#TO SHIELD YOUR SOUL FROM WITHER AND DECAY

[ooccoo]

Shout out to converge btw

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (9)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: To read the rest of my chapters, or other works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 8

- Next part: 10

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The darkness surrounds you, thick and oppressive, like the air just before a storm. You try to move, but your limbs are heavy, as if weighed down by unseen chains. The silence is suffocating, and yet, you can hear the faintest whisper, echoing through the void.

"The drove is a terrible mistress."

The voice is cold and hollow, seeping into your bones like a winter chill. As the words echo in your mind, the darkness begins to shift, and you find yourself standing in a field under a sky that bleeds red. The grass is withered, blackened, and dead, the earth beneath it cracked and dry. 

You turn, and before you, a drove of cattle appears, their eyes empty and hollow, their flesh rotting and decayed. They move in unison, their steps heavy, the ground beneath them crumbling into ash with each stride. They march toward a cliff, mindless, unseeing, until one by one, they begin to fall, their bodies vanishing into the abyss below. 

You try to scream, to stop them, but no sound escapes your throat. Instead, you feel the cold presence of the voice again, closer this time, its breath ghosting over your skin. 

"A dark light from your death."

The scene shifts violently, and you are no longer in the field. Now, you stand in the great hall of Dragonstone, but it is not the hall you know. The walls are lined with shadows, shifting and writhing like living things. The torches burn with an unnatural, black flame, casting a dim, twisted light that makes the room feel smaller, more claustrophobic.

At the center of the hall, you see yourself, standing before a mirror. But the reflection is wrong—it is you, but not you. Your skin is pale, almost translucent, your eyes sunken and hollow. The black flames reflect in your eyes, and as you watch, they flicker and grow, consuming the whites of your eyes until all that is left are orbs of darkness.

You reach out to touch the mirror, but the glass is cold, like ice, and as your fingers meet the surface, the reflection changes. You see Terrax, his golden eyes now burning with the same dark light, his scales a deeper shade of black, almost as if they are absorbing the darkness around him. He roars, and the sound is not the roar of a dragon, but the wail of a thousand lost souls, echoing in the vast emptiness of the hall.

You recoil, but there is no escape. The darkness wraps around you, pulling you into the mirror, and suddenly you are falling, spiraling down through endless black, your body weightless, your mind filled with that terrible voice.

"Hemlock for the deceivers."

The darkness gives way to a blinding light, harsh and unrelenting. You find yourself in a forest, the trees tall and ancient, their branches twisting like the gnarled fingers of some great beast. The light filters through the canopy, but it is not sunlight—it is something else, something wrong. The light pulses with a sickly green hue, casting eerie shadows that seem to move of their own accord.

Before you, a figure emerges from the trees. It is a man, though his face is obscured by the shadows, his form draped in a cloak of midnight black. In his hand, he holds a goblet, and the liquid within it shimmers with that same unnatural green light. He offers it to you, his voice a whisper in your mind, though his lips do not move.

"For the deceivers," the voice says again, and though you want to refuse, your hand reaches out, seemingly of its own will, and takes the goblet.

The liquid is cold as it touches your lips, bitter as it slides down your throat. Instantly, the forest around you begins to change, the trees twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes, their bark splitting open to reveal rotting flesh beneath. The ground beneath your feet trembles, and the sickly green light intensifies, burning your eyes, your skin.

You drop the goblet, but it is too late. The light consumes you, burns you from the inside out, and all you can do is scream as the forest withers and dies around you, the once mighty trees collapsing into dust, their ashes swirling in the green light like a twisted dance of death.

You try to claw your way out of the nightmare, but the voice is relentless, echoing through the ruins of the forest, through the ruins of your mind.

"The drove is a terrible mistress."

"A dark light from your death."

"Hemlock for the deceivers."

The words swirl around you, each one a knife in your mind, cutting deeper and deeper until you feel you will be torn apart by the weight of them. The scenes shift and change, faster and faster, until they are nothing but a blur of black and green, of shadows and light, of death and decay.

You feel yourself slipping, falling into the abyss that yawns beneath you, the darkness reaching up to claim you as its own. The voice is louder now, a cacophony of whispers that drown out all other sound, until you cannot even hear your own thoughts.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the nightmare ends. The darkness recedes, the voices fade, and you are left standing in silence, alone in the void.

Your body trembles, your mind reeling from the intensity of the vision, and you collapse to your knees, gasping for breath, trying to cling to whatever shred of sanity you have left.

But the voice, though faint, still lingers in the back of your mind, a reminder that the nightmare is far from over.

"The drove is a terrible mistress."

"A dark light from your death."

"Hemlock for the deceivers."

You wake with a start, drenched in cold sweat, the echo of those terrible words still ringing in your ears. The room around you is dark, the only light coming from the dying embers of the hearth, but you know that you are awake now, in the real world.

And yet, the fear remains, clawing at your chest, as you wonder if the nightmare will ever truly end—or if it is only just beginning.

Rhaegar stands before his desk, his hand steady as he seals the letter with the sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon, red on black. The wax hardens under his fingers, and for a moment, he hesitates, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a physical force.

The words within the letter are carefully chosen, each one a thread in the delicate tapestry of their lives, a life that has been irrevocably altered by the twists of fate and the madness that lurks within the walls of their family’s legacy. But Rhaegar knows that this is the only path left to them, the only way to ensure the safety of his sister and the future of their house.

A soft knock at the door draws his attention, and he straightens, tucking the sealed letter into the fold of his robe. “Enter,” he calls, his voice calm, though his heart pounds with the gravity of what he is about to do.

The door swings open, and Grand Maester Pycelle steps into the room, his robes rustling as he walks with a measured pace. His eyes, though clouded with age, are sharp and calculating as they meet Rhaegar’s. Pycelle bows his head respectfully. “My prince, you summoned me.”

“Yes,” Rhaegar replies, holding out the letter. “I need you to send this by raven to Dragonstone. It is urgent.”

Pycelle steps forward, taking the letter with a practiced hand. He glances at the seal, his brow furrowing slightly, though he says nothing about it. “It shall be done immediately, my prince.”

Rhaegar nods, but as Pycelle turns to leave, he speaks again, his voice quiet but firm. “This letter is for my sister. It is to be delivered directly to her, and no one else. Ensure that the raven flies tonight, without delay.”

Pycelle pauses, turning back to face Rhaegar. There is a flicker of something in the maester’s eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or something darker—but he quickly masks it with a nod of obedience. “As you command, my prince. The raven will be sent at once.”

Rhaegar watches as Pycelle tucks the letter into the folds of his robes, then bows once more before making his way to the door. The room feels colder, emptier, once the door clicks shut behind him, and Rhaegar is left alone with his thoughts.

He moves to the window, staring out at the city below. King’s Landing is restless, its streets filled with whispers and rumors, and even here, in the heart of the Red Keep, Rhaegar can feel the tension, the fear that grips the people as his father’s madness grows more unpredictable. But it is not the city that troubles him most tonight—it is you, his sister, far away on Dragonstone, and the choices he has made that will soon pull you back into the web of duty and danger that surrounds them all.

The letter he has sent is a call for your return, under the pretense of preparations for your wedding. A wedding that will not only solidify the old Targaryen tradition of keeping their bloodline pure but will also, he hopes, shield you from the worst of their father’s wrath. Rhaegar knows that there is no other way, no other path that offers even a semblance of safety for you. The court has already begun to whisper about the possibility of your union, and it is only a matter of time before those whispers turn into demands.

But there is another reason for the urgency of his letter, one that weighs heavily on his heart. The reports from Dragonstone, from Ser Arthur and others, speak of the nightmares that continue to plague you, of the voices that whisper in the dark, and of the bond you share with the dragon, Terrax. Rhaegar cannot help but fear that your time on the island, away from the chaos of the court, has done little to ease the turmoil within you. If anything, it may have deepened it.

He presses a hand to the cold stone of the window sill, his gaze distant as he contemplates what lies ahead. The wedding, the public spectacle of it, is only the beginning. He will have to protect you from more than just their father’s madness—there are those at court who would use any sign of weakness against you, who would see the bond you share with Ser Arthur as a threat to their own power.

As the night deepens, Rhaegar stands at the window, the distant cries of the city echoing in his ears. He can only hope that when you receive his letter, you will understand the necessity of his decision, even if it brings you closer to the darkness that haunts your dreams.

The raven will fly tonight, carrying with it the weight of the future, the hope of a family bound by blood, and the fear of what is yet to come.

Tonight, King Aerys II Targaryen hosts one of his infamous dinners, a gathering that always holds a certain tension, a sense of unease that lingers in the air like the scent of burned flesh. But tonight, the atmosphere is different—subdued, almost masked by the fact that the king is in one of his more lucid moods.

The table is set with the finest silverware, and the food laid out is a feast fit for the most discerning palates: roasted quail, fresh fruits from the Reach, and spiced wine that flows freely into the goblets of those present. Aerys sits at the head of the table, his silver hair shining in the light of the countless candles that illuminate the hall. For now, his eyes are clear, his voice steady as he discusses matters of state with an unusual calmness that surprises even his closest advisors.

Rhaegar sits a few seats down from his father, his posture elegant and composed, though his thoughts are far from the idle chatter that fills the room. His eyes occasionally drift across the table to where Tywin Lannister, the former Hand of the King, sits. Tywin’s expression is as inscrutable as ever, though there is a tension in his posture that betrays his awareness of the precariousness of his position. Rhaegar knows well that Tywin seeks to regain the king's favor, though Aerys's unpredictable moods make that task increasingly difficult.

"Rhaegar," Aerys’s voice draws his attention back to the head of the table. The king’s tone is mild, almost pleasant, as he addresses his son. "I have been hearing much talk about your upcoming union with your sister. It pleases me to know that you are taking the proper steps to secure our bloodline, as our ancestors did."

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly, acknowledging his father’s words. "It is my duty, Father. The strength of our house lies in our unity, in the purity of our blood."

Aerys nods, seemingly satisfied with this response. He takes a sip of wine, his gaze distant for a moment before it sharpens again, fixing on his son. "Yes, our blood... our fire. It is what makes us different, what makes us gods among men." His voice takes on a slight edge, a hint of the madness that lurks beneath the surface. But tonight, it is controlled, a serpent lying coiled but not yet striking.

The conversation at the table shifts as Lord Wisdom Rossart, the master of the pyromancers, speaks up. His voice is oily, smooth, a stark contrast to the coarse nature of his work with wildfire. "Your Grace," he begins, leaning forward slightly, "I have heard much about the princess's time on Dragonstone. It is said she has grown closer to her dragon, Terrax. A most remarkable creature. Surely, she will bring great power to your house, my king."

The mention of you, his daughter, shifts something in Aerys's demeanor. His previously calm expression tightens, and his eyes, so recently clear, darken with a sudden intensity. "My daughter..." he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, as if testing the words on his tongue. "Yes, she has become quite... precious to me. The dragon... our dragon. It is as much mine as it is hers, is it not?"

The tension at the table heightens. Rhaegar’s gaze flicks toward Tywin, who, sensing an opportunity—or perhaps a trap—leans forward slightly, his voice measured and careful. "Your Grace, the princess is indeed a remarkable young woman, much like her mother. She has served the realm well and will continue to do so in her union with Prince Rhaegar."

But Aerys's mood has already begun to shift, the calm veneer cracking as the madness beneath stirs. His hand tightens around his goblet, knuckles whitening as he stares down into the wine. "My daughter..." he repeats, but now there is something darker in his tone. "She has been away from me for too long. I should not have allowed her to leave. She belongs here, with me, with her dragon. They are mine."

Rhaegar can feel the air in the room growing richer, the dread almost seen. He says nothing, knowing that any words might tip the delicate balance, might send his father spiraling into one of his rages. Instead, he keeps his expression neutral, his gaze shifting to Tywin, who is now visibly uncomfortable, the miscalculation evident in his stiff posture.

Tywin attempts to recover, his voice smooth but lacking its usual confidence. "Of course, Your Grace. The princess will return soon, and the wedding will be a celebration for the entire realm. Her presence will bring strength to House Targaryen, as it always has."

But Aerys is no longer listening. His thoughts have turned inward, the darkness within him swirling like the wildfire he so loves. He mutters to himself, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table, the earlier calm now a distant memory. The courtiers around the table shift uncomfortably, their previous conversations dying down to uneasy whispers.

Ser Gerold Hightower, still the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, exchanges a glance with Ser Barristan Selmy. Both men are seasoned warriors, well-versed in reading the moods of the court and the king they are sworn to protect. Gerold’s expression is grim, a silent acknowledgment of the volatility they are now facing. Barristan, ever vigilant, subtly adjusts his stance, ready to act should the need arise.

Rhaegar feels the weight of their gazes, the unspoken understanding between them. They are all caught in this delicate dance, one wrong step away from disaster. He forces himself to remain calm, to project the steadiness that his father so desperately lacks. He must keep Aerys grounded, must prevent the madness from taking hold fully tonight.

"Father," Rhaegar says, his voice soft but commanding enough to draw Aerys’s attention back to him. "You are right. The princess and Terrax belong here, in King’s Landing, with our family. When she returns, we will stand united, as Targaryens have always done. Our strength will be unmatched, our enemies powerless before us."

Aerys blinks, his eyes focusing on Rhaegar as if seeing him clearly for the first time since the dinner began. There is a flicker of recognition, a momentary return to lucidity. "Yes... yes, united," he murmurs, his grip on the goblet loosening. "They will see... they will all see our power."

The moment passes, the storm within Aerys retreating, for now, leaving behind only the faintest echoes of what might have been. The courtiers, sensing the shift, cautiously resume their conversations, though the unease lingers like a shadow over the table.

Rhaegar allows himself a small, inward sigh of relief, but he knows this is only a temporary reprieve. His father’s madness is like a storm, unpredictable and deadly, and it will take more than careful words to keep it at bay. He glances once more at Tywin, whose expression has hardened, the failure to regain Aerys's favor evident in his clenched jaw. Tywin Lannister is not a man who takes defeat lightly, and Rhaegar knows that the lion will not give up so easily.

As the dinner continues, Rhaegar remains vigilant, his thoughts constantly turning to you and the letter he sent. The wedding must happen soon, before the delicate balance they are all walking shatters completely.

Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan exchange another look, a silent agreement between them. They are ready to act, ready to protect their prince and the realm from whatever darkness may come. But even they cannot predict what the Mad King will do next, and as the evening wears on.

The chamber is quiet except for the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth, its warmth barely cutting through the chill that seems to pervade Dragonstone, even in the height of summer. You sit by the window, the letter from Rhaegar held tightly in your hands, your heart heavy with the weight of his words. The stormy sea outside reflects the turmoil inside you, the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs of the island with relentless force.

Across from you, your mother, Queen Rhaella, sits in a high-backed chair, her gaze fixed on you with a softness that you rarely see these days. Her face, lined with the grief and weariness of years spent enduring your father’s madness, is calm now, almost serene, as she watches you absorb the contents of the letter.

You read Rhaegar’s words again, though you’ve already memorized them—his call for your return to King’s Landing, for the preparations for your wedding, and the undercurrent of urgency that pulses through every line. You know what this means, the union that has been discussed in whispers among the court, and now, it seems, it is inevitable.

You finally lower the letter, the parchment rustling in your hands, and look up to meet your mother’s eyes. Rhaella’s expression is gentle, but there is a sadness there too, an understanding that goes beyond words.

"Rhaegar wishes for us to return," you say softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper. "He says the preparations for the wedding must begin."

Rhaella nods, her eyes never leaving yours. "It was only a matter of time," she replies, her voice calm and measured. "The court will expect it, and your brother... he will do what he must to protect you."

You feel a tightening in your chest, the implications of the letter weighing heavily on you. "It’s all happening so fast," you admit, turning your gaze back to the letter, as if it might offer some new revelation, some way out of the path that has been laid before you. "I don’t know if I’m ready for this."

Rhaella reaches out and gently takes your hand in hers, her touch warm and reassuring. "None of us are ever truly ready for what life demands of us, Y/N," she says, her voice filled with the wisdom of someone who has faced unimaginable trials. "But we do what we must, for our family, for the realm."

You nod, though the turmoil inside you remains. You find your gaze drifting across the room, to where Ser Arthur Dayne stands near the far wall, his back straight, his eyes focused on the stone floor as he gives you and your mother the privacy you need. Even from this distance, his presence is a comfort, a steady force in the storm of your thoughts.

Rhaella follows your gaze, her eyes softening as she watches Arthur. After a moment, she speaks, her voice quiet but filled with a warmth that surprises you. "He is a good man," she says, her words careful and deliberate. "Your Sword of the Morning."

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly turn back to your mother, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks. "Mother, I—" you begin, stumbling over your words, "you’ve misunderstood. Ser Arthur is my protector, nothing more."

Rhaella’s lips curve into a knowing smile, and she shakes her head gently. "I have misunderstood nothing, my dear," she replies, her tone kind but firm. "I see the way he looks at you, and the way you look at him. There is a bond between you, one that goes beyond mere duty."

You open your mouth to protest, to deny the truth of her words, but the look in her eyes stops you. She understands, perhaps better than anyone, the complexities of love and duty, the sacrifices that are demanded of those who bear the weight of the crown. 

After a moment, you sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as the tension leaves your body. "I didn’t mean for this to happen," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "But Arthur... he’s been there for me, through everything. He understands me in a way that no one else does."

Rhaella squeezes your hand gently, her gaze filled with empathy. "And for that, I am glad," she says softly. "You deserve happiness, Y/N, even in the midst of all this madness. If Arthur brings you that, then you should not deny it."

You look at her, surprised by the ease with which she has accepted this, by the quiet strength in her words. "But what about Rhaegar? The marriage..." 

Rhaella’s expression turns somber, and she nods slowly. "The marriage will happen," she says, her voice tinged with sadness. "But your heart does not have to be bound by it. Rhaegar loves you, Y/N, but he also understands the sacrifices that are required of us. You must follow your heart, even if your hand must follow another path."

Her words bring a strange mix of comfort and sorrow, the weight of your choices pressing down on you like never before. You nod, unable to find the words to express the turmoil inside you. Instead, you turn back to the letter, tracing the edges of the parchment with your fingers, trying to make sense of the emotions that swirl within you.

But as you sit there, the voices in your mind, the ones that have plagued you for so long, begin to stir again, like the distant rumble of thunder on the horizon. The words are faint at first, barely discernible, but they grow louder, more insistent, until you can no longer ignore them.

"They’re getting louder," you admit, your voice trembling as you look at your mother. "The voices... they’re always there, whispering, even when I’m awake. I’m afraid, Mother. I’m afraid I’m going mad."

Rhaella’s eyes fill with concern, and she moves closer, wrapping her arms around you in a comforting embrace. "You are not mad, my love," she whispers, holding you tightly. "You are strong, stronger than you know. The voices... they are the echoes of our blood, of the dragons that live within us. But you must not let them control you."

You cling to her, the fear and uncertainty that have plagued you for so long spilling over into tears. "But what if I can’t control them? What if they take over, like they did with Father?"

Rhaella pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands, her eyes filled with a fierce determination. "You are not your father, Y/N," she says firmly. "You are your own person, with your own strength. The blood of the dragon flows through you, but it does not define you. You can master it, just as you can master your fears."

Her words bring a glimmer of hope, a small light in the darkness that has threatened to consume you. You nod, taking a deep breath as you try to steady yourself, to hold on to the strength that your mother sees in you.

"I will try," you say softly, your voice steadier now. "I will try to be strong."

Rhaella smiles, her eyes filled with pride. "You already are, my dear. And you are not alone. Arthur is here for you, as am I."

You nod again, finding comfort in her words, in the warmth of her embrace. 

As you sit there, holding onto your mother, the voices in your mind begin to fade, retreating into the background like the distant roar of the sea. They are still there, a constant presence at the edges of your thoughts, but they no longer hold the same power over you. 

The morning air is crisp and cool as you and your mother, Queen Rhaella, prepare to depart from Dragonstone. The sky is overcast, a thick blanket of clouds hanging low over the island, and the sea below churns restlessly, as if sensing the unease that ripples through the small party assembled at the harbor. You stand beside your mother, her hand resting gently on your arm, as the retainers and royal guards finalize the preparations for your departure.

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell, ever vigilant, are nearby, their eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced ease. Even in this moment of transition, their commitment to your safety is unwavering. The royal guards, clad in the red and black of House Targaryen, stand ready to escort you and your mother back to King’s Landing, where Rhaegar’s letter has summoned you for the wedding that will bind your fate to his.

As the last of the supplies are loaded onto the ship, a sudden shriek pierces the air, causing everyone to look up. You follow their gazes and feel a familiar thrill of awe as Terrax, your dragon, swoops down from the sky, his wings cutting through the air with powerful strokes. He is larger now, slightly bigger than a horse, his black scales gleaming like polished obsidian in the dim light. His golden eyes, bright and fierce, are fixed on you as he circles once above the harbor before landing gracefully on a nearby cliff that overlooks the sea.

The ground trembles slightly under the weight of the dragon as he perches on the edge of the cliff, his talons gripping the rock with ease. He lets out another shriek, this one a lower, rumbling sound, as he surveys the harbor below, his keen eyes taking in every detail. Terrax has become a constant companion, a presence that both comforts and unsettles you, his bond with you growing stronger with each passing day.

"Your dragon has grown," Rhaella remarks softly beside you, her gaze fixed on Terrax. There is a note of awe in her voice, mixed with the ever-present concern that she carries as your mother. "He truly is a magnificent creature."

You nod, unable to tear your eyes away from Terrax. "Yes, he is," you reply, your voice tinged with the same awe that you feel every time you see him. "And he’s ready to follow us, no matter where we go."

As if in response to your words, Terrax lets out a low, rumbling growl, his golden eyes locking onto yours. The connection between you flares to life, a deep, primal bond that goes beyond words or reason. You can feel his presence in your mind, a steady, reassuring force that grounds you even in the face of the uncertainty that lies ahead.

Ser Arthur steps forward, his gaze briefly flicking to Terrax before settling on you. "The ship is ready, Your Grace," he says, his tone respectful but carrying the undercurrent of familiarity that you have come to rely on. "We can depart as soon as you and the queen are aboard."

You nod, your mind still half-focused on the bond with Terrax. "Thank you, Ser Arthur," you say, offering him a small smile. "We will be ready shortly."

Rhaella turns to face you fully, her hand squeezing your arm gently. "Are you certain, Y/N?" she asks, her voice filled with concern. "Returning to King’s Landing... it will not be easy."

You meet her gaze, seeing the worry etched in her features, the same worry that has weighed heavily on you since Rhaegar’s letter arrived. But you know that you cannot avoid what must be done. The wedding, the union with Rhaegar, is the only way to ensure your safety—and the safety of those you love—in the volatile world of the Red Keep.

"I know, Mother," you reply softly, your resolve firm. "But we must do what is necessary. Rhaegar has called for us, and we must answer."

Rhaella studies you for a moment longer, then nods, her expression one of quiet acceptance. "You are strong, my love," she says, her voice filled with pride. "Stronger than I ever was."

You smile at her words, though there is a sadness that lingers beneath the surface. "We must be strong, Mother. For each other, and for our family."

Together, you and Rhaella begin to walk toward the ship, the royal guards forming a protective escort around you. Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn follow closely, their eyes ever watchful for any sign of danger. As you approach the gangplank, you cast one last glance at Terrax, who remains perched on the cliff, his gaze unwavering as he watches your every move.

"Stay close, Terrax," you murmur, knowing that he can sense your thoughts as clearly as you can sense his. "We will need you."

The dragon lets out a low, rumbling growl in response, his wings shifting slightly as if ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. You feel the strength of his bond with you, a connection that transcends the physical distance between you, and it gives you the courage to take the next step, to board the ship that will carry you back to King’s Landing—and to whatever awaits you there.

As the ship sets sail, the wind catching in its sails and propelling it away from Dragonstone, you stand at the bow, your mother by your side, and watch as the island slowly recedes into the distance. Terrax remains on the cliff for a moment longer, his powerful form silhouetted against the gray sky, before he spreads his wings and takes to the air, following the ship as it cuts through the waves.

And as Terrax flies above the ship, his shadow passing over the deck like a dark omen, you feel a strange sense of calm settle over you. The voices in your mind, once so loud and insistent, are quieter now, their whispers drowned out by the sound of the wind and the waves, and by the steady, reassuring presence of your dragon.

For now, you are at peace, even if only for a moment.

The cabin is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting gentle shadows on the wooden walls as you lie entwined with Arthur on the narrow bed. The gentle sway of the ship as it cuts through the waves creates a rhythm that lulls you into a rare sense of calm, a peace that has been all too elusive in recent months. The warmth of Arthur's body against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest, brings a comfort that you have come to cherish more than anything else in this world.

The aftermath of your lovemaking leaves you both in a state of quiet contentment, your limbs still tangled together as you rest in the intimacy of each other's arms. Arthur's hand traces slow, soothing patterns along your back, his touch light and reverent, as if he cannot quite believe that you are here with him, that this moment is real.

For a while, neither of you speaks. There is no need for words when the bond between you is so strong, so deeply rooted in a love that has grown in the shadow of secrecy and danger. The world outside this cabin, with all its threats and uncertainties, seems distant and unreal, a mere echo of something you no longer have to face alone.

You shift slightly in Arthur's embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The silence between you is comforting, a shared understanding that words could never fully capture. But as the minutes pass, you find yourself needing to voice the thoughts that have been swirling in your mind, the fears that have haunted you for so long.

"Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper in the quiet of the cabin. "The voices... they're silent when I'm with you."

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing in its movements along your back, before he pulls you even closer, his embrace tightening as if to shield you from the world. "I'm glad," he replies softly, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. "I wish I could keep them silent for you always."

You lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze. His lilac-gray eyes, usually so guarded, are open and vulnerable now, reflecting the depth of his feelings for you. You reach up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the roughness of his stubble a familiar and comforting sensation.

"You do," you say, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. "When I'm with you, it's like the darkness fades away, like the nightmares and the voices can't reach me. I don't know what I would do without you."

Arthur's expression softens, and he leans down to press a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as if to imprint the moment into his memory. "You don't have to be without me," he murmurs against your skin. "I'm here, Y/N. And I'll be here for as long as you need me."

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, the warmth of his affection filling you with a sense of safety that you have rarely known. For a moment, you allow yourself to believe that this could last forever, that you could remain in this cabin with Arthur, away from the world and its demands.

But the reality of your situation is never far from your mind, and as you lie there in his arms, you can't help but think of what lies ahead—your return to King’s Landing, the wedding, the inevitable confrontation with your father. The peace you have found here is fleeting, and you know that you must find a way to navigate the challenges that await you.

"Arthur," you begin hesitantly, unsure of how to broach the subject that has been weighing on your mind. "Rhaegar... he has his own burdens to bear. His own dreams and fears. He's spoken to me about them before, but I... I’ve never told him about mine. Not really."

Arthur pulls back slightly to look at you, his expression thoughtful. "You should speak with him," he says gently. "Rhaegar cares for you, Y/N. He’s your brother, and he would want to know what you're going through. He would want to help."

You nod, though the thought of opening up to Rhaegar about the full extent of your nightmares, of the voices that have plagued you, fills you with a sense of dread. "I know," you reply softly. "But it's hard. He's always been the strong one, the one who carries the weight of our family. I don't want to burden him with my fears."

Arthur shakes his head, his expression resolute. "You are not a burden, Y/N. And Rhaegar is not as invincible as he seems. He needs you as much as you need him. The bond you share as siblings is something that should not be taken for granted. If you can talk to me about your dreams, you can talk to him. It might bring you both some peace."

You consider his words, knowing deep down that he is right. Rhaegar has always been there for you, protecting you, guiding you through the darkest times. He deserves to know the truth about what you’ve been experiencing, even if it means revealing the vulnerabilities you’ve kept hidden for so long.

"I'll try," you say finally, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "I’ll talk to him when we return. But... I'm afraid, Arthur. I'm afraid of what he might think, of what he might say."

Arthur leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a promise of unwavering support and love. "Rhaegar loves you," he says softly. "He will understand, just as I do. And whatever happens, you won’t face it alone. I’ll be with you, every step of the way."

You smile, a small but genuine smile, as you rest your head against his chest once more. The fear is still there, lurking in the shadows of your mind, but it is tempered by the knowledge that you have someone by your side who will stand with you, no matter what comes.

As the ship continues its journey across the sea, you close your eyes and allow yourself to drift into a light, dreamless sleep, held securely in the arms of the man you love. For now, the voices are silent, and in the quiet of the cabin, you find a measure of peace that you will carry with you into whatever lies ahead.

And when the time comes to face the darkness, you know that you will not be alone.

The ship glides smoothly into the harbor of King’s Landing, the sails fluttering as the vessel is expertly guided to its docking point. The familiar sprawl of the capital stretches before you, the Red Keep rising above the city like a foreboding sentinel. The sight of it fills you with a mix of emotions—dread, anticipation, and a deep sense of duty that has been ingrained in you since birth. The wind carries the scent of salt and smoke, and the air is filled with the noise of the bustling harbor as workers and soldiers alike prepare for your arrival.

On the docks, a gathering of courtiers, guards, and noble families waits, their finery on display as they stand in neat rows. At the forefront of the group, you can see your father, King Aerys II, resplendent in the black and red of House Targaryen, his hair gleaming in the midday sun. Rhaegar stands beside him, his posture regal yet somehow tense, as if he is bracing himself for what is to come. The presence of Varys, the spymaster, just behind them only adds to the sense of unease that prickles at your skin.

As the ship comes to a stop, the gangplank is lowered, and the royal guards move into position to escort you and your mother onto the dock. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell stand close by, their eyes sharp and alert, while your mother, Queen Rhaella, stands beside you, her expression composed but her grip on your arm firm. There is a weight to this moment, a significance that neither of you can ignore.

Just as you and your mother prepare to disembark, you notice a brief exchange between Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Gerold Hightower. Jaime, his youthful face set in a mischievous smirk, leans in to whisper something to Gerold, who frowns deeply in response. Whatever was said, it doesn’t bode well, and you can feel the tension in the air grow thicker.

As your feet touch the wooden planks of the dock, a sudden rush of wind sweeps through the harbor, accompanied by a loud, piercing shriek. The assembled nobles and courtiers gasp and murmur among themselves, some even stepping back in alarm as the shadow of your dragon, Terrax, sweeps over them. You turn to see him descending from the sky, his wings outstretched as he makes his way toward the dock.

Terrax lands with a powerful thud not far from where you stand, his golden eyes fixed on you as he lets out another low growl. His presence is imposing, his black scales glinting in the sunlight, and it is clear from the reactions of those gathered that he is both feared and revered. The noble ladies and lords who had come to greet you, all clad in their finest garments, shrink back at the sight of him, some barely containing their fear.

You step forward, moving closer to Terrax, and the bond between you flares to life once more, a comforting presence that steadies your nerves. The dragon lowers his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, and you feel the connection between you strengthen, a silent communication that no one else can understand.

As you turn back toward the gathering, you see Rhaegar take a step forward, his expression softening as he moves to greet you. But before he can reach you, King Aerys surges ahead, his eyes alight with a mix of obsession and possessiveness that makes your heart lurch. The courtiers part before him, their eyes cast downward, as he strides toward you and Terrax with an almost manic energy.

"My daughter," Aerys croons, his voice dripping with a twisted affection. "You have returned to me, and with our dragon."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek with a touch that sends a shiver down your spine. The connection with Terrax intensifies, and you can feel the dragon’s unease as Aerys turns his attention to him, his gaze hungry and wild.

Terrax growls low in his throat, the sound reverberating through the air, and the tension among the gathered nobles spikes as they watch the interaction with bated breath. You feel the dragon’s warning in your mind, a protective instinct that mirrors your own. But you know better than to let this moment spiral out of control. The consequences of such a display would be dire.

"Father," you say softly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. "Terrax and I have returned as you wished."

Aerys’s eyes flicker with something dark and dangerous as he steps closer, his gaze shifting between you and the dragon. "Yes," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Yes, you have returned... my blood, my fire. We are one, you and I, bound by the flames that birthed this dragon."

Rhaegar finally steps forward, placing a hand on Aerys’s arm in a gesture meant to calm him. "Father," he says gently, his voice soothing, "Y/N has returned to us safely, as you desired. We should allow her to rest after her journey."

Aerys hesitates, his gaze darting to Rhaegar before returning to you. There is a moment of silance, a brief flicker of resistance, but then Aerys nods slowly, as if coming back to himself. "Yes," he agrees, though there is still a sharpness in his tone. "Yes, she must rest. But the dragon... he will remain close. He is ours, after all."

Rhaegar’s hand tightens slightly on Aerys’s arm, and he gives you a meaningful look, one that tells you to hold steady, to endure this moment. You nod subtly, acknowledging his unspoken request, and step back, allowing Aerys to retreat with some semblance of dignity.

As Aerys turns away, you feel the tension in the air ease slightly, though the unease remains. Terrax huffs softly, his golden eyes following Aerys with a wary gaze. You reach out and place a hand on the dragon’s flank, a silent gesture of reassurance that you are still in control, that everything will be all right.

Rhaegar moves closer to you, his expression a mix of relief and concern. "Y/N," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear, "I’m glad you’re back. There is much we need to discuss, but for now, let’s get you and Mother settled."

You nod, your heart still pounding from the intensity of the moment. "Yes," you reply softly, "let’s."

As you, your mother, and your retainers begin to make your way toward the waiting carriages, Terrax spreads his wings and takes flight, circling above the harbor before landing on the high walls of the Red Keep, a vigilant guardian watching over you. The courtiers and nobles continue to murmur among themselves, their fear and awe palpable as they watch the dragon’s every move.

Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn remain close by your side, their presence a constant reminder that you are not alone in this. 

As the carriages begin to move, carrying you and your mother back to the Red Keep, you catch a final glimpse of Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold exchanging another glance, the frown on Gerold’s face deepening. Whatever was whispered between them remains a mystery, but you cannot afford to dwell on it now.

[deathsyphn]

ON BEING AN APOSTATE : DEVELOPING MAGIC

much of vesa's magic developed after she was conscripted into the wardens. prior to that , it was whatever scraps she could get her hands on to learn &. testing minor abilities on her own. there was innate talent but it took experience &. further knowledge to increase her power exponentially. i've noted her reasoning for expanding certain skill tress along with explanations of the condensed necromancer specialization &. her custom one i've called decay.

ARCANE TREE ATTUNEMENT : fade shield , elemental mastery , attunement , time spiral

this is the main form of magic that vesa started with. technically it's not available until awakening but i say otherwise. it's a sort of specialized general magic , as much of an oxymoron as that sounds. it's related to spirit magic , which is one of her primary trees &. more useful than the other basic mage spells.

SPIRIT TREE DEATH : walking bomb , death syphon , virulent walking bomb , animate dead ANTI — MAGIC : spell shield , dispel magic , anti — magic ward , anti — magic burst TELEKINESIS : mind blast , force field , telekinetic weapons , crushing prison

interest in the spirit tree over all began as a morbid fascination stemming from the death &. destruction she experiences from the moment of her origin. it was easy to utilize what was already around her into one of her main forms of magic. it's good for crowd control &. debuffs , especially against other mages , which is her primary combat style.

ENTROPY TREE DRAINING : drain life , death magic , curse of mortality , death cloud SLEEP : disorient , horror , sleep , waking nightmare HEXES : vulnerability hex , affliction hex , misdirection hex , death hex DEBILITATION : weakness , paralyze , miasma , mass paralysis

entropy skills are related to the death magic vesa already purses , so it was a natural next step also from her morbid curiosity. in fact , she ends up with more skills in entropy than spirit. these synergize well with her debuff build as well , along with some crowd control too with the strongest spells.

SPECIALIZATION TREES POWER OF BLOOD : dark sustenance , bloody grasp

vesa chose to drink avernus' alchemical concoction , which granted her access to the mage power of blood abilities. the use of this , along with her strange magic , developed into her custom specialization.

DECAY : sanguine call , repercussions of the grave , reaping , wither the soul

decay is a sort of combination between her specializations &. primary spell trees in terms of vibes / classification. it also stems a bit , as i mentioned above , from her blight magic from urthemiel. i have the basic outline of the powers below : sanguine call rouses the blood in her &. her enemies , particularly the undead &. darkspawn. it works to repel &. damage other creatures who try to get close to her with spirit energy as an ongoing effect that lowers the mana cap. repercussions of the grave causes a small amount of spirit damage to enemies who cause damage to her as a passive effect. reaping is also a passive effect , &. whenever dealing spirit damage , the caster will have a portion of their mana restored. wither the soul is spell that debilitates enemies while invigorating vesa.

NECROMANCY : spirit mark , blinding terror , wisps of the fallen , power of the dead

i have taken elements from the inquisition skill tree &. condensed them into the four levels of origins. spirit mark : you mark a target with an attacking spirit , inflicting ongoing damage. if the target dies while marked , the spirit mimics the victims body briefly to fight on your behalf. blinding terror : you have learned to leave enemies vulnerable in their terror. enemies that are panicked take increased damage from all attacks. wisps of the fallen : you can now have multiple marked targets with spirit mark. when a marked target dies , a wisp appears and attacks with you for a short time. power of the dead : killing enemies attracts spirits that increase the power of your spells for a short time.

BLOOD MAGIC : blood magic , blood sacrifice , blood wound

given that vesa was already well into magic that is questionable &. frightening , blood magic was also a sort of natural next step. she pursued it as a result of working with avernus rather than making a deal with the demon possessing connor. it's her least explored specialization as it's more to augment her other abilities rather than a mastery of it. forbidden magic is like catnip to her &. she has unrestricted access most of the time to try to learn more.

[scribbling-dragon]

uhh, my current list of everyone's origins and their abilities on the Afterlife SMP:

Scott

Origin(s):

Mothling (current)

Description:

A mothling is a winged moth-like creature that originally evolved in the taiga biome before adapting and spreading to the rest of the overworld.

Abilities:

- Flight - you can fly using a mix of gliding and wing propulsion

- Lantern Light - when nearby a lantern you get regeneration

Weaknesses:

- Moth-Like Body - you’re smaller and have less hearts

- Weakening Light - When nearby a soul lantern you get mining fatigue

- Armour Weight - armour weighs you down. At most you can only wear a mix of iron and chainmail

- Moth Diet - you can only eat leather and rabbit hide

--- ---

Jimmy

Origin(s):

Thornling (current)

Description:

You're a small arcane creature, protected by a strange magical spell. You don't know where you came from, you just know you exist.

Abilities:

- Piercing Thorns - you're protected by a strange magical aura. When hit, the attacker will get damaged by one heart, this cannot be blocked by any type of armour or shield. You can toggle this ability with your primary key. You're also immune to thorn-based damage.

- Empowered - while wearing a full set of armour with Thorns III, you receive 40% less damage.

Weaknesses:

- Magical Conductor - your body needs magic to live! Wearing any type of armour that isn't gold will slowly wither you away. Since gold armour is very weak, you've come up with a solution. By using gold blocks instead of gold ingots, you can make a reinforced golden armour piece

- Dwarf - you're about 1.4 blocks tall (4’5”).

- Punching Bag - being hit so many times has weakened you a lot. You have three less hearts and deal 40% less damage.

- Curse of Decay - wearing, holding or being hit by anything with a curse enchantment will affect you with Wither II for three seconds

--- ---

Lizzie

Origin(s):

Raccoon (current)

Description:

You like tight spaces, trash, and eating anything including said trash

Abilities:

- Opportunistic Eater - raccoons will eat whatever is most convenient, including rotten flesh. You get more saturation than normal from rotten flesh and have immunity to hunger

- Tapetum Lucidum - raccoons have increased vision in the dark from their fur mask

- Scurrying - because of being a scurrying trash panda, using the primary ability key the user gets speed II for ten seconds. When using this ability the user gets weakness for two minutes. Cooldown: 1 minute

- Sly Cooper - raccoons’ dark fur give them natural camouflage. Using the secondary ability key to go invisible for five seconds, but you get poison and weakness for thirty seconds

- Climbing - raccoons' hands allow them to climb.

Weaknesses:

- Burrower - being used to small spaces, you are uncomfortable in places with high ceilings and get slowness and weakness when in places higher than two blocks

- Nocturnal - as a nocturnal creature you cannot sleep. However, you can still set your spawn in beds

- Weasel - the user is shorter than humans but taller than inchlings, have three less hearts, and take reduced fall damage

--- ---

Joel

Origin(s):

Blazeborn (current)

Description:

Late descendants of the Blaze, the Blazeborn are naturally immune to the perils of the Nether.

Abilities:

- Fire Immunity - you are immune to all types of fire damage.

- Burning Wrath - When on fire, you deal additional damage with your attacks.

- Hotblooded - Due to your hot body, venom burns up, making you immune to poison and hunger status effects.

Weaknesses:

- Nether Inhabitant - Your natural spawn will be in the Nether.

- Hydrophobia - You receive damage over time while in contact with water.

--- ---

Joey

Origin(s):

Shulk (current)

Description:

Related to Shulkers, the bodies of the Shulk are outfitted with a protective shell-like skin

Abilities:

- Hoarder - you have access to an additional nine slots of inventory, which keep the items on death.

- Sturdy Skin - even without wearing armour, your skin provides natural protection.

- Strong Arms - you are strong enough to break natural stones without using a pickaxe.

Weaknesses:

- Unwieldy - the way your hands are formed provide no way of holding a shield upright

- Large Appetite - you exhaust quicker than others, thus requiring you to eat more

--- ---

Shubble

Origin(s):

Shadow Walker

Description:

You were once human until you were trapped in an empty, void-like dimension, eventually adapting to it over hundreds of years.

Abilities:

- Shadow Warp - you become a shadow, allowing you to instantly move 15 blocks in front of you

- No Exhaustion - you do not need to eat food, as after hundreds of years your body has become adept at conserving energy

- Shadow Boost - when in dark spaces you receive a boost to most stats and can see more clearly

- Shadowy Form - you are darker and more transparent than most entities

Weaknesses:

- Light Weakness - when it’s day you receive debuffs as you cannot merge with the shadows around you

- Blinding Lights - when exposed to light, you temporarily lose your sight. You can recover by hiding in dark spaces!

--- ---

Katherine

Origin(s):

Floran

Description:

A species of plant people that obtain their nutrients from the sun and gain strength from water.

Abilities:

- Green Thumb - using sneak on a fertilizable block will grow plants at the cost of some food

- Photosynthesis - you are satiated by being exposed to sunlight.

- Absorbing - you deal two more damage when wet.

Weaknesses:

- Flammable - you take twice as much damage from fire

- Nectarivore - you can only consume honey bottles

--- ---

Sausage

Origin(s):

Angel/Elytrian

Description:

Often flying around in the winds, Elytrians are uncomfortable when they don't have enough space above their head.

Abilities:

- Winged - You have Elytra wings without needing to equip any.

- Gift of the Winds - Every 60 seconds, you are able to launch about 20 blocks into the air.

- Aerial Combatant - You deal substantially more damage while in the air.

Weaknesses:

- Need for Mobility - You can not wear any heavy armour (armour with protection values higher than chainmail).

- Claustrophobia - Being somewhere with a low ceiling for too long will weaken you and make you slower.

- Brittle Bones - You take more damage from falling and flying into blocks.

--- ---

fWhip

Origin(s):

Illusioner

Description:

Magic!

Abilities:

- Star Finger - blind your enemies

- Bow Master - bows deal more damage!

- Friendly Foes - pillagers, who are usually foes, are now friendly to you. You are one of them.

- Phantom Form - you can switch between human and phantom form at will, but only while you are saturated enough to sprint.

- Invisibility - while phantomized, you are invisible

Weaknesses:

- Unpopular - iron golems will attack you on sight, and villages will have significantly higher prices when traded with.

--- ---

Lauren

Origin(s):

Avian (current)

Description:

The Avian race has lost their ability to fly a long time ago. Now these peaceful creatures can be seen gliding from one place to another.

Abilities:

- Featherweight - You fall as gently to the ground as a feather would, unless you sneak.

- Tailwind - You are a little bit quicker on foot than others.

- Oviparous - Whenever you wake up in the morning, you will lay an egg.

Weaknesses:

- Fresh Air - When sleeping, your bed needs to be at an altitude of at least 86 blocks, so you can breathe fresh air.

- Vegetarian - You can't digest any meat.

--- ---

Seapeekay

Origin(s):

Giant

Description:

The Giants are an ancient race, becoming quite a rare sight in modern times. Their history remains unknown with few left to keep it alive.

Abilities:

- Super Sized - you're twice as big as normal

Huge Heart - you have twice as much health

- Gargantuan Strength - you deal 33% more damage and 50% more knockback

- Long Limbs - you have twice the normal jump height and 33% more reach

- Extremely Sturdy - you take 50% less fall damage, 33% less knockback, mine 50% faster and you don't slip on ice.

- Giant Heritage - leather armour gives you as much protection as iron armour

- Oversized Lungs - you have twice as much oxygen

- Colossal Slam - you can slam into the ground creating a small explosion

- Piggyback - other non-giants can ride on top of you, and are thrown off when slamming

Weaknesses:

- Massive Stomach - your hunger drains 50% faster

- Unwieldy Arms - you attack 33% slower than most

- Excessive Power - bows and crossbows break on use

- Cumbersome - your size leaves you unaffected by levitation, but incapable of using an elytra or riptide trident.

- Heavy - you fall 50% faster than normal, can't float in water, and can't ride any animals or vehicles

- Arachnophobe - you take triple damage from any mobs that are affected by Bane of Arthropods.

- Gigantic Bed - your immense size limits you to needing to sleep on four beds put together

--- ---

Mika

Origin(s):

Candy (current)

[currently no other information]

--- ---

Strawburry

Origin(s):

Truffle/Mushroom

Description

Truffles, along with normal properties of mushrooms, have the unique ability to adapt to situations on the fly.

Abilities:

- Magic Spores - you can switch between different magic spores. Red Cap boosts offence, Green Cap boosts defence, and Blue Cap boosts mobility. Changing spores will decrease the abilities of the other two Caps

- Infestation - using sneak on a soil block with an empty hand will turn it into mycelium at the cost of some food.

- Rooted - you gain buffs based on the Spore you have active when standing on mycelium. Red Cap increases speed, Green Cap grants knockback immunity, and Blue Cap amplifies jump height

Weaknesses

- Decomposition - food is decomposed before it is consumed, nullifying any status effects you would otherwise gain.

--- ---

Oli

Origin(s):

Enderian

Description:

Born as children of the Ender Dragon, Enderians are capable of teleporting but are vulnerable to water.

Abilities:

- Teleportation - Whenever you want, you may throw an ender pearl which deals no damage, allowing you to teleport.

- Slender Body - You can reach blocks and entities further away.

Weaknesses:

- Hydrophobia - You receive damage over time while in contact with water.

- Scared of Gourds - You are scared of pumpkins, for a good reason.

[google-searchhistory-official]

I sensed... No, I knew danger was to befall our son once I heard talk from an old friend that revolution was on the brink. I said my heartfelt goodbye and promised to watch over him while you carried on your duties elsewhere. I flew, day and night rarely resting save for food and to quell the phantoms that impeded my progress.

It was almost too late, I caught him monologuing his insanity. I stopped him dead in his tracks and tried my hardest to bring him back from the bridge of madness. It was too late, he had built all that we stood on and was torn from his creation violently.

He set off the destruction of both creation and mind, blowing it all to dust. As the explosion began I embraced him and shielded the blast with the wings you bestowed me. I did this to save him but... His sanity was too far gone, he could not bear the actions his hands had wrought. As the destruction began to die and chaos arise, I was asked to end it all for him...

Lady Death, I no longer deserve the title Angel. I've fallen, I can't fly back to meet you, and our son was killed by my hand. The veil without you is empty and solitary. Who knows where he has gone, for his ghost remains but the soul imperfect. I will join the god of blood in attempt to call you here as our son's nation will die one final time. Let the three headed beasts of hell reign upon life to call you with wither and decay.

[lady-o-ren]

THE BRIDE

A/N: Ok. I lied. I thought I had to sacrifice the Jamie and Claire threads but really I just chopped the St. Germain one (much heavier in the disciples du mal thingy and witchcraft). Anyway this is a pinch of acotar and some bits from DOA too at the end. There will be mistakes!

______

The bride paces anxiously in her windowless chambers, trampling over the ripped and scattered remains of a once delicate veil. She wears no wedding gown. Has fed it to the hearth fire where the gold silk threads and embroidered pearls ignite the stonewalls in a hellish glow. 

She is betrothed to the notorious nobleman The Comte St. Germain. A man of exquisite elegance and roguish charm that many girls can only dream of marrying. But she isn't fooled.

She knows the depths of treachery that dwells in his breast and of the company he keeps that terrorize the dark corners of the city streets of Gaul. That all he wants from her is a woman to serve him on hand and knee, a body and soul to own.

And he has tried to. Bruising her throat and ribs. But she too has marked him ugly and bloody - gouging him from face to chest, her knee rammed between the crux of his thighs. It brings a half grin to her face.

But then she hears the ominous sound of a key sliding into the lock of the lone arched door. She stiffens like a hunted doe, bleeding her bottom lip in wait, until she hears the key jamming, breaking in two.

She shrieks with hysterical laughter if only to know that she can breathe again, clutching her aching sides as she does so. The Comte hears her and pounds the door with his fists as his threats fall loud and rabid.

He wants to bind her arm and foot. Shatter her bones beneath his boots. He wants to belt her flesh raw, slap and bite her pretty face. Wants to -

Her laughter chokes with bile, and her lily-white hands press painfully hard against her tender lips, as she wills herself to calm. 

She'll be faster, smarter, more ruthless than he. She'll throw him in the fire to roast black like the swine he is, herself too if she must. She'll -

She's barely caught her breath when the fire in the hearth dwindles to sapphire embers, illuminating the chamber like the belly of a twilight sea. The bride's heart leaps to her throat, throbbing with every skittering, piercing beat, as the stones of the hearth quake and unravel, parting for a cloaked figure to step through the impossible opening.

A silky mist whispers over him coming from the dark chasm behind and he lifts the dark green hood from his face revealing, undoubtedly, by the soft curve of his ears, a Fae Lord.

He looks as if he's flown on a thundercloud to find her, his mane wild and dark as elk's blood that ripples down the broad strength of his shoulders like the great tides of the sea. His eyes like the sickle moon are near black with ire as they linger on the iridescent bloom of bruises on her flesh and the thinness of the chemise she wears. But when his gaze meets hers they glimmer with startling tenderness and passion, and a love that burns brighter than the blue flames now writhing at his feet.  

The Lord's voice is low and ragged from unbridled emotion when he speaks yet he manages to smile wryly, "Should'a bride of such beauty be mournin' on her wedding day?" 

She'd forgotten how deeply she could hate him. Love him. All at once. That - That -

"You - you - Oh, Jamie!" She throws herself in her only beloved's arms that grip her just as fiercely, and he cries, "Claire, mo chridhe," into her curls, long and lovely as a willow's leaves.

She soaks in his warmth and strength that wraps around her like a shield, breathing in the scent of him - balsam trees and dewy grass, sun-warmed skin that tastes of woodsmoke and spring rain, and the pungent muskiness of exhaustion as he trembles to the bone with relief.

"How?" She mouths against his chest heaving strong as a bellow beneath her cheek. 

He nuzzles softly at her crown, hands soothing warmth down her back then shoulders, holding her slightly away.

"Our hearts are forever bound to one another, I've told ye so before." 

The night they met when he first made her laugh and she dared to kiss him along the glittering Seine. 

"I could feel yer despair, thought maybe ye were feeling the same pain as I. Regret for how we parted when ye told me ye loved me nae more." He squeezes her shoulders, knowing how she lied but not why. "But I felt it grow weaker day after day, and kent it must be something more. I ken ye told me to leave ye be but I thought ye were dying, my love. I couldna keep away."

Tears gloss her eyes as she bows her head ashamed, so quietly she says, "I thought you wouldn't. I meant to make you hate me." 

"Never," he affirms, lifting her chin. "I shouldna have let my temper get the better of me, to keep me from yer side. If I hadn't -"

His mouth tightens as he brushes his knuckles down her cheek, gently thumbing her swollen bottom lip.

He wants to kiss the blood away, the blight that colors her skin. Wants to love her till there's nothing left of them but a single soul. . .

But the door is finally forced open and he comes face to face with the Comte St. Germain.

The Fae Lord erupts with rage violent and luminous as a lightning bolt, cracking the stones that encircle them all, as he claws at the air and twists his wrist. The Comte stupidly, desperately, reaches for the iron forged rapier strapped to his waist, beseeching the protection of the wickedly divine that he's pledged his soul to, but instead of deliverance, he's sent flying into the far wall. 

His bones shatter with a sickening crunch as blood and strangled screams sputter from his mouth. 

"That's enough," Claire says in a moment of pity to her Lord, and with tremendous effort, she pulls him away, leaving the wretched Comte St. Germain gasping for air alone in the cold dark as the walls that he imprisoned her within collapse.

//

Claire's brought to a small clearing just as dawn slowly breaks across the big sky, a hazy plume of dark grey and lavender, and the barest hint of golden sunlight. The wind is chilly and tugs at her hair but she savors its biting caress that shudders down her spine, intoxicating her lungs. She walks enjoying the feel of the tall grass tickling her fingertips and the dirt soft beneath her bare feet, but she finds a gaping absence at her side.

She glances over her shoulder where Jamie trails behind, watching her with trepidation as an aching question whispers from his mouth.

"Will ye run off again, mo nighean donn? Is this the last I'll see of ye?"

She wraps her arms around herself, curls whisking like dandelion seeds across her lashes and cheeks.

"I didn't run, Jamie."

"Ye did," he reproaches softly, not wanting another fight. "Like a thief in the night with my heart. I gave ye all of me gladly and forever will -"

"But I can't promise you the same." Her bleeding heart lodges thick in her throat and the truth of it all comes pouring out. "Maybe a few decades, a blink in the eye to you, before I wither to decay, and you still beautiful as the day we met."

"That's what's been troublin' ye?" His face is serious, but one corner of his mouth curls up irrepressibly. 

"Don't you laugh!" She says furiously.

"I think I will," Jamie smiles widely, and takes a step toward her meaning to kiss the foolishness from her vexing mouth but she takes a step back. He raises an auburn brow daring her to move away from him again and she thrusts her defiant chin high and kicks her left heel back.

What comes next is a flurry of limbs and grunts that leaves Claire breathless with her slender wrists pinned above her head and chrysanthemums crushed in her hair. Her eyes dark as black amber glare into his.

"God's, you are a stubborn wee thing," Jamie admires through his mounting frustration, himself mangled with dirt and grass.

"And you weigh more than a bloody damn bear!" She pants and wriggles beneath him, trying to ignore the spikes of heat rushing through her veins where he's pressed solid and unyielding against her.

 "Now get off!" 

"Not until ye hear me out, wee besom!" 

"What more can be said? Nothing can be done! Love isn't magic, it won't keep the years from taking me from you."

Jamie's face catches fire in the growing morning light, and moves their hands to press hard on the swell of his breast beating the same raw rhythm as hers.

"So long as my body lives, so will yours, mo ghraidh. Though I think ye'd look just as bonny touched like starlight, the years no matter how few, around yer golden eyes. But ye must know," his words fall heavily and he feels her pulse at her wrist give a lurching thump. "That when my body shall cease, yours will as well. It could be this day, tomorrow, maybe centuries or more. The only consequence when ye make a blood vow with a fae."

She blinks up at him, thrumming like a viola. "A blood vow?" 

His lips curl shyly and his breath warm as melted butter brushes hers. "It's done when my kind find their mates. A sacred, unbreakable vow that binds two souls in this life and after."

"Like marriage?" She blushes and smiles, the first in so very long, looking lovelier than she ever has to Jamie.

 "Aye." He answers simply, low and husky, and finds his courage in three soaring heartbeats.

"My Lady, my Claire, will ye have me as your husband? To serve ye, worship ye, wi' all that I am?"

Tears begin to fall again though she's beaming with joy, tangling her fingers in Jamie's mane as he claims a loving long kiss down the trail of each one. 

When he hovers above her lips, they brush his in answer.

"Well I am wearing white."

"Ye won't be wearing a thing if ye say I do."

[jango-fettish]

3 - A Salacious B. Crumb vs Boba Fett Story

Summary: Salacious B. Crumb is an enigma. Boba Fett is seemingly unkillable god. So what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? 

Warnings: Canonical Violence, Character Death, OCC Salacious 

Word Count: 2744

A/N: yeah the title is another britney spears song, deal with it. this has not been edited or read over after it was written so enjoy my mistakes (i meant typos and what nots, i know this entire thing could be considered a mistake). i gave up towards the end but whatever

Tagging my mutuals who tolerate my bullshit: @a-dorin @simping-for-fives @nelba @chadillacboseman @porgnugget @cptnbvcks​ @blxwjobsforclones @clonewarslover55​ @djxrxn​ @escapedthesarlacc

Gif is not mine. i got it from here. 

Tatooine was a barren wasteland, with only two outcomes for those unfortunate enough to land on the sandy dunes: a slow death or a quick death. No one ever got to choose which one would happen to them, it just happened. You could be a young child, just walking around the corner and getting caught in an unsuspected dust storm, sand filling every crevice and making home in your lungs. Or you could live for years, your skin and soul withering away under the twin suns, the heat baking you slowly from the inside out until you breathe your final breath. 

Or, for some reason, you could actually get lucky and survive something that should have been your end. In an instant you turn into a god amongst mortals, someone who could say that Tatooine tried her best to end you, but you were just better. That is until the ever-changing dunes decided that today would be the day and become your grave. It was a rare occurrence, even more rare to happen to multiple people in the same day, in the same place. But luck and whatever greater being they believed in was on their side. And they lived. 

Salacious B. Crumb, for all intents and purposes, should have died the moment he became the jester of Jabba the Hutt. The little Kowakian monkey-lizard wasn’t built for the festering, dry heat of Tatooine. What a change from the tropical climate and landscapes of his mother planet. Nonetheless, he adapted and survived. Though there were a few times that he was almost crushed by the weight of his master, or swallowed by the great slug beast for not doing his job. The little shit was tough, tough enough to be able to stare bounty hunters, such as Boba Fett, down and laugh in his face without worry of consequences. 

But Boba Fett was the type to not forgive or forget transgressions, even the same ones. The noxious laugh of Jabba’s most loyal pet seemed to bother everyone besides the Hutt. Each time he arrived back in the dais to get a new job, Boba planned out exactly how he would kill the little creature, each growing more and more violent in nature. In the end, he had three perfectly planned out executions for the little creature. He wouldn’t be able to live out his sick fantasies, at least not when the Kowakian was wrapped snugly in Jabba’s tail, stealing the small morsels of food that broke off of Jabba’s meal. 

Even as he fell into the great stomach of the Sarlacc, Boba could hear the high laugh of Salacious B. Crumb mocking him. It was cut short when there was a great explosion and, while it wasn’t one of the three ways Boba would have killed him, he was glad that at least it was done. But, their destinies were intertwined that day. Both were supposed to die in the swirling sands of the Dune Sea. But the Sea had other plans for them.

Boba Fett sat atop the throne once owned by his employer. How the fates had changed in favor of the Mandalorian, once swallowed the decaying in the bubbling stomach of the Sarlacc, now seated in a position of power no man would dream of having. 

But Boba Fett was no ordinary man. 

***********

As he stared at the bodies flooding the chamber, celebrating the ending of Bib Fortuna’s rule over the once powerful Hutt Empire, Boba felt at ease for the first time in his life. He had his father’s armor back, he completed a quest and earned himself a new powerful ally. However, even with all that, Boba could feel the bubbling of uncertainty in his gut. 

Under the safety of his visor, Boba’s dark eyes watched Fennec Shand, his faithful partner, flirt with a purple skinned Twi’lek woman. Once unsure of trusting an assassin with a reputation such as Fennec’s, who at a moment's notice could easily blind side him and take everything he worked so hard for, Boba was sure he could trust her. He had saved her life after all. No, she wouldn’t be the one to betray him. 

He didn’t have to worry about any supporters of Bib Fortuna. The pale Twi’lek had made many enemies within the five years he was in power, growing greedy and selfish. It helped that Boba’s reputation in the galaxy was well known and feared. He was a god, been to hell and back. Who would dare try to challenge him? 

“F-F-Fett,” a high gravely voice whispered from behind him. It was like a breeze, barely there, but he could hear it. 

Boba sat straighter in the throne and tried to drown out the sounds of laughing and merriment that echoed throughout the room. The helmet could only filter out so much. He wasn’t the same bounty hunter he used to be before the pit. Though he was only in the belly for two days, the Sarlacc did more damage to him than he would like to admit. His leg, which he surprisingly was able to save, burned and ached every step he took. The heavy beskar armor just added to the additional stress. He was in constant pain, unable to fully find a sedative or pill that would dull the pins and needles he felt in his knees. His ever increasing age only added to it. But gods didn’t feel pain, so Boba didn’t either. 

“Fett,” the voice called again from his left. Boba whipped his head to the side, looking in the direct the whisper came. It was coming from deep in the many caves of the palace. The voice probably travelled not that far though to get to him. He seemed to be the only one that could hear it. Part of him wondered if he was imagining things, if the voice was just a hallucination. Maybe it was a new symptom of the pit. 

Great.

Boba slowly stood up, his knees cracking each inch he rose. 

“Leaving the party so soon, Fett?” Fennec Shand asked from the edge of the dias, getting his attention briefly, before he looked back in the direction of the whisper. She held a bottle of bright blue spotchka, her drink of choice. “What’s the rush?” 

“Want to check something out,” he muttered.

“Ah, going after the ghost?” 

“Ghost?” The vocoder crackled his voice. 

“Some of the boys were telling me that they heard laughing in one of the storage rooms. Couldn’t find anything or anyone down there though.”

“Laughing? What kind of laughing?” Boba asked, looking back to Fennec. 

She shrugged, “Beats me. Said it was annoying enough to make them not want to go back in there.” 

Boba’s hand twitched slightly. An annoying laugh. He knew quite a few people who he could easily categorize their laugh as annoying, but none of them from this part of the galaxy. Except one. But he was dead...but then again, so was Boba. 

“Crumb,” Boba growled, grabbing his blaster. 

“Crumb?” Fennec asked to deaf ears as Boba made his way to the hallway entrance. 

The winding halls that led deep into the ground were dimly lit as he made his way deeper into the cave system of the Palace. The walls were glistening, the moisture collecting into little pellets the deeper Boba ventured into the ground. Where had Fennec said the laugh was coming from? One of the storage rooms? 

As if on cue, a guttural laugh resonated in the hall. The sound hit Boba right in the gut, sending goosebumps up his arms. It wasn’t fear, but irritation that coursed through his body. Boba ground his teeth together, stomping down to the one storage room he knew would hold the little monster. For years Boba watched the little shit pick at the food that was given to him or that he stole, going straight for the dried, cured meats. His beak would tear at the muscles, ripping them into shreds before consuming the food with a hearty laugh. 

Boba stood in the doorway of the storage room where the keepers of the Palace kept the dried meats. Different cuts and creatures hung from the ceiling on large hooks, perfectly still. The room had no light, other than the faint glow that flowed through the doorway. Boba’s body shielded most of the light, his shadow disappearing within the room where the light touched. 

“Where are you, you little shit?” Boba growled. He took one step forward, shifting his visor into night vision.

“ooooAHAHHAHAHAHA,” the voice cackled loudly. 

Boba couldn’t see anything, other than hanging meat, as he stepped through the room. His blaster was drawn at the ready, finger secure on the trigger. For years he dreamed a day like this would come. No longer was Jabba around to protect the Kowakian. 

“Come on now, little monkey, how did you survive?” Boba asked, pushing a piece of Bantha thigh out of his way. 

“F-Fett!” the voice called before chuckling darkly. The sound was unsettling. Boba hadn’t known the creature to speak actual words. Was it even possible? The deeper Boba stepped into the meat cellar, the greater his uneasiness grew. 

“Did Fortuna let you sneak your way back in here? If it were me, I’d have put you on the pit roast the moment you showed your fucking face.” 

Silence: something Boba did not like. 

“Show yourself!” he called out.

A chain to his left shook and he heard a scream. He turned, but a second too late and Salacious B. Crumb landed on the Mandalorian’s shoulder, his sharp beak trying to find a soft spot to sink into. The Kowakian’s claws dragged themselves across Boba’s helmet. Salacious was laughing the entire time, the haunting noise drowning out Boba’s curses. Boba gripped the scruff on Salicious’s neck, ripping him off and threw him back into the shadows. Truthfully, Boba knew that he should have strangled the little guy there, but the nauseating laughs irritated him to no end. Boba just needed him away.

Salacious clung to one of the hanging meats, his claws ripping into the tendons. He glared down at Boba, who had fully regained himself after the quick attack. How Salacious wished nothing more than to strike again, but he knew better. He had to bide his time. Boba Fett was good, better than most if not all bounty hunters. The Mandalorian looked up at Salacious, and tilted his head to the side. 

“You always were an ugly little shit,” Boba said. 

It was true, time had not been kind to Salacious. The fires from the explosion took most of his fur, save a few patches on his back. His once oil rich skin was rough and dry, as were his claws and beak. The iron rich meals he received from living in the meat cellar had provided Salacious with enough sustenance to gain weight. He was heftier, larger than Boba remembered. But it was the frenzied look in Salacious’s beady yellow eyes that struck the Mandalorian. 

“Fett!” Salacious cried out, his high voice rattling through the tense air. “Feeds on Fett Crumb will! Gain his power Crumb shall! AHAHAHAHAHHA.” 

Being alone in a dark room had made the Kowakian delirious and wild. 

“Just as Crumb did with the others!” Salacious howled again. 

“Others?” Boba asked. But a quick glance to the side answered his question. In the farthest corner that the light could touch were stacks of bones and mangled bodies of decaying Gamorreans. Boba himself had ousted most of them, not wanting to rely on the pig creatures. 

“You’ve made quite a mess, haven’t you, little monkey?” Boba said, raising his blaster once more. 

“Fett thinks he funny. Funnier than Crumb? Never!” Salacious growled, and jumped to another piece of meat. The chains rattled and moaned under the new strain. 

“You’ve gotten fat,” Boba said. 

Salacious grin was sinister and showed what rotting teeth he had left, “Fortuna got fat! Why not Crumb?” 

“I’ll give you that.” Boba watched as Salacious jumped to another, closer, piece of meat. “Watch it, little monkey.” 

Salacious went quiet and still, his head lurching to the side. His tongue flicked out from his beak, coating the tip in spit. He began making incoherent noises, babbling to himself.

“How are we going to do this?” Boba asked, “Though, to be honest with you, little monkey, I’ve already made up my mind.”

“Crumb told Fett already!” Salacious cried out, “Crumb will eats Fett!” 

“Not a great plan.” Boba took a step forward causing Salacious to hiss. “I’ve dreamed of this moment for a long time.”

Salacious’s body curled back, his eyes flickering to the piece of meat hanging to the left of Boba and Boba himself. After a few seconds, his angered look rested on Boba. He had made his decision. He lunged forward, claws ready to attach themselves into whatever piece of Boba they could. Salacious was fast, but a blaster was faster. 

And with Boba Fett at the end of the blaster, you are sure to lose. 

Salacious howled in pain, falling just before Boba’s boots with a dull thud. Smoke rose from his chest from where the blaster shot landed. He coughed out pathetically, blood spattering onto Boba’s boots, before stilling. Boba counted to three silently and then slowly began to bend down. His knees creaked and groaned with the chains. 

Before he was in a full squat, Salacious’s eyes opened wide and he swatted out at Boba. His claws connect with the beskar of Boba’s chest armor, scratching away the forest green paint in four jagged lines.

“Fuck,” Boba shouted, jumping back. 

“F..F...Fett,” Salacious said weakly, coughing once again. His chest moved erratically before completely stilling. His glossy eyes dulled over and his tongue hung limply out the side of his mouth. 

This time, Boba waited longer than three seconds, and this time, he didn’t bend down to check to see if Salacious was really dead. Boba nudged the limp body with the toe of his boot, making a satisfied noise when the body simply rolled to the other side, blood seeping out from underneath. 

By the time Boba emerged from the depths of the winding cavens, the crowd he had left doubled in size. He found Fennec easily in the mass of bodies, lounging in a large chair with a jug of spotchka, and not only the purple Twi’lek seated on her lap, but a human woman seated next to her, drinking in every word Fennec had to say. Boba approached his partner, the crowd dispersing from his path. One of the perks of being king, though it wasn’t really an issue for him before either.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. How was your little adventure?” Fennec asked. 

“Need you to do something for me,” Boba said, ignoring her question. He was in no mood for games; he just wanted to fuck off from the world and sleep.  

Fennec smiled charmingly at the human woman, “Hold on a moment sweetheart.” 

“I need you to get some men to go to the meat cellar and clean it up,” Boba began, “Tell them to get rid of everything.”

“We just got a fresh shipment the other day, why do we-”

“It’s spoiled,” Boba interjected. Fennec stared at him, leaning back in the chair. She knew well enough that it wasn’t spoiled; she had been there when the shipment came in and checked it herself. Everything was fresh and top of the line. 

“That’s new.” Fennec said, pointing her jug of spotchka to the four lines on his armor. “What happened there?”

“Fucking monkey,” Boba grumbled. Fennec was about to question what he meant, but Boba held a hand up, silencing any words from her. “Just...just have them clean the damn meat cellar.” 

Fennec nodded, taking a sip of the blue liquid. “Did you find that ghost?” 

Boba laughed darkly, “Oh I found him alright. Fucking took care of it too.” Boba grabbed the jug of spotchka from Fennec, “I’m going to my chambers, I don’t want to be bothered.”

“I was drinking that,” Fennec said. 

But her words drifted into the noise of the crowd, becoming one with the cacophony of laughs and jests and music. But the one thing Boba did not hear was that high pitched Kowakian squeal that chased him down the Sarlacc’s mouth. And he was content with that.

[ladywindrunner]

a kiss to gain control.

angst kiss :: not accepting //

She could recall faintly—

           They’d loved each other once.

           When the sun shone on Quel’Thalas, before the cold came with the marching dead. When fields of blooming tulips formed a sea of yellow, swaying in the gentle breeze. She could not remember many details anymore, though lingering on the edge of clarity were essences of adoration.

           Stolen moments in the shade of Eversong. The tittering laughter of a sheepish, young mage who’d enraptured the Ranger-General. Kisses that were feather-light and teasing, touches that were fleeting but meaningful.

           Romance that should never have blossomed, did so despite odds stacked against it.

           An shard of ice flew towards the Banshee Queen. She hardly moved to dodge it, leaning out of the spell’s path, dead flesh sensing the burn of magic within it as it passed by. She did not fear the cold, nor the woman who wielded it.

           The arrows she loosed trailed black smoke and indigo threads. Whining as they flew through the air, striking dangerously close, malevolent incantations burning into the frozen ground of Northrend.

           The Ranger-General was slow to love. Slow to admit it, to herself and others. She told it in different ways, subtle ones. Ones only the lovely Lady Jaina knew.

           Stolen glances, looks exchanged that were unknown to outsiders. While her ears did not move, and her lips did not smile, there was a glint of something in the quel’dorei’s eyes. Spoken in a language only Proudmoore could decipher.

            Strange that such thoughts burdened the Dark Lady now. The distractions proving decisive, as the Lord Admiral continued to gain the upper hand.

           Jaina raised both hands to the sky, her eyes a flame with mana, their bright blue radiance speaking silently of unrelenting power. The churning skies of Northrend bowed to her will, they roiled with thunder, lightning crackled—

           And ice began to fall.

           The Banshee Queen glared towards the sky.

Shielding her face as hail fell, loud snaps were heard as pellets cracked off of the ranger’s armour.

Pellets became spheres, easily the size of cannon balls. They did not bounce off the frozen earth beneath their feet. They crashed into the ground without remorse.

One struck the Dark Lady’s back, eliciting a snarl of pain, while another slammed into her shoulder and knocked her aside.

Vile fury turned the withering arrows stuck in the ground into chains, they extended to Sylvanas’ open hand.

With one mighty heave, she tore the ground out from under her enemy.

She’d tried to remember life before undeath. She’d clung to the memories as best she could, but loathing corrupted her. Even when she’d found freedom, it hadn’t come with solace.

The living came, and shouted monster. Suddenly the Alliance was against them. They did not want to see the undead, not unless the corpses were to be put into shallow graves.

           There came cries from the freed dead, eyes no longer blue but yellow. They ran to her, skittered in the dark, crawling out from crypts, sewers, and sacked villages.

           We are forsaken.

           Save us.

           Chunks of earth and ice erupted, shattering the Lord Admiral’s concentration. She was thrown up and forwards, debris cascading around her.

           The ground came quickly, Jaina extended a hand and—

           Great plumes of snow and dust exploded outwards. The howling sky went quiet, the last boom of thunder dismal. The Dark Lady stood, shrugging off the ice.

           Arrogance had been the downfall of many.

           She had to be careful it wouldn’t be hers.

           A blast of freezing water and ice struck her. She hissed, stepping backwards, wiping water from her face.

           A creature of ice and water lumbered out of the fog of fine snow. Hunks of earth swirled about its vaguely humanoid form, having a faceless head and two arms, either adorned with bronze cuffs. It had no feet, its torso blending into a volatile spout of white water that gliding across the cracked ground.

           The cry it emitted was deep, a bellowing warning that announced the presence of its master.

           Jaina emerged after it, blood trailing from her scalp. Her fine robes ruined. She’d saved herself, but not before the Banshee Queen’s trick had wounded her.

           The soldiers of the Alliance fled, and a chorus unlike any other rose out of the murky dark:

           We are the Forsaken.

           There’d been a single figure who stood unafraid as the tide of undead streamed forth from the depths of Lordaeron. She hadn’t wavered when frightening their frightening Queen stepped into the light.

           Sylvanas did recall they tried to fool themselves into believing their love could endure. That somehow it could defy the hatred tearing into the dead ranger’s withered heart.

           The stolen glances became that of sorrow.

           They realized their love was wilting. For there was no joy, no warm embrace, or smiles waiting in their future.  

           Defeat is poison to what remained of the Dark Lady’s soul. She is struck with spell after spell. The elemental forcing her to expend more energy dodging its attempts, while suffering increasing blows from its master. The Banshee Queen could no longer feel mortal pain, but the incantations broke through the dulled senses of undeath.

           If she was not aching from magical bruising, her limbs felt as if they were on fire from the chilling bite of icy magics.

           Deathwhisper fell from her grasp; she stumbles as the tidesurger smashes her with a watery uppercut.

           An icy boulder forms before Jaina, gathering energy for the briefest of seconds before it flies forward.

           It strikes the banshee, exploding. She is sent careening backwards, until she slams into an icy rise and slumps.

           The burning crimson glow of the forsaken queen’s eyes diminishes until it is nearly vacant.

           The elemental moves aside.

           For once, the Dark Lady sees clearly without the hatred Arthas cursed her with. Dead eyes gaze up at the Lord Admiral, reminiscent of the woman who’d once been honourable. A fleeting glimpse that Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, still lingered.

           “Why?” Jaina’s words stung with betrayal, with pain, and horror.

           Sylvanas said nothing. She sat in silence, admiring the mage with a clarity she hadn’t possessed in a long while.

           They’re laughing, Jaina is held in the Ranger-General’s warm embrace. They sit beneath an old oak on the bank of a nameless creek. They’ve finally escaped, found a refuge under the pale moon during twilight. Jaina squirms as Sylvanas’ breath tickles her neck, only to be followed with teasing kisses.

           Jaina has moved closer, her broken heart, held together by determination and disgust by the Dark Lady’s actions – was on the verge of bursting.

The Banshee Queen was dying.

Her dead flesh was not mending. Shards of ice, as sharp as an assassin’s blade, stuck out of the woman. Wisps of smoke seeped out of the wounds.

“I love you,” the young mage whispered, fingers grazing the elf’s cheek, gliding along her jawline as they lay together.

“Why did you do it?” Jaina hastened her question. She needed to know.

She touched Sylvanas’ cheek.

           Sylvanas snatches Jaina’s wrist, pulling her close.

           Cold lips press against warm, a kiss of death meeting life unabashed. For a moment it felt as if her undead heart might beat once more. She cups Jaina’s face in her hands. She defies her failing strength, standing slowly.

           Her hands fall away as their lips part. Dead eyes gaze into fiery blues, still alight with potent magic.

           “I love you,” Sylvanas murmurs as their foreheads touch.

           She should have told Jaina long ago.

           The blade ran across the Lord Admiral’s fair neck with the deftness expected of a ranger.

           The crimson glow once again claimed the banshee’s eyes.

           Jaina staggered backwards, hand clasping over the mortal wound. Blood spilled through her fingers. It splattered onto her overcoat and corset.

           The elemental shrieked, its power evaporating. The water of its body sputtered, turning to a hot mist.

           Sylvanas hurried forward, catching Jaina as she fell backwards. Her wounds were mending. Gone were the icicles and slivers that had marred her preserved flesh.

           Jaina’s mouth opened, her eyes wide, tears running down her face as she one hand grabbed hold of the elf’ arm. No words escaped her, she could taste blood, its coppery flavour coating her tongue.

           A being manifested behind Banshee Queen, a ghostly visage of a winged woman, with a face obscured by a helm.

           A val’kyr.

           “you won’t be as the rest,” the woman whispered, tenderly laying Jaina down in the snow. “Your flesh will not wither, decay, or rot…”

           She stood tall, gazing down at the dying woman, her blackened soul screaming with fury. No longer would Proudmoore be a world apart from the banshee. Her heart would still, and then she’d rise.

           Then perhaps, she’d understand.

           She glanced to Deathwhisper, the bow flew to her, catching it in her hand, she spared once last look at Jaina.

           “Farwell My Love,” she whispered, words tenderly spoken. “When you rise, you rise a queen.”

The clouds churned. Dim grey twisting into black, then purple and finally, a sickening, frenzied green. The heavens beyond roared so loud with thunder it resonated in the air.

           Pale eyes opened, blue irises as empty of colour. They regarded the sky with melancholy.

           The dead closed in, Scourge minions drawn to the scent of blood. Skeleton soldiers, ghouls, and fiends. They snarled.

           All at once, lightning rained down. Vicious bolts, eviscerating all who dared to approach.

           Until none remained.

           Fair skin was now pastel in hue, not pallid, but akin to fresh fallen snow. Seamless, even the cut along her neck had vanished.

           The val’kyr was gone.

           Jaina Proudmoore stood alone, but in the back of her mind there was a whisper. An ethereal connection, it turned her frigid gaze to the horizon, to Ice Crown Citadel.

           Her eyes radiated a harsh white light, the blizzard whirling around her parted, leaving her in deathly stillness.

           The ground next to her quaked, bones of a lost steed rising up, assembling itself. A single icy horn sprouted from its blacked skull. Effortlessly she leapt into the saddle, the freezing stallion breaking into a gallop after that.

           She would find Sylvanas, she’d tear Ice Crown asunder to do it if she must.

           And behind her, the storm followed, chasing the its new queen.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧ kofi 

[merelliahallewell]

Heartsbane Magic: Soultwisting

The Heartsbane’s most vile rituals are performed with the souls of both living and dead alike. This school focuses on using the Drust magic to manipulate a given soul or mind. Enslavement, ripping the soul from one’s body, or other similar abilities lie within a soultwister’s grasp when they have mastered the magic.

Soultwisters can use their magical power to even rip long-dead souls from their peace and force them into servitude. When combined with a thornshaper’s power, witches can form wicker bodies and forcibly bind souls to them- creating their own fighting forces with frightening ease. 

Every hunter of the witches should fear the soultwisters, and respect the danger of their power. They represent the darkest and most twisted members of the Heartsbane Coven, and are not to be trifled with lightly. If engaging a Soultwister, do not neglect any preparations you can make, and be sure to cut them off from both allies and sources of new souls.

Major spells are listed below- this is not a complete list, but some of their most-used weapons.

Soul Bolt - A primary offensive spell. It twists the anguish and torment of a harvested soul into a magical blast to be directed at the witch’s enemies. It is cruel to both target and soul alike. It is pale blue in color.

Counters: A mirror shield can reflect this magic back at the witch, or deflect it to discharge harmlessly into the ground. If unable to procure such a shield, a regular one will do for at least preventing it from impacting you. When all else fails, try to dodge. 

Soul Volley - The witch expels a number of souls they have claimed as a volley of energy towards the casters. The souls appear as pale blue orbs swirling around the witch. They are similar to Soul Bolts- but their composition is different. Each bolt is a twisted soul itself- and each of them will seek the target unless they can be guided elsewhere or intercepted. 

Counters: A metal shield of any sort can protect one from the impacts of the souls- though a mirrored one is preferred for its reflective qualities. Try to put something - anything - between oneself and the parts of the volley, as the cast is difficult to interrupt once started. 

Fragment Soul - This cruel magic can be performed upon captive souls as a means of splitting their power for use in spells- or as a form of torture. Blessedly, it can only be performed upon souls that have been harvested by the Heartsbane, meaning that the living cannot be affected by this. 

Counters: Interrupt the witch that is casting the spell through physical force. This should release the soul from their grasp unless it is bound by an effigy.

Warding Candles - Candles are summoned from an unknown location, lit by a ghostly blue flame. These candles seem to offer some level of physical protection to those within them- so long as they are wielders of Throsian magic. These candles can weaken foes that stand within them so long as they remain unbroken, and help the Heartsbane maintain magical shields. 

Counters: Destroy the candles wherever possible. Keep your eyes on the ground for them and be wary not to step across the threshold they form. 

Decaying Touch - This curse, which must be transferred physically, drains away one’s soul and life energy. It drains and drains until there is nothing left, withering the person away as if they were succumbing to starvation and thirst.  They are overcome by a powerful lethargy the more hold this curse has on them, a desperate bid to conserve strength. This energy is drained to the caster very slowly. 

Counters: Avoid being within touching distance of a witch if possible. If you or one you know is afflicted, retreat and find a mage or a healer as soon as possible. Only through dispelling the curse quickly may the life of the target be saved. Adverse effects like exhaustion may linger for a few days after dispelling. This spell can act quickly in some rare cases- others may take up to three days. 

Ascension - This is among the most powerful of spells the Heartsbane coven possesses. The transfer of one’s vitality to another is possible through their magicks, but this exchange takes this concept to the extreme- using their vitality as a sacrifice to Thros.

The Heartsbane witch slits her own throat with a ritual dagger- sacrificing all of her vitality in return for terrible power. They endure a terrible, painful transformation, and turn into floating, ethereal things called matrons. If your foe slits their own throat - and is powerful enough to transform into a Matron - you face the most powerful spellcasters the Coven possesses. This transformation is rapid and jarring to witness, and takes but a few minutes. 

Counters: There are brief periods of vulnerability after the throat is slit, and while they transform. if you cannot kill them before the transformation completes, your safest option is to flee unless you can challenge them magically. A Matron is strongest immediately after her transformation, and must be engaged on our terms- not hers. More notes on combating Matrons will be found in the bestiary.

[bstormhands]

The Captain and Cassandra p11

They were all pretty quiet the next day as they rode to the palace. It was just so awkward, they all sort of trusted each other but there were so many new truths on the table that it was hard to know what, if anything, they could talk about. They came down the road to the bridge and found Rapunzel, Eugene, Lance, and an entourage waiting for them. Rapunzel had another new outfit. Very regal, but obviously designed by herself. 

Cass felt a stab to her heart. She should be on that side. Not where she was. Maybe, if she gave up everything they might find some way to be a kind of friend again, even if it wasn’t like before, but it would be so much more then she had now. She had had a friend in Rapunzel, hadn’t she learned her lesson with Varian. To be a friend meant there were obligations to help where she could and not just take. She’d been very selfish. 

Cass felt a reaction from the Moonstone and stopped. 

“Rapunzel we brought you the book with the antidote to the memory wand.” Cass said gesturing for her dad to take to the book to them. 

“Captain, it is so good to see you again, we’ve missed you. We could really use you back at your post.” Rapunzel said as he handed the book over and she gave it to Eugene. 

“Thank you, your majesty.” Cap said, but he turned his horse and came back to Cass’ side.

“Rapunzel, I-I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. We both deserved a better mother. I should not have been so jealous of you. I should not have done this.” Cass gestured to the opal embedded in her chest. 

“You deserve your destiny.” Cass didn’t even bother asking for forgiveness. She didn’t deserve any. But her friend, her sister deserved her destiny.

Rapunzel wiped a tear from her great, green eyes. “Oh Cass, its good to see you. I forgive you.”

Rapunzel opened her arms and stepped closer. 

“Wait, don’t come too close. I-you deserve the Moonstone but I think its going to be spectacular and we don’t want to be too close to people, just in case.” She cast around in her mind for something.

“Air hug?” Cass asked. 

Rapunzel smiled, “An air hug would be fine.”

They put out there arms and hugged the air in front of them, even snuggling into it together. 

“How was that?” Raps asked.

“Empty, but it means a lot.” Cass said. 

Raps shrug nodded with a smile. 

Cass noticed Adira in the group. “This is yours.”

She took out the Shadowblade and left it on the ground.

Can turned back to Raps.

“Well, there’s an empty beach a little ways up the coast we can use for the transfer, if that’s okay.” Cass suggested. Encouraging Owl to go to her father.

Raps agreed, passed Pascal to Eugene and they walked with a large gap between them. 

“So, how have you been?” Raps asked. 

“Dealing with a lot of stuff, dad can give you details if you ask him. I, am sorry, that I was such a bad…friend.” She wanted to say sister but she didn’t deserve that, not after what she had done. 

“I know. Sometimes we have to work things out. I can imagine it was terrible for you learning that your mother abandoned you for me.” Raps said.

“Dad told me what you told them about life in the tower. That sounds worse. I understand why you might not have felt like you could talk to me about that.” Cass said. 

Raps shrugged. “There was nothing you could have done about that. I never knew anything different so what she did to me was normal, for me.”

“Yeah. Normal, what would that be like?” Cass muttered.

Rapunzel laughed. “I have no idea.” 

 “I think we are far enough away.” Cass said looking back down the beach.

They both sobered. Cass reached up to take the opal from her chest but it didn’t budge. 

“It’s not coming free.” Cass said in confusion. 

“I could try.” Raps said. She moved closer and put her hand on it but nothing happened. 

“What the heck, a minute ago I thought it was going to drag me off my horse to get to you and now it won’t come off!?” Cass complained.

“I think I know.” She closed her eyes.

“Flower, gleam and glow

Let your power shine

Make the clock reverse

Bring back what once was mine”

“But I don’t know the words of the Hurt Incantation.” Cass objected.

Rapunzel’s hair began to glow with a golden light and lift. 

“Oh.” They said. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen now. 

“Yes you do. The words are inside you. Cassandra.” Rapunzel said taking Cass’ hands in hers.

“Wither and decay

End this destiny

Break these earthly chains

And set the spirit free”

The black rocks along the beach and her armor began to glow blue.

“Heal what has been hurt

Change the Fate's design

Save what has been lost

Bring back what once was mine”

The hair began to wrap around them.

“The spirit free”

The terror of the unknown closed in and Cass wanted to show Raps one last act of love. 

“What once was mine”

There was no time left for waiting any more. They left the ground. 

Cass threw her arms around Rapunzel. “I love you, my sister. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.” She rasped as tears poured down her face. 

Rapunzel put her arms around Cass. “I love you too, dearest sister. You are good enough. I forgive you.”

Cass felt her tears on her cheek, a sob escape her lips, and the armor removing itself from her feet and fingers. She gasped as air pressed in on her injured hand and fresh pain seared into her. She was trembling as her arms and legs were exposed again. Together they were encased in the golden glow of the hair. 

Cassandra kissed Rapunzel on the lips with the full force of her heart. The armor removed itself from her body. 

Rapunzel returned her kiss.

Cass grunted as the Moonstone leapt free from from her chest 

Rapunzel gasped as the opal joined with her.

Magical power flared as healing and hurting, light and darkness, creation and destruction joined together into one in the body of young woman in her arms. 

Cassandra felt herself thrown back by the blast. Gasping she propped herself up, raising a withered hand against the blazing light trying desperately to see what was happening to Rapunzel. There was a radiant fan of glowing gold and blue hair floating far above her. A dark shape at the center. 

“Raps?” Cass called tentatively. 

“I am here, Cassandra.” Came a resonant voice that filled your whole soul with sound. Rapunzel floated down, in a flowing dress that was part white and part black, that was like it was from a romantic painting. Her dark eyes glowed with golden light. She touched the ground lightly, “I am here.”

“Are you okay?” Cass asked.

“We are complete now. Thank you Cassandra.” Rapunzel said. 

She looked at the withered hand Cass was using to shield her eyes. 

“You should be complete too.” A lock of hair wrapped itself around her arm and it moments it was completely healed and whole and strong, all the pains and scars within her healed. Rapunzel helped her up without effort. 

“Come Cassandra, there is much to do now.” Rapunzel said leading them back to the bridge, but her feet did not leave footprints in the sand. 

“There’s more? Wasn’t bring the Sundrop and Moonstone together the point?” Cass asked.

“That was a point, a very important point, but just one point. There are more points to come, including Zhan Tiri.” Rapunzel said. 

“Oh right, and the disciples. I almost forgot them.” Cass grumbled. 

“Well, things are rather exciting at the moment.” Rapunzel said squeezing Cass’ healed hand. 

Eugene came springing down the beach as he reached them he tripped and fell headlong before them.

“Rapunzel, you look, radiant.” Eugene said. Pascal gave a thumbs up.

[bitteraristocrat]

The Sinner's Bouquet - Phantomhive Twins Inspired Poem

You were flower-pressed. Preserved and cherished in memory.

Albeit, forgotten and lost in some threadbare book.

A book of bygone fantasy or science

relevant no longer

plucked from the shelf and halfheartedly read.

You flutter from the pages which concealed you

randomly chosen to caress and hold you

from wear and weathering

and you are remembered with a

solemn smile.

Your petals’ conservation was naught without

the shield of parchment and ink,

as it was safeguard to your frailty.

You emerge from your slumber

a dusted-pastel hue no longer imbued

by the vitality of summer.

Still, you remain poised.

A shell of your entity of yore,

fragile and flaking

your stem tremulous at the fear of breaking.

Yet, you feign such confidence

and allure as you did in your past life.

Still, a thing of beauty.

A virgin, untouched;

unmarred

by the hardships of years passed.

You have no notion of what it means to face the world.

Whilst we were plucked from the same meadow,

I was not protected from suffering by the shadow

of some forgotten tale.

I was stolen from the soil and sod and

withered within the clutch of the hand that

owned me.

No vase nor novel could hold me,

no;

I was left to be smothered by the burden

of fingers coiled ‘round my neck.

My nexus beckoning the quench of water

beguiled by the sweat of my culprit’s palm

and wilting at the lack of care.

Was I, perhaps, not worthy of love?

Was I not to be cherished?

Was I meant to wither within the grasp of my killer?

God had no place for me within the creases of his scriptures

nor on the wall of moments and pictures,

no;

I faced the world with vulnerability as my virtue

as the mould and decay festered upon my petals

and made me new.

Made me marred

blemished, bruised, and scarred.

I am a sinner’s bouquet in all my glory

cracking, darkling,

my skin a forgotten hoary,

veining, paper-like shell

barely holding in what is left of my soul.

But, I am whole.

|| Hello, and welcome to my first post. I find the prospect of tumblr rather daunting, so I ask for your understanding while I find my bearings. This was a poem I wrote, inspired by Kuroshitsuji's Phantomhive Twins, and I do hope you enjoy. Please, do not plagiarize my writing. ||

[olivia-lovecraft]

📚 +92

Book Starters Drabbles [ Malura has elected to let me just write a drabble for this ask. The book I selected is ‘The Shield of Weeping Ghosts’ by James P. Davis. The following is based on the first few lines of the page. ]

The creature reached repeatedly out for the broken pieces of her whip, certain that the next push was all she needed to get her hands on the wicked weapon. She hadn’t met a mortal and had never found herself on Azeroth before, but she was so sure she was the superior predator and there was nothing that could stop her from exacting vengeance upon the foolish mortal standing only a few feet away. The arrogant look upon the warlock’s face would be carved from her skull and devoured just as soon as the demon could push past the wards.

“You truly are persistent, aren’t you?” Olivia purred with sadistic pleasure as the Void-touched Succubus writhed and fought against the barriers. The more the demon fought, the more energy the syphon pulled form her, so the warlock made no effort to stop or silence her.

“Foolish mortal! Weak warlock! I tear you to shreds and feast upon your tattered soul,” the Sayaad snarled in the dark tongue of her kin.

Her wings flexed and her tail lashed out against the invisible walls of her cage.

“Weak? Do you really want to admit that your defeat and destruction will come from the hands of someone you consider weak?”

“Why have you called me here?!” The creature roared as she finally forced herself back to her dark hooves. “I will not serve you!”

“Serve me? No. A purpose is what you shall serve.” Olivia’s retort was chilling as she glared at her prisoner. “Iphaeriel.”

Hearing her own name uttered renewed the demon’s blind fury. To have her true name fall from a mortal’s lips was an insult too great to bear. The surge in energy passed through the room but the barriers stole its bite. Still, the cornered predator pushed herself to the brink, effectively driving herself to her knees. She withered before Olivia’s icy green gaze. Nearby, the shadowglass vessel hummed with power.

Iphaeriel’s power.

“I have no soul you fool,” the demoness hissed as she glared right back at the warlock, still putting up a fight even as she wasted away. “All that energy will decay once I am dead. I will reform and return and make this right!”

“No. I am familiar with your kind. I knew you didn’t have soul when I called you. This is an experiment. You were volunteered for it. By name as it were.”

Olivia smirked and took a few steps forward, the heel of her shoe crushing the shadowglass shards braided into the whip’s tail as she crouched down to meet the demon’s gaze.

“Helriel is dead but another rose from the ashes of her passing. Surely you haven’t forgotten him. He never forgot you.”

The Succubus was too proud to show fear, but it gripped her all the same. A prayer slipped through her fangs as easily as a breath, and it brought a wicked moan from the warlock.

“I am not going to kill you, darling, so praying really won’t do you any good,” she snickered as she stood up to retrieve the hourglass shaped vessel. “I plan to destroy you entirely. There will be no pieces left to collect in the Void. You’ll cease to exist and when I scratch your name from page, you will be one last blemish on my beloved companion’s past. One step closer to true freedom.”

She turned and regarded the crumbling creature, her painted lips pulled into a satisfied smirk.

“I best be on my way. There is a hungry, slumbering beast I need to see to, and I can tell by the rate with which you are accepting defeat, time is off the essence.”

Olivia produced the portal stone and vanished from the dark cabin common room, leaving the succubus to weakly reach out for the broken pieces of her weapon. What was once the symbol of her position and power now provided only false comfort as she waited for the nothingness to swallow her whole.

[ Thanks for the ask, @maluraunderchild! | @tristan-forester for the super vague mention. ]

[tastyryebread]

Till the Trumpets Blow

If they haven’t seen you yet, stay low. These lands are surveyed once, then once over, then a final time to appease the king. I’d tell you what the monarch would do to you but…maybe you’re not ready to hear that, not yet at least.

Oh? You don’t know about the glorious king?

These lands belong to him and his men, no one else. He took over long ago. This used to be a peaceful city, you know? But that just made it all the easier to take over using his tool.

The trumpets, oh God the trumpets. Don’t let them blow.

He doesn’t need swords and shields for his army. Folk will drop dead before they realize anything was awry. All due to those damn trumpets.

That’s why you must stay in that cellar and not come up; you can’t let them find you. You still have a responsibility anyways. There are others out there but you won’t reach them now, wait for night! Maybe then you’ll have a chance at reaching their hospitality.

Oh Lord, what has happened to this place? The other royals keep sending their men to reclaim this ruined kingdom. All in vain. No one will survive the king’s orchestra.

The stone walls have fallen. All the windows have shattered, and the homes have been raided.

The king waits on his throne of glass. A single sense of danger and he’ll strike his chair with a shard of metal, suffocating the eardrums of the trumpeters. Those trumpets, those damn trumpets.

Night once more. Safety in silence as they say…as I say. Just listen, stay low and crawl if you can. Those Trumpets should be dormant now, waiting for a command to arise. The hideout is the last house down the path. Look behind and head into the small crevice.

You’ll be safe. I swear on it.

You’re almost there, just another turn, just another turn and you’ll be there, I promise.

There it is, that hatch! Lucky you, the people are actually still there. You’ll be safe now that you found all those deserters, those blasted traitors.

But you’ll be safe, I promise.

I promise…oh what the hell, this town’s gone rotten anyways, and I’m rotten too.

Sorry fella, king’s orders for the conductor to protect these fortified lands, and I’m the conductor. This kingdom is lost, lost to sound, drowned out with music. And if we want to keep the town playing, we’ll need to remove anything off-key.

So blow trumpets blow, make them fall with your elegance, carry their souls from their shackled corpses.

Make them bow to the King of Glass.

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

The throne shimmers in the sunrise. Its corners jagged and unpolished, but natural in its beauty. Mere sightings of the chair would entice one to bow before any who took upon its uncomfortable seat. 

The armrest reflected a pale face looking outwards through his castle. His body was unable to function past more than a few steps at a time, it withered away with each tiring action as if made of ashes. One of his eyes had already blown away with the wind, and his hand and fingers looked as though they were on their last legs. 

The King readjusted his position on the throne, taking in the scenery around him. 

Large banners inscribed with dubious writings were hung from every rafter in sight. The bricks were rotted through, and the ceiling looked as though it could collapse at any given second. 

The King looked up as gravel eroded from above. Every aspect of his castle seemed dull in comparison to his throne.

 He had never left his spot since the day he was bound to it by the estranged warlock of his old town. The caster promised ideas of wealth and power throughout his time with one simple spell. The newcomer and the ignorant king took his offer and the warlock, abiding by his promise, gave the king remarkable luck with overtaking kingdoms with his newfound trumpets. 

However, as the weeks went on, the King noticed difficulties completing his life tasks. His body felt decaying, turning into a flimsy outline of his former position. 

The King decided to contact the warlock once more and finally learned his own truth. 

The spell had been a curse, each time the trumpets were used he would grow more dependent on the warlock’s magic, needing more and more each use. The warlock however gave the King a parting gift, a glass throne meant to siphon the magic from the King and relieve the warlock, while at the same time keeping the King’s body in stasis, undying. 

The King was sick of reminiscing. Just imagining the sight of that damn magician was enough to boil his blood. He had no energy for anger anymore though. Although he was immortal in his current state, being removed from the throne for even a moment would end his reign. 

Just as the poor ruler remembered his existence, his most honorable servant entered his chambers. He was dawned in grey overalls and chainmail leggings over his shabby pants. Upon his head rested a lanky hat seen more commonly in orchestras. 

“The traitors had been dealt with, my liege.” He dared not speak poorly to his master, else he would be cast to the pits, like the rest of them. 

“You need not worry about any other defectors, the men you have left have been loyal since Elindaunce,” he swallowed the spit in his throat, regretting using those blasted powers received from the same warlock. He’d been granted the ability to speak to others through their minds. A useful tool to the King, but not useful enough to even consider beating his puppeteers. 

The King didn’t respond to him, only averting his eyes somewhere else. 

A horrific scream blared from the barracks as if someone had just lost their mind. 

The soldier rushed into the King’s quarter wielding a dagger, charging toward the throne. 

There was enough time for the Conductor to react, but did he desire to? Would his problems be erased if this mad man finished off the demented king’s reign? His eyes panicked, mistakenly glaring deep into the shining glass of the throne. 

Deceived by the throne, the conductor threw himself forward, having the knife sink into himself instead of his fragile master. 

The King raised his metal shard and banged upon his chair, sending a shivering chord through the entire valley, awaking the trumpeters. 

Their melody was calming, easing you into an indefinite slumber. 

And so the two fell, upon the cold, uprooted bricks. The conductor crawled towards the throne, he didn’t know what compelled him to, but the sight of his King was one he desired to see. 

The ruler looked down at his servant, bleeding heavily from his chest. The man wanted to cry but sucked it up to a fearful laugh. He looked deeply at his King, wanting to swear every swear he could at the inhumane monarch. 

He couched up blood till it lay dried upon his lips, and his hand slowly went limp having even less strength than the decayed King. 

The man upon the glass throne looked back up, knocked three times on his mirrored chair, and waited as the lackeys carried the body of the conductor to the outside. His body lay out upon the grass, unburied and unfulfilled. 

A new conductor took his place within an evening, the King couldn’t tell any difference. 

He sat upon his throne, contempt for his eternal torment. 

[sugaxjpg]

01 | life in the fast lane; m

⤷  Hoseok was not someone who expected to find love, even less under the conditions he met you—bleeding to death in an alley, unable to go to an hospital without being recognized by the ones who did such thing to him. Though, he would soon learn that the best things in life are the unplanned, kind ones. Especially the kind ones. 

✓ Couple: Hoseok x Reader | Biker!AU and Gang!AU

✓ Filed under: angst, fluff, (future) smut

✓ Look out for: violence, blood

✓ Words: 11,451

✓ Parts: 01 | 02 | 03 [end]

Author’s Note: This work was posted under a different persona of mine, with the title ‘the edge of tonight’. As for now, this is planned to be a three-part series. Hope you all can enjoy it! (+edited to second person)

Love did not exist in that city.

It was not present anywhere, not amongst the walls on which disorganized graffiti masqueraded all traces of its primordial paint; not in between quivering leaves; nor floating between the lips of enamored strangers. Love was an alien word, an insubstantial conceptualization that beared more resemblance to a joke than the significance it should convey. It had become simply a carapace  —  a skeleton, perchance — of a term long exterminated by the wickedness that sibilated thought the cimmerian-pigmented asphalt.

Midnight had long passed when the group of five men departed from the alleyway, walking hurriedly into the piceous veils of dusk. If seen, their vanglorious, prideful grins and shirts sprinkled by vermilion would have been an evident forewarning of their malevolent intentions; the laughs of mockery that echoed amongst the absolute quiescence of night causing for them to dwell in a nefarious atmosphere. Their assignment had been fulfilled, and now it was time to celebrate.

Above their heads, sailing away in the obfuscous sea of the twilight sky, the moon hid behind consolidated clouds once more; it, too, turning its symbolic gaze away from the scene that unfolded many meters beneath the vigilant stars. Anemic, its splendiferous glow forever shone on, casting a phantasm-like effulgence over the asleep town; though, it unable win against the neon phosphorescence that took over the shadows of vivacious clubs and bars.

It was near one of those monochromatic constructions that a man fought to keep his grunts of agony trapped in the cage of his clenched jaw. Through his teeth — some which had been incardinated by the blood in his mouth — he cursed his current situation with endless detestation, holding to his own flesh as if it was enough to cease the cascade of sanguine that dripped down his skin. He felt as if his cuts were supposed to be hurting far more than the sensations that cursed his figure, and the odd numbness at some places of his body caused for a dim preoccupation to emerge somewhere amongst the calamity of his thoughts.

Time and time again, he had attempted to get back on his feet, but the vertigo that monopolized his mind did not permit him to do so. Debilitated and fatigued, he could merely lean against the asperous brick wall by his side, feeling the humid surface touching his bruised cheeks as he did so. Never once had he felt so pathetically vulnerable, so humiliated.

Jung Hoseok did not know what hurt the most — the pain of his wounded arm, or his pride.

Suffocated became the groan that resonated in between his violaceous lips, perishing into silence as the palm of his hand curled around a pipe that was drilled to the wall. His shoulder felt as if was on fire as, once again, he attempted to get up. He was aware it was not broken or dislocated — he had been through both situations, and considered himself able to distinguish their characteristic pain — , but his muscle was simply crying out under the several hits and superficial cuts it had received from his aggressors.

As the algid wall met the open flesh of the back of his head, a shock of pain was sent through his body; yet another deep cut that hid underneath his red-painted hair that made its presence known. He closed his eyes and forced himself to keep his composure as a hiss of pain escaped in between his teeth. A few weeks ago, the man had colored his strands a color that lingered between the cherry and the geranium, and now he wondered if it would be able to camouflage the lines of blood that trailed down his crude semblance.

Ringing, a vexatious sharp noise took over his hearing. It had been bothering him ever since his attackers had moved away, but only after his abrupt movements had it increased to a troublesome volume. In the background of his miscellaneous hearing, Hoseok could singularize the periodicity of a song’s thunderous tempo — which he found to be quite consonant to his own accelerated heartbeat — and most likely originated from the construction by his side. It was just another bar filled up with empty souls. That did not seem appealing at all.

One step, and then another. His knees buckled, and he forced himself to lean against a trash can for sustentation. The cacophony of one of his feet colliding against the silvery metal barely intruded upon the placidity of the night, and he thanked the moon above for the penumbra that kept him away from the eyes of the curious world, for he was unsure he could take the judgement of his colleagues. Or, alternatively, the disparagement of his attackers.

He could not declare that the impassioned advance had not been anticipated, but he could say for sure he never expected for their enemies to be so coward — yet dangerously direct. For years the two gangs had maintained an unspoken contract not to invade the other’s territory; never to attack a rival member — the rival leader, in his own part of the city, mind you — and to have such rules broken was to expect tempestuous days ahead. As an ending detail, to have such ludicrous act performed so abruptly was the worse part of everything the man had endured throughout that nightfall. There was a reason why those principles of behavior were in place, a rationalization behind why the two groups avoided conflicts at all costs: to break such oath was to ask for a war.

The throbbing of his injuries brought him back to the adumbral alleyway, causing for an exclamation of pain to disperse in between his ensanguined lips, “Fucking hell,” the beaten-up man cursed out loud, closing his eyes with unbearable force. Hoseok seeked to align his field of vision, which begun to oscillate before his eyes, but felt as if his mind continued to swirl regardless of his efforts. The last factor he needed at that point was to fall into unconsciousness, for that was a level of vulnerability that could get him and his colleagues killed.

One thing he did now consider, however, was that his own voice could call the attention of a special passerby. If he did, the muteness that would have taken over his mouth would have allowed for her to keep walking into the crepuscule of midnight, utterly oblivious to the lamenting man oh so near her — of course, though, that did not happen. There is a reason for everything, and his very own vociferated expression of pain had been perfectly chronometrated to pull him into a new chapter of his life. Their life.

She looked into the depths of the alley and saw the curved man expeditiously, pausing dead in her tracks as a wave of discombobulation crashed upon her figure. As much as he could not see her face, her voice — waltzing somewhere between the apprehensive and the preoccupied — reached his ears with impeccable clarity and comprehensibility, “God, what happened to you? Are you okay?” breathlessly asked the stranger.

The brutality of his own tone was not something he had measured, for he believed you did not deserve it. It was merely a posture he was used to reach for, a practical shield that instantaneously projected the respect and fear he desired, “Go on with your life, I’m fine.” Hoseok spat, trying to avoid your flabbergasted stare by gazing at the streets that opened behind your figure — you seemed so miniscule against the melancholic picture it had been painted by the flickering lights, merely a speck of dust lost amongst a cosmos far too terrible to be endured.

With a sigh, you remained utterly unaffected by his rude request and started walking in his direction with rushed steps. Hoseok noticed that you wore white shoes, which quickly got painted by an almost translucent shade of cardinal; crashing against small puddles of water, “Clearly, you are not even close to being fine,” you argued, brows furrowed and movements agitated. The man could not yet distinguish your features, but he could practically taste your worries at the tip of his blood-covered tongue, “I’m a nurse, let me take a look, please.” you made sure to add, now closer to where he stood: still curved over the trash can.

Flickering above your head, the reddish luminescence of an “exit” sign finally reached the delineations of your features. As much as dizziness took over every fragment of his nebulous mind, Hoseok would forever recall his astonishment once he perceived the pulchritudinous manner your image resembled the one of a masterpiece; an angel bathed by the dahlia-pigmented radiance of a decaying bar sign. Not even a couple of seconds passed in the meantime that took your to stand by his side — carefully taking your hands to reach for his arm — , but it had been sufficient for him to pay close attention to the ethereal details of your focused expression: the way that fluorescent color embraced your skin with overwhelming grace, contouring your parted cherry lips and contrasting against the obsidian shade of your dark eyelashes.

You were truly beautiful, a sign of optimism amongst the unfathomable tides of his despair.

Though, the touch of your hands against his flesh caused for his daydreams to be ruptured spontaneously. Fascination withered into alarm, and he felt his vertigo achieving a new level of strength. The blood-covered man groaned in an hybridization of discomfort and irritation, fighting to stay away from your feather-like fingertips. Teeth clenched by attempting such rough movement, he could feel the bruises and cuts of his lips opening again, intoxicating his tongue with the familiar taste of iron, “It’s just a small cut, I’ll be just okay without your help. Someone will patch me up,” Hoseok guaranteed once more, though he was not certain of his own words. He just wanted for you to leave him alone to his own misery; so he could mourn on about his corrupted pride.

However, it was clear that you would never permit for such thing to occur. The ringing of his ears was noticeably not as violent, and he could understand each syllable that constructed your disappointed response, “An open wound in a dirty alley? You might as well search up the definition of infection when you have free time,” you scoffed, moving closer to him once again. This time, Hoseok did not have the forces to step back anew, so he just allowed for your experienced stare to travel across his arm. Your fingers were delicate against his skin. “This is not good, I can’t just let you stay here. Let’s pass by the hospital so I’ll get you some—”

“—Fuck no,” he cut your sentence short, looking up to meet your gaze with smouldering irises. Somewhere beyond your grimace of confusion, Hoseok could see coruscations of what he could only denominate as pity, and it tore his spirit apart. He was not used to receiving that sort of compassion, and he had adopted a rough stance even before he could properly ruminate on what had occurred, “I’m not going anywhere with you. Sorry, but your hero complex will have to stay like this for today. I can take care of myself.” he told you, pulling his arm away. Hell, it hurt more than he could take, but he refused to show it.

Your tongue licked your hard-bitten lips as your arms were crossed before your chest. Defensiveness was plastered all over your stance and, as pathetic as the hypothesis appeared to be, Hoseok was almost certain you would drag him to the premises of the hospital if that what was required for you to sleep in peace, “The man who got beaten up in an alley says he can take care of himself,” you counterclaimed with no resentment.

Falling shut, his mouth trapped his response within his throat. Subsequent to his minor surprise, the inquiry that left his chest would soon cause for a small smirk to blossom amongst your features, “How do you know I got beaten up?” Hoseok questioned, somewhat apprehensive.

Rolling your eyes, you dared to take a step closer. The tip of your shoe met a deep puddle, but you showed no signs you had even noticed the droplets of bloody water that now soaked the hem of your pants, “I’m a nurse, I work in an emergency room the entire week,” you responded, your tone bordering on the one of a casual dialogue. Hoseok innery asked if that was the attitude you presented all your patients, of if you were merely growing irritated at his lack of collaboration. Most likely, he though, the latter was the most likely, “Listen, I don’t care the reason, alright? I’m just trying to help you, and you clearly need at least a bit of assistance.”

Jaw clenched, Hoseok could feel the despondency of his sentence even before it left him, “I’m not asking for your help,” he claimed, even though he was not positive himself. Progressively, the harshness of his primordial stance was leaving him, causing for his own defensive posture to fall into a calmer, much more defenseless image of his helplessness. He was already certain he would not have the best travel back to his place — or anywhere else, to be quite honest — and that he would not find someone to take care of him as well as you could. Regardless, the barrier of his prideful nature remained intact, and motivated for his following question to depart from his mouth before he could even think properly of its consequences. “Shouldn’t you respect your patient’s wishes? I’m denying your help, can’t you just—”

“—Usually I’d be more than glad to respect my patient’s wishes, but you’re not my patient, I’m not on call, and you don’t seem to be in your best of senses right now,” you cut his sentence short. Mercurial was the switch of your focus, eyes and hands moving to open your backpack. Hoseok had not noticed its presence until that point, but its appearance was quickly a signal of what was to come — though, as long as there were no needles, he was sure he could handle it, “At least let me clean you up, just avoiding an infection is already good enough for me,” you said, eyes glued to the little bottle that you took from your bag. Faster than Hoseok could follow, you soaked a piece of cotton with it and took a small step towards his figure. “Now, this might hurt a little.”

“I already—  Fuck!” he did not even think before jumping back, almost collapsing to the ground as an unbearable current of pain washed over his skin. He had thought the sensation of his cuts and bruises were terrible to experience, but those resembled the caresses of a cool summer breeze if compared to the piercing laceration that pulsated throughout his arm, “Fuck, what the hell is this?” he whined, pulling his limb once you kept patting the small cotton against his exposed neck, where a few cuts marked his caramel-painted skin.

At that, you could not help but smile in amusement, “Beaten up man cannot take a bit of antiseptics,” you chuckled. For someone who apparently endured so many hits without a single tear, the contact of the product sure took him back to the mentality of a scared child — if the image had not been not so pitiful, you were sure you would have started laughing at the preposterous irony of his position, “Unbelievable, really. How will you take the actual work I’ll have to go through? This will definitely need stitches.” you breathed out.

Stitches — that was the final confirmation he needed to be sure he would stay far, far away from your assistance, “I already told you I’m not going,” Hoseok spat those words with forced disgust, making sure to mask the way his heartbeat increased at the mere hypothesis of it. Without thinking, he pulled your hand away from his neck, disregarding the expression of anger that fell upon your traces. “Do you have hearing problems, or are you just this stubborn?”

Your shoulders fell in frustration, morphing into a clear picture of your patience slowly wearing off into disapprobation, “What’s the problem with going to the hospital with me?” at last, you questioned. It did not sound half as discourteous as he expected, your voice not as stringent as the expression you presented to him. At last, he understood that you were not acting in such bothersome manner on purpose, but for the reason that you truly cared for his well being. For someone else, the conclusion might have arrived a lot sooner, but, then again, the leader was not truly accustomed to that level of tenderheartedness, “You don’t even need to head in, alright? I can get the first-aid kit and do my work outside.” you proposed.  

Translucently, you were able to notice how vacillating his facade had become, the defensive mask he had created gradually crumbling underneath his fatigue — you did not expect any less, he might have been in shock, for all you knew, “I already said I’m not going,” the stranger repeated, this time in a much slower, breathy voice. His knuckles were decorated by dry blood, and they made minor sounds as he closed and opened his hands a few times, “Listen, I can’t let people recognize me like that, alright? Hospitals — or even near hospitals — is out of the picture to me.” agitated, he confessed.

His lack of eye contact appeared to be odd, but you decided to brush it off as yet another characteristic of his aversion. Maintaining your own temperament consistent, you took a chance at a controversial question, “Is your ego that fragile?” the inquiry left your crimson-painted lips in between a joke and a provocation, but the man only appeared to notice the ladder, for his eyebrows moved back to a safeguarding expression. You sighed, giving in. “Fine. I might regret this deeply, but we can go to my place instead. I have a first aid kit there.”

The prospect caught him so off guard that he was completely unable to mask the puzzlement of his widened eyes — it was one thing to take care of a stranger on the streets, but an entirely different idea to allow for him to enter your home, “What is it with you and first-aid kits?” was what he interrogated instead, instantly feeling a bit pathetic by doing so.

However, the switch of the atmosphere caused by his odd inquiry to be welcomed by the nurse, for your shoulders fell in assuagement — the man did not deny your idea, which was a mountainous step if compared to the position you two had been in merely a few minutes ago, in which you considered giving up and going home. Not that it would ever be admitted, “It’s my job, I try to do it correctly,” you shrugged and, in a swift movement, moved to his side, wondering if he needed your assistance to move, “Can you walk?” you asked.

Right away, Hoseok got reminded of his previous attempt to leave the caliginosity of the damp alleyway, and the ghostly sound of his feet meating the metal can echoed as a warning for him to be honest with you, “Not by myself, no,” admitted the harmed man, promptly accepting the way one of your arms moved around his waist. It was not invasive, for he was aware of the extra support he required, and was innerly glad that you had took the initiative, “Nothing’s broken, by the way. I’m just dizzy.” he felt as if it was necessary to say.

You hummed in agreement, but made a mental note to check it later on. Somewhere amongst your thoughts, you questioned if it would not be wiser to call an ambulance, but you knew the man would probably find a way to get away from it even before you finished dialing the number. “Did they hit your head?”

A flash of puzzlement scintillated within his eyes as the man attempted to recall the experience. Everything was still a bit indistinct, but he was almost certain that had not been the case: it had been merely a warning shot, they did not go for the kill, nor for the truly serious hits, “One of them punched my cheek, but nothing I haven’t gotten worse before,” Hoseok responded, surprised with the firmness of his own timbre. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Sighing, you hand held tighter to his figure, making sure it was not a place that he had been hit aforetime. Only then did Hoseok notice how sorrowful you appeared to be, pondering eyes appearing to be inhumanly profound underneath the cascade of scarlet luminescence, “I am clearly worried already, if you can’t notice,” you lamented. Before he could come up with a response, though, you had already switched subjects, clearing your throat as if to place a dot to that section of their conversation, “Come on, let’s start walking. Please tell me if you want me to stop,” you requested.

For the first time, Hoseok was quick to accept the suggestion. One step, and then another.

The two nameless strangers held to one another as they crossed the relinquished asphalt of dusk. Certainly, the course to leave the dark alley was embarrassingly long to endure; but, once the two of you had again been welcomed by the effervescent traffic lights of an asleep city, your pace became more constant; though still lethargic. All around you, buildings attempted to reach for the ebony skies, their scintillating neon lights resembling the phantom glow of the stars above. Those were fragments of mundane landscapes that most citizens avoided to pay attention to or, at the very least, until their mercurial activities were forced to cease their frenetic rhythm, causing for their tired eyes to observe the particularities they might have disregarded time and time again.

Noticing such details was, in a way, what had occurred that night. Hoseok, for instance, found himself outlining the metal delineation of pipes, and the black electric wires that mingled with the adumbration of the dark. Phosphorescent street lights cried over his blood-delineated features with care, even if their heated glow could never be able to overlap the hyperborean winds that mumbled along those endless roads. For long, there was no car slicing the saturnity of the night; no other pedestrian to awaken him from his utopian reveries. The world was his to explore, and he swore he could asphyxiate in the glow it bathed him in.

Intermittently, the rufescent luminescence of exit signs would remind him of the occurrences that had eventuated just before — the merciless beating; the altruistic help. It all felt far too unrealistic for him to truly absorb, even more alien that the kaleidoscope of lambent lights that encompassed his weak silhouette, guiding him to the unknown paths of night. At times, however, his knees appeared as if they were about to give in, and that confirmed the phantasmal memories that fought to emerge within his mind. Regardless, the man did not ask for your to stop — even though you continuously inquired if it was necessary.

Still, you remained patient. you did not complain as Hoseok almost tripped over his own feet; did not mock him for the way his exclamations of discomfort died in between his pressed lips. Amicable, you did not bring up what had happened nor questioned him about his identity — that is, until he brought the two of you back to reality with a simple question.

“Why are you doing this?” Hoseok inquired right after the two of you had crossed a particularly crepuscular street. His focused gaze remained trapped in the lonely streetlights that flickered before him, gifting him with an exhausted image you had not yet noticed. Underneath his red-colored hair, you found the eyes of a man who progressively allowed for his prideful ego to shatter, and it felt like cold daggers to your chest. “You could’ve just let me there. Did you take like an oath or some shit like that?”

You rolled your eyes at his tone, finding it much more entertaining than he foresaw, “God, you’re the most emotionally constipated patient I’ve gotten in awhile,” claimed his company, allowing for a small chuckle to drip from your lips — which, Hoseok noticed, bordered on the sculptural; mouth perfectly lineated to enter in harmony with your compassion-filled irises, “it’s against my nature not to help someone when they’re bleeding to death in an alleyway. Sorry if that bothers you so much.” responded the nurse.

Why did it bother him so much? Time and time again he had convinced himself that it had merely puzzled him, for the ambient he had grown accustomed to would never permit for such altruistic vulnerability to pass through the cracks of his harsh frontage. Though, as that inquiry kept on echoing throughout his vertiginous thoughts, Hoseok realized it was far deeper than a simple switch of comportment; his own insecurities merely awaited for him to uncover them, camouflaged under the blankets of his denial, “You don’t know if I deserve it,” he confessed, wishing you could not perceive the way his voice had grown softer, almost timid, “besides, you’re taking me to your place. How do you know I’m not dangerous? I could be a killer.” the man was quick to add.

You elevated one eyebrow, looking as if you found that idea strangely delightful to envision, “You were scared of antiseptics and I’ve taken more self-defense classes than I can remember. I think we’re good to go,” and, for the first time, you opened a smile. The laugh that followed was peculiarly euphonic, simply beautiful if compared to the putrid, comatose world that expanded all around the two of you, “How’s the vertigo?” you questioned, somewhat out of the blue.

After a brief moment of concentration, he realized it was almost ignorable — like a bad hangover, he thought — or, at the very least, much better than the faint-inducing one he had experienced before, “It has been worse,” he truthfully replied, but did not go into further detail. It was oddly comforting to have your company. Even if you two had started off the wrong way. your touch was delicate and it kept him secure; it was all he needed in a cold night like that one: a bit of warmth to fight away the despondency that germinated within his heart, “How far away is your place?” it was his turn to rupture the breviloquent silence.

Humming, you thought for a second, soon following with a simple response, “Two blocks, is that alright? They’re not too big,” you told him, somewhat hesitant that the distance could be the final characteristic he needed to deny your help once again. His expression did not change, and you took your chance to add another information in the hope that it would change his mind, “If that's too hard for you, the hospital is just one—”

“—Don’t even fucking start,” interrupted the bloody man, even if his tone did not carry the rudeness you had expected. It was noticeable: the two strangers had already ruptured the barrier of your primordial discomfort, and now had moved on to a more serene — perhaps even playful, good-humored — comportment, “I’m Hoseok, by the way.” he spoke without even second guessing his words.

Attempting his very hardest to mask the discomposure that had been casted over his aura, the man swallowed dry once he had noticed what he had done. Reckless, that was what his decision had been: someone like him could never disclose their identity so easily and not expect consequences would soon pursue. The knot in his chest could be equiparable to the way how, just an hour before, panic that had taken over his mind once he realized the way he had been backed to the shadows of an alley — the same thrill-inducing anticipation of ignorance.  

Names held importance to him. As a matter of fact, that was one of the initial lessons his family had ever taught him: to know a man’s name is to have one’s hand on the handle that opens the door to his soul — especially in their… business. To say the correct name at the correct time is to have death avoided by a mere breath; to say the wrong one is to damn their life into the torture of the spirit or the perishing of the flesh. Not only importance, those small conglomerations of syllables were able to open an entire curtain of information in case the persona behind it was famous.

Or, in his own case, infamous.

As much as his position was no mystery to his acquaintances, he could say for sure that in those people he wholesomely trusted. That nurse, on the other hand, was simply someone he had grown to like in the succinct moments you two had spent throughout that endless night. At times, it took colleagues and subordinates months of having their loyalty tested to unravel the leader’s identity and, ever so impulsively, he had just gifted it to you. One horrified call to the authorities would be enough to ruin his life for, at least, the two following months that it would take him to revert the damage.

Contrary to what the man had expected, you did not present him any sign that you had recognized him. Much to his alleviation,  you smiled once anew, apparently blissful at his welcoming attitude, “What a memorable first meeting, Hoseok. I’m YN,” you enunciated your name with tenderness, soon turning your focal point back to the opening streets before the two of you. You were turning a corner when your inquisitive eyes switched back to him, gaze holding some sort of serendipity he had not seen in a long time, “Now that your guard is down, mind telling me the reason for your aversion towards hospitals and being recognized?” playfully, you verbalized your puzzlement.

Immediately, he noticed you were not truly expecting a legitimate response from his part. Perchance, you foresaw that the man would joke about it or, even, throw the question back to your in a manner that showed his defensiveness. Asymmetrically to your expectations, Hoseok spoke only the truth — or, in the very least, what he could voice without adulterating his image any further, “The guys that did this to me might be waiting there,” he told you, unable to meet the curiosity that emanated from your attentive stare. “if they see me again, they might as well finish the job. You know the deal.”

“I do know the deal,” you said, mind already tracing parallels with similar situations you had faced. Countless times aforetime you had seen gangs and criminals around town skirting and surrounding the hospital buildings, their malevolent intentions clear even from miles away. Usually, the security guards — added to the brave threat of calling the police — did the work just fine to keep those delinquents away from the emergency room; but, from what you had seen of the damage done to Hoseok, you could not take any chances, “How many of them were there?” inquired the nurse.

Pouting, he paused for an instant to chew on an answer. His mind was still considerably foggy, and the memories from his attackers morphed into a tornado of confusing exclamations and advances as his mind tried to separate their silhouettes, “Around five? Didn’t actually get a chance to count.” he admitted.

You groaned at that, shaking your head in sheer disappointment, “That’s just being coward,” you spat, causing for Hoseok to wonder how was you able to, ever so quickly, adopt his problems as your own. Empathy — or, at the very least, sympathy and compassion — were fragments of humanity he did not see on a daily basis, and he felt a bit overwhelmed when those were presented so constantly by such kind stranger, “I’m glad they didn’t actually go hard on you.” you commented truthfully, looking at him in endless delicacy.

Much faster than he was able to follow, the abyss of your dark pupils caged him in a gaze drowning in tenebrosity. Even so poorly enlightened by the prismatic phosphorescence of the streets, your stare felt as if it was bottomless, presenting him to a persona he could not quite comprehend, “I think it was just to scare me off,” Hoseok finally said back, forcing himself to find an escape from the magnetizing pulls of your aura. “I don’t fucking care, honestly. They’re a bunch of shitheads, karma will fuck them over eventually.”

Karma — as he ever so efficiently failed to mention — was just a way to refer to his colleagues. Not that it mattered at that instant.

You shrugged at his frustrated claims, “Much likely, but they did kick your ass,” you acknowledged. The man, on the other side, looked at you with arched eyebrows and bruised pride, unable to go against your claims, for he could quite literally feel the consequences of their veracity, “you can look at me like that all you want, I'm not taking it back. I’m sorry, but I’m just stating the facts, you can barely walk straight. Did you piss them off or something?” those sentences were spoken so continuously that he almost did not get the chance to follow them properly.

Hoseok scoffed, rolling his eyes at your question — that was one way to put it, even if he was quite positive no advances had come from his part, “You’re damn curious for a benevolent nurse,” he said instead, avoiding to gift your with an answer he was not certain of.

Skeptical, you disregarded his provocation with the same facility one brushes off the dirt from one’s shoulder, “I’m not the reincarnation of Christ and, again, I’m not on duty either,” you were quick to reply, not even looking to your side to check the reaction it had incited, “sorry if I’m being too annoying, though, I’m just curious. And I am taking you to my place to patch you up, so that’s the bare minimum you can give back,” you made sure to add.

Hoseok found the subtle emotional manipulation strangely pleasant to receive, and discovered himself unable to keep on the same harsh posture, “You are being annoying, but also strangely adorable,” he commented with so much naturality that his companion did not even have time to digest his hidden complement — which would soon induce for a pale shade of rufescent to burgenate on your cheeks — before continuing his line of thought. “Let’s just say those guys and I have very… conflicting interests. And they have been stepping over the line lately.”  

Chuckling, you could only take in the information he had disclosed, pausing for a second so you could regain your breathing. Before you, the maroon construction awaited for their arrival, but its mere shadow induced for overwhelming preoccupations to finally find their way within your mind. Momentaneously, you had considered not allowing his entrance, and instead taking the man to another place; mayhaps even the hospital, if you were to be serpentine enough. At the same time, your guilt could never allow for your to do such thing, for you knew you would be unable to let Hoseok wandering alone the same streets that had attempted to kill him — here goes nothing, you thought.

Even before your words melted from your blush lips, the ceasing of your movements had already insinuated to the man that you two had reached the outskirts of their destination, “Here we are,” you announced, pointing to the building before you.

The primordial element that called Hoseok's attention was how much the architecture represented a clear discrepancy when compared to the surrounding buildings. Surely, it was a much older construction: its brown brick walls were not as silvery as the skyscrapers that punctured the horizon; its humble proportions not even close to the greatness of the mountainous glass monsters. It was tranquilizing in spite all of all those characteristics, though: nothing but a four-floors building constituted of small apartments. “Humble” was one of the uncountable adjectives he could use to characterize it, but “welcoming” was the one he judged best suitable.

Next to him, you cleared your throat, fissuring the equilibrium of his ephemeral contemplations, “Besides, my colleagues and I also have conflicting interests, but I don’t beat the living shit out of them in an alley,” you made sure to add, finding it to be a proper moment to switch back to the previous subject.

He scoffed, taking his analytical irises away from the rectangular windows — which had their alabastrine curtains closed shut; some had carefully placed flower pots beneath it. Reiteratively, the man encountered some sort of unsulliedness that did not exist amongst those gelid streets, merely an island of immaculate particulars that had persevered against a sea of torment and massacres. It fit your quite well, meditated Hoseok.

It was his turn to open a timid smile, “You could win against them easy, though. You took self-defense classes,” was that a joke you noticed? It was almost unrealistic to imagine the man would be opening up so quickly, but you were in no position to complain. He had turned the conversation around much more rapidly than you could ruminate on a proper response, “If you really want to know, though, it’s more like… territory conflicts.” Hoseok confessed in a way that bordered on the pusillanimