sun-soaked expanse of the arena. The light hit like fire, reflecting off the gilded helmets of the Roman guards stationed at the edge of the sands. Anakin stepped forward, bare-chested beneath his battered armor, the leather straps across his shoulders darkened with sweat and blood. His sword rested in his hand—a weapon as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

The crowd roared with anticipation. Thousands of voices thundered through the stone arches, shaking the ancient bones of Rome itself. They didn’t care who fought, only that blood would be spilled.

Anakin’s eyes were dark beneath the shadow of his helmet. His expression was unreadable—cold, calculated. He moved like a wolf in a den of lions, his footsteps steady, his presence commanding. His opponent stood across the arena, waiting. A seasoned gladiator, scarred and broad, wielding a spiked mace and a shield emblazoned with a Roman eagle.

The man sneered, raising his mace in a silent challenge.

Anakin didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He merely rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles coil like a serpent. His opponent was bigger, stronger. But size didn’t matter. Strength didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered in the Colosseum was who walked out alive.

The signal was given—a sharp blast of the horn—and the fight began.

The other gladiator charged first, his heavy footsteps pounding across the sand. The mace swung toward Anakin’s head with brutal force, aiming to crush his skull in a single strike. But Anakin was faster. He ducked low, the air whistling as the mace sliced through the space where his head had been.

He pivoted on his heel, slashing upward with his sword. The blade caught the other man’s shield, sending a reverberating clang through the arena. The force of the blow made the man stumble, but he recovered quickly, slamming his shield forward like a battering ram.

Anakin took the hit to his shoulder, pain blooming across his body, but he didn’t fall.

Instead, he stepped back, circling his opponent with measured grace. His eyes locked onto every movement—the way the man’s shield arm trembled under the weight, the slight hitch in his step. Every weakness was a thread to be pulled, unraveling the illusion of invincibility.

The mace swung again, a brutal arc aimed at Anakin’s side. This time, he sidestepped with ease, his sword flashing like lightning. The blade skimmed across the other man’s thigh—a shallow cut, but enough to slow him down.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder, a frenzied chant echoing through the Colosseum.

“Skywalker! Skywalker!”

Anakin ignored them. He wasn’t fighting for their approval. He was fighting to survive.

His opponent lunged again, swinging the mace in a reckless, desperate arc. Anakin caught the weapon on his sword, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, twisting his blade to lock the mace in place.

For a moment, they stood locked together, muscles straining, sweat dripping into the sand. The other man’s eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“You fight like a man who wants to die,” the gladiator growled.

Anakin’s lips barely moved. “No. I fight like a man who’s already dead.”

With a sudden surge of strength, Anakin twisted his sword, breaking the lock. The mace was wrenched from the other man’s grasp, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Anakin didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, his sword aimed for the man’s exposed chest.

But the other gladiator was quick, raising his shield just in time to block the killing blow. Anakin’s blade glanced off the shield, sending sparks flying. The man swung the shield like a hammer, smashing it into Anakin’s ribs.

Pain exploded in Anakin’s side, but he didn’t falter. He twisted away, his feet kicking up sand as he regained his footing. His breath came in short, harsh gasps, but his grip on his sword never wavered.

The other man was breathing hard now, too. Blood dripped from the cut on his leg, staining the sand beneath him. He glanced at his fallen mace, then back at Anakin, calculating his next move.

Anakin saw the hesitation. He saw the fear creeping into the man’s eyes.

It was over.

Anakin moved like a predator, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His sword cut through the air, a deadly arc aimed at the man’s shield. The blow was relentless, driving the other gladiator back step by step. Each strike was precise, calculated to wear down his opponent’s defenses.

The shield splintered beneath the onslaught, cracks spreading like lightning across the wood and metal.

The crowd was on its feet now, screaming for blood.

Anakin’s sword struck one final time, shattering the shield completely. The other man stumbled backward, weaponless and defenseless. He fell to his knees in the sand, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Anakin stood over him, his sword raised.

The arena fell into a tense silence, waiting for the killing blow.

The man looked up, blood smeared across his face. “Mercy,” he whispered.

Anakin’s grip tightened on his sword. His heart pounded in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of rage and grief. He saw ghosts in the man’s eyes. Ghosts of those he had killed before. Ghosts of the life he had lost.

There is no mercy in Rome.

With a swift, decisive strike, Anakin brought his sword down.

The blade cut through flesh and bone, clean and final. The gladiator crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Blood pooled in the sand, dark and endless.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, their cheers echoing off the stone walls. They chanted his name, hailing him as a hero, as a champion.

But Anakin felt nothing.

He sheathed his sword, turning his back on the corpse. His gaze lifted to the crowd, scanning the sea of faces. They cheered for him, but they didn’t see him. They saw a legend. A monster. A weapon forged by Rome’s cruelty.

But somewhere in the crowd, a pair of eyes watched him differently. Eyes that didn’t cheer. Eyes that saw through the mask of brutality to the man beneath.

Eyes that remembered him.

Anakin’s footsteps echoed through the Colosseum as he left the arena, the bloodstained sand stretching behind him like a trail of ghosts.

The Colosseum loomed like a monument to blood and ruin, its arches casting jagged shadows across the sand. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the echoes of battle lingering long after the last sword had fallen. The crowd dispersed slowly, their cheers fading into the streets of Rome, leaving only ghosts behind.

You walked unnoticed through the emptying arena, your form shrouded in the guise of a noblewoman. Mortals glanced your way, but none truly saw you. They never did. To them, you were a passing shadow, a face soon forgotten. But you moved with purpose, your sandals barely disturbing the blood-soaked sand beneath your feet.

The gods had cursed you to wander endlessly, to carry the weight of a legend that time had tried to bury. For centuries, you had drifted through mortal lives, whispering forgotten stories into the ears of poets and scholars. You were the goddess of legends, doomed to remember what the world sought to forget.

But now… something stirred. Something ancient. Something long buried beneath centuries of dust and stone.

You paused at the edge of the arena, your gaze drawn to the sands where blood still pooled. The echoes of swords clashing and bodies falling seemed to resonate in your bones. And beneath it all, beneath the noise and violence, you felt it—him.

Remus, Anakin.

The name lingered on the edge of your mind like a half-forgotten melody. You hadn’t spoken it in centuries. You had buried it alongside your grief, locking it away in the ruins of memory. But now, the weight of that name pressed against your chest, as if the past was clawing its way back to the surface.

Your eyes scanned the arena, searching for the source of that ancient pull. You knew it wasn’t just the place that stirred these memories. It was someone—a presence you hadn’t felt since that fateful day beneath the twin hills where Rome was born.

And then you saw him.

He stood near the gladiator gates, the torchlight casting flickering shadows across his battered form. His armor was streaked with blood, his sword still hanging at his side. His dark hair clung to his face, damp with sweat. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, even as he limped slightly from the battle’s toll.

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It was impossible. Unthinkable.

But there he stood—Anakin.

He didn’t know you. Not yet. The curse of mortality had stripped him of his memories, erasing the bond you once shared. But his soul… his soul was the same. Wild, restless, defiant. His very presence radiated rebellion, a man carved from the bones of the earth and tempered in fire.

You took a step closer, your heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears.

The gods had whispered of this moment. They had told you that Anakin would be forgotten, his real name wiped from history, while his brother’s legacy endured. But they never said his soul would be lost forever. You had carried hope through centuries of loneliness, a fragile ember that refused to die.

And now that ember flared into a blaze.

Still, doubt gnawed at the edges of your mind. Was this a cruel trick of fate ? A shadow cast by your own yearning ? Or had the gods truly given you another chance to rewrite the legend that had condemned you both ?

Remus—Anakin—turned slightly, as if sensing a presence beyond the mortal realm. His gaze swept over the arena, passing by you without lingering.

But something made him pause.

He was more beautiful than you remembered. The years and centuries had softened the memory of his face, but now, seeing him in the flesh, it was like waking from a dream you hadn’t realized you’d been trapped in. His hair, once trimmed short and once shiny as the sun above your head, had returned in this life as wild, golden curls—disheveled and unruly from the fight, falling into his eyes with a carelessness that no Roman noble would dare. Those eyes… gods, those eyes. Blue as the sky above the Tiber at dawn, fierce and unrelenting, they seemed to pierce through the veil of time itself. He also looked older. Older than when he died, barely a man, still harboring a cherubic face with rosy cheeks and dusted lips. Now he was breathtaking. 

His features were sharp yet regal, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, the high cheekbones of a warrior carved by fate’s cruel hand. His lips, stained with the faintest hint of blood, were set in a line of defiance. He bore the scars of a gladiator’s life—scratches across his broad chest, bruises blooming beneath his armor—but they only added to his allure. He was mortal, yes, but he stood with the bearing of something more, something ancient. He was a man forged by violence, yet he carried the weight of tragedy in every line of his body.

His stature was commanding, taller than most of the men around him, with broad shoulders that seemed made to carry the weight of the world—or your sorrow. There was something about the way he moved, even in exhaustion—graceful yet lethal, like a lion prowling the edges of the arena. He was strength and ruin in one.

And you couldn’t look away.

To the Romans, he was nothing but a slave, a fighter to bleed for their amusement. But to you, he was everything you had lost. Everything the world had forgotten.

His eyes, darkened, narrowed as they met yours. There was no recognition in them. No spark of memory. Yet something ancient flickered there—something deeper than conscious thought.

He frowned, his expression unreadable, before turning away and disappearing through the gates.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

He was here. Alive. But he didn’t remember you.

Not yet.

And as you stood alone in the shadow of the Colosseum, you whispered the name the world had forgotten.

"Remus." No… Anakin, you chastised yourself.

The winds carried the name across the empty sands, a prayer to the past. A prayer for what was to come.

Something ancient stirred in the air—a curse left unfinished, a legend waiting to be rewritten.

The crowd gathered at the Forum, eager for blood. Romans thrived on spectacles of cruelty, drawn to suffering as moths to flame. But this was not a battle to the death. There would be no swords, no shields. This was punishment. A public reckoning. And at the center of it stood Anakin, stripped to the waist, his back bared to the lash.

The whip cracked through the air like thunder, and the first strike split the silence. His body jerked, muscles tightening, but Anakin did not cry out. He refused to give them the satisfaction. His back already bore scars from past punishments, reminders of Rome's endless cruelty. This was nothing new. He had endured worse.

The lictor struck again, the leather biting into flesh. Blood beaded along the fresh wounds, trickling down his spine. Anakin clenched his jaw, refusing to show weakness. His pain belonged to him alone; he would not let Rome take that from him. The crowd murmured in approval, reveling in his suffering, their eyes alight with morbid fascination.

But then, his gaze found you.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, cloaked in fine robes, your face pale with horror. You hadn’t come to witness this cruelty. You had come seeking answers, hoping to understand the mortal who haunted your dreams. But now, watching him bleed beneath Rome’s lash, you could barely breathe. This was Anakin. This was the man you loved—suffering from a whip.

Yet Anakin did not see love or recognition in your gaze. He saw judgment. He saw cruelty.

His lips curled into a bitter sneer, and his eyes darkened with hate. His expression hardened into defiance, as though daring you to look away. His gaze was unrelenting, full of fury and accusation, as if to say: Are you entertained ?

Another lash tore through the air, ripping his skin. He grunted in pain, his shoulders trembling under the strain. But his eyes never left yours. His anger burned, hot and unyielding, as though your presence stoked the fire within him.

To Anakin, you were just another Roman aristocrat. Another cold-hearted noble reveling in his suffering. Your beauty only made it worse. He hated himself for noticing the way the sunlight caught the strands of your hair, or the way your eyes shimmered with emotion. He loathed himself for wondering what your voice might sound like, for imagining your hands on his face, soft and kind.

But he buried those thoughts deep beneath his rage. You were a Roman. You were his enemy.

Finally, the lictor lowered the whip. Anakin’s back was slick with blood, the wounds raw and open. The guards dragged him to his knees, shackled his wrists, and hauled him away. The crowd dispersed, satisfied by the punishment, but your feet remained rooted to the ground.

As he was pulled past you, his gaze flickered toward you one last time. There was something in his eyes—pure hatred. 

Back in the dim confines of his cell, Anakin leaned against the stone wall, his body aching from the beating. His wounds burned, but it was nothing compared to the rage simmering in his chest. His thoughts circled back to you, unbidden and unwanted.

The Roman woman.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you ?

He hated you. He hated your kind. The Romans had taken everything from him—his freedom, his dignity, his name. His Master selling his body to the highest bidder of the market for a night. And yet, your face lingered in his mind like a delicious curse. He remembered the horror in your eyes as he was whipped. He remembered the way your lips parted, as though you wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

But hate was easier. Hate was safer.

So Anakin closed his eyes and vowed to forget you.

Yet in the darkness of his cell, he dreamed of your face.

The night brought no peace. Shadows of memory chased you through sleep, weaving dreams from fragments of a life long past—a life you were cursed to remember when all the world had forgotten. A life where Anakin loved you.

You saw him again as he had once been. Young, wild, and full of life. The fields of the Aventine stretched endlessly beneath a golden sky, and the wind carried the scent of wildflowers. His laughter echoed in your ears—low, warm, and unguarded, the way only he could sound. He ran ahead of you through the tall grass, turning back every few steps to beckon you closer.

“Come,” he whispered in your dream, his voice the anchor of your heart. “There is still time.”

In the fields, he knelt before you, hands rough from a life of toil, but gentle as they wove a crown of flowers. His fingers moved with care, weaving stems together until he lifted the delicate circlet and placed it atop your head. You laughed at his crooked handiwork, brushing a stray lock of golden hair from his face.

“You look like a goddess,” he murmured, his gaze soft with devotion.

“And you,” you teased, pressing your forehead to his, “look like a boy playing king.”

His lips found yours then—sweet, tender, tasting of summer and wildflowers. His kiss was gentle, unlike the harshness of the world around you. In those moments, you had been free. With Anakin, there were no rules, no gods, no fates woven by unseen hands. There was only love.

But dreams cannot hold forever.

The fields faded into mist, and the warmth of his touch slipped away like sand through your fingers. The laughter died. The golden sky darkened into the cold gray of stone walls. Rome replaced the Aventine. Blood replaced wildflowers.

And then, there was him again.

You saw him as he had been that day—standing tall, in the Colosseum, sword in hand, drenched in blood and defiance, older... His gaze, blue as a storm-tossed sea, had found yours even as he was punished. There was no tenderness in his eyes, no softness. Only fire. A fire that burned you even now.

“Ani,” you whispered in your sleep, clinging to the name like a prayer. But no. He was not Ani anymore. He was Anakin now—a man forged in iron and rage, a soul reborn into chains.

You woke, breathless, your hands trembling with the remnants of your dream. The gods' curse weighed heavy on you, a burden you had carried for centuries. You were the goddess of legends, the keeper of stories lost to time. And your curse was to remember the one story no one else did—the story of the brother who had been forgotten.

The gods watched you still. Their eyes followed your every step, their judgment lingering over you like a shadow. But you no longer cared for their wrath. You had loved Remus once, and now, you saw him again, alive in the mortal body of a gladiator.

"Anakin," you whispered to the night, letting go of the wrong name. Letting go of the past that weighed too heavily on your heart.

You vowed to approach him. To see him again, to make him remember who he once was, who you had been together. Even if the gods punished you again. Even if the world itself crumbled beneath your feet. You needed his touch, you craved him, his scent, his voice…everything about him made your skin tingles and your heart ache.

Because you would find him. Even if he had changed. 

Even if it meant your ruin.

Roma de cineribus nata est, et tu fusa manus eras. 

Rome was born from ashes, and you were the hand that spread them. 

[kultofathena]

Tod Cutler – Steel Medieval Star Mace 10th -11th Century – 1 Star Version

[edward-cabrini]

A guide to Medieval Armour In Writing

I wrote a detailed post about medieval armour and how to include it in your writing... And I accidently deleted it...

Fuck it you can have the abridged version, I'm sure I'll revisit this topic at some point. Regular Armour: - Gambeson This stuff is better than nothing, swords will cut through it though.- Chainmail Mail is pretty good, get's fucked by maces and swords could pierces it with enough force.- Half Plate Great at protecting what it covers, not shit at what it doesn't cover.- Full Plate Simply the best, often worn in conjunction with other armour to make up for it's short falls. Best way to kill someone in full plate is wrestling them to the ground and shanking them till they die. Notable Armour: - Coat of Plates It's cheap, it's effective. It's even better when the plates overlap. Think of it as proto plate armour, if you could afford it, you'd wear that instead. This armour will make up for some of the short falls of chainmail.- Brigandine This is just the breastplate or cuirass of plate armour, but it's made with overlapping plates or bands of steel covered in leather. It's cheap and good just not as cheap as a coat of plates.- War Paint This is just psychological. It's cool but even rocks will make you dead if this all you got going on. Writing About Armour Okay so you've decided you want your story to be a medieval fantasy setting. What is the role of armour in your setting. Is it functional or decorative? If it's functional you need to consider how people deal with armour if it's too easy then why would anyone bother? On the flipside, if it's decorative how do people feel about wearing it? Do they feel it's too heavy, hot, ugly, impractical? In my setting armour is mostly a functional thing, most people aren't going out of their way to decorate it unless they're rich as fuck. Armoured knights pose a serious problem at every turn. They are a scary threat. Which is what makes a monster that can bite a full plate armoured knight in half so extra scary. Any that's it. Enjoy the post.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 61

part 1 | part 60 | ao3

cw: mentions of canonical minor character death

Chapter 14

It's twilight by the time they make their way to Rick's place — gnat clouds swarming, sun dipped low, Lover's Lake an inky smudge beyond the blur of passing pines. Steve’s not totally sure how they got here, this dusty service road that's more pothole than pavement; one minute he's bitching about doomed love and double VHS, the next he’s taking the scenic route to a drug den.

There were some important moments in between, he’s pretty sure.

He’s also pretty sure he blacked out somewhere around the moment the morning news reported that an-unidentified-Hawkins-student-who-very-well-could-be-Eddie-Munson was found dead in his fucking trailer.

Kinda difficult to resurface from that one.

Feels like his soul’s got swimmer’s ear.

Even hours later — after Dustin and Max burst into Family Video talking a mile a minute about how Eddie was alive and they needed to use the phones; after Ernie stupidly gave a reporter Steve’s name, swearing up and down on the TV that his neighbor Steve Harrington was an upstanding young man who would never do something like this; after they spent an agonizingly long afternoon lying low and taking backroads to avoid the cops because the cops probably suspect Steve of murder now, oh god—

“It’s this next right up ahead,” Max says from the back seat. There's a map spread over the bench between her and Dustin, and Steve blinks himself awake; gives her a nod in the rearview.

Beside her, Dustin’s munching on Twizzlers he stole from the store — window down, easy slouch, just way too chipper for the situation at hand. "So Steve," he says conversationally, "now that you're a fugitive, does that mean—?"

Steve cuts Robin a pleading look.

Robin reaches back and smacks the little twerp upside the head.

"Ow!" Dustin whines.

"Shut up, please," Robin smiles.

Max makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh and checks the map again. "Right here," she says, pointing. "After that weird tree stump."

They turn onto another road that could be generously described as paved, once, several decades ago, and eventually, the winding path lets out onto a slightly nicer street. Aging but cared for, Holland Road is a crowded row of little lake houses, trailers and shacks with manicured shrubs and chipped fence paint, weeds growing through the sidewalks beneath pristine American flags. Steve pulls into the driveway of #2121.

It looks abandoned. Dark inside and out, a truck parked on the curb that's likely been there for a while, its tires sagging in a mulch of old wet leaves. There’s an autumn wreath on the front door.

“You sure this is the place?” he asks as they climb out of the car.

Max sasses him for questioning her navigation skills, Dustin unsuccessfully tries to land a revenge slap on Robin — a move that earns him a retaliation wedgie and a wrestling match he was never gonna win — and Steve pops the trunk and feels a hundred years old. Feels every bit the exhausted dad trying to keep the family road trip together as he grabs his nail bat and slings his duffel over his shoulder.

"You planning to spend the night?" Dustin teases from Robin's armpit, still bent double where she's got him in a headlock.

"No, just-" he drops the bag at their feet with a grunt, “doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Dustin’s eyes bug out. “Is that a can of goddamn bear mace?”

“Keep your voice down!” Steve hisses.

“You keep your voice down!”

"Should I just go ahead and choke him out?" Robin offers.

Steve considers it for a second: knock 'em all out, stuff 'em back inside the car. Go do this shit quietly by himself.

He rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips.

"You're no fun," she pouts, but she lets Dustin go.

Dustin grabs flashlights and walkies out of the bag, passes them around the circle. They take a moment to steel themselves — huddled together in the dark, shoulders tense, the creepy house looming ahead. Sharp shadows stretch toward them. Croaking sounds creeping from the edges of the lake.

Robin puts her flashlight under her chin like she's about to tell a scary story. "Alright, kiddos," she says in a deep, ominous voice. "Let's go rescue Steve's ex."

Stunned silence in the sudden vacuum her words create. Steve lets out a tired sigh. Dustin’s jaw is on the curb.

“His WHAT?” Dustin shouts.

Oh, my god. “He’s not my ex."

Robin rolls her eyes and says ‘sure’ under her breath, and Max turns to Dustin, laughing. “You didn’t know they were a thing?”

“We’re not—” Steve tries again.

“What were you trying to get them back together for then?”

She seems genuinely curious. Dustin seems three seconds from spontaneous combustion. “What was I WHAT?!” he yelps, limbs everywhere. Reminds Steve of Eddie so bad it hurts.

“Okay,” Steve interrupts, clapping them both on the shoulder; drops his voice to a harsh whisper. “In case you two forgot, we’re here to rescue Eddie.”

“Who you’re dating.”

Dustin’s voice is small, disconnected, his gaze far away. Like he’s shellshocked.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “I— Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

Max snorts at his answer, Dustin makes a series of faces like he's gonna need seven years to process, and Robin interrupts his crisis by waving her flashlight like a traffic guard, walking backward up the hill as she directs them toward the house.

“Why don’t we just go find him first?” she suggests, making a rainbow with her hands, flinging light through the grimy windows. “And then Stevie here can answer alllll your big gay questions.”

Steve glares at Robin. Dustin glares at him, narrowed eyes for a full ten seconds like 'yeah, you fucking better,' and then he takes off up the driveway hollering Eddie's name.

—

part 62

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[redsrooftopprincess]

Sunglasses

Mid-Teen Turtles, Bro fic

Warnings: Autistic Character, Emotional Overwhelm, Guns, Eyes

Headcanons: Autistic Donnie, Donnie and Raph are twins (You can thank @the-cauldron-witch for this one. She said it and now it's forever in my brain)

"Just give them to me!"

"No! Hell no! I found em!"

"I know you f-" Donatello sighs, removes his glasses, and rubs his eyes, losing patience with his twin. "I know you found them, I just want to modify them a little."

It's not like he doesn't get it. The sunglasses are a big deal. But with Raph deciding he's going to be the one to punch first and not really bother with questions, his eyes need more protection than anyone's. Even outside of combat. More than once, he's found himself on the wrong end of some scared human's can of mace.

"Raph, they're plastic, if they shatter, that plastic is going in your eyes." Donnie insists.

"And if you're the one that shatters em, ain't gonna be no 'if' about it. No Donnie. I'll take my chances." Raphael storms off to his room, taking the glasses with him.

Three hours later, while his brother is sleeping, Don takes them anyway.

It's an act of sacrilege in this home, to take something like this. Something important. Practical and that fits them perfectly. He understands what this means. They don't have much, to put it very gently, so what little they have, what little they can find, and scavenge, and build themselves, is sacred.

But he hates it. Every time Raph throws himself into the meat grinder. Raph's eyesight is decent, and Donnie has a vested interest in making sure it stays that way. They've had so many talks about defensive equipment for his eyes that just end in Raph storming off. But he keeps trying. He has to.

The last attempt, involved trying to convince Raphael to let him build him goggles, but even for someone with a total of three other creatures on the planet to compare himself to, Raphael is vain. They all are, in a way, about certain things. Donnie gets it. They have no control over the fact that they aren't human, so what they *can* control about their bodies is important.

They had found them last night, attached to a discarded sporting goods mascot. They were scuffed and had a crack in them, but holy shit they fit! A pair of glasses that fits that Raphael is willing to wear. Donnie was excited! Finally!

He works through the day, and as expected, Donatello is informed the moment his brother wakes up by way of his name thundering through the lair in a rage. The glasses are not on the nightstand where Raph had left them.

Don winces, thankful to whatever power ensured he finished the project by nightfall, and tenses as he hears his brother storming towards the lab. If Raph had woken up half an hour before, he would have come in to see them in pieces, and would have *properly* freaked out. At least Donnie has a chance of talking him down now that they're finished and functional.

Don takes a deep breath and stands, preparing for the onslaught. When his brother comes into the room, his open hands are up in a placating gesture, "Okay, I know what you're gonna say and-"

"What the fuck Donnie?" He roars, backing his brother into one of the steel tables in the lab. "Where the fuck are they?"

"I promise, they're fine, I just wanted to-"

A soft, familiar sound rings through the air like a gunshot, freezing both of them, as their father clears his throat. He waits patiently for an explanation.

"I found some glasses yesterday, Dad. Ones that actually fit, and he took em for some fu-" Raphael chokes on the almost swear when his father raises an eyebrow, and clears his throat before continuing, "some science experiment."

Their father narrows his eyes at Donatello, who has the good sense to look ashamed. "Dad, if Raph is gonna be wearing them out on the street, I don't want them to break and hurt his eyes. I just wanted to make them stronger. That's all." He says, resisting the urge to shoot an annoyed look at his thick headed brother.

"Did you ask your brother if he would allow this?"

"Yes, Father."

"Did he offer them to you?"

Don hesitates and his father waits, "Well... No... but-"

"I told him no. I specifically told him no," Raphael cuts in. Splinter shoots him a look and he shuts up.

"But I just wanted them to actually protect his eyes! They were a time bomb! If he got hit in the face, he was gonna go blind!"

"Were?! Where the fuck are they, Donnie?" He demands, not even registering the swear word. He looks around and spots them on the work bench. Walking over, he snatches them up.

They look... exactly the same. Only they're heavier.

"I gave them a steel core and shatter proofed the lenses," Donnie snaps, only a little bitterness coming through, "you're welcome."

Raphael wants to be grateful, he really does. They're fine. Better than fine. In addition to the practical changes, his brother had gone so far as to buff out some of the scratches and they looked almost new. But the adrenaline from potentially losing something precious is still coursing through his veins and he's still angry at the violation. He doesn't look up.

"Was there a chance, Donatello," their father asks after a moment, "that in an effort to improve these glasses, you could have broken them beyond repair?"

"Well, I mean, there's always a chance of that happening," he admits, "...but I was careful!" he almost whines.

"Then you will spend the next hour in the hashi while you think of a way to apologize to your brother," Splinter looks at Raphael, "is this acceptable to you?"

Raph glares at him, silent, and nods.

They avoid the topic of the glasses altogether over the next week. Tempers wane, and Donnie serves his punishment, spending 20 hours of his lab time helping Raph with the Motorcycle he's been trying to build. The incident isn't mentioned again.

It's Wednesday night and they're downtown shutting down a gang fight. Pretty normal for this part of town. They thought they'd disarmed all of them first thing, standard protocol. They must have missed one.

The shot rings out, and Raph goes down, hands over his eyes.

Donnie takes out the last three, including the shooter, and sprints to his brother's side. Removing Raphael's hands from his face, they find the bullet stuck in one of the lenses. The glass is broken, but the shatterproof coating kept the shards together and out of Raph's eye.

They look up at each other, shocked at the close call, and Donnie tries *really* hard not to look smug. They make their way home soon after.

After showering and getting ready to sleep for the day, Raph wanders down to the lab.

"Hey, can I talk to you?"

Donnie looks up from the graphics card he's repairing and turns around in his chair. He nods.

"Sorry I gave you such a hard time about... you know. I know you were just trying to help."

"Dude, no," Donnie says, "You and Dad were right, what I did wasn't okay. It's just..." He sighs, "You're always the first one in, you know, and- I mean, you're right in the middle of everything... If you suddenly can't see... It's just, not being able to see sucks..." Donnie tries really hard to fight the overwhelm. Tapping the desk to keep himself grounded. This is important, damn it. If he loses it, this conversation is going nowhere

He's tried, he's tried before, but the thought of losing his twin terrifies him. His brother is reckless, and it's Donnie's job to make sure that doesn't get him killed.

He clenches his fists, his voice shutting down. Fuck. His jaw tightens and tears of worry and frustration prickle behind pleading eyes that meet Raphael's. He hopes his brother understands. He usually does. Emotions are hard for Donnie, expressing them, doubley so.

"Okay, how 'bout this," Raph offers, letting him off the hook. He tosses Donnie one of the small, metal brain teaser puzzles on his desk, "I'll agree to hear you out when it comes to my shit, as long as you don't just take it to play with. Deal?"

"Cool. Now," Raph says, pulling the glasses out of his pocket. He'd left the bullet in. It looked cool. "There something we can do about this?"

Don nods emphatically, eyes on the puzzle.

Donnie looks up as the metal rings fall apart in his hands and nods, smiling, "I have a few ideas..."

....

Tag list

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins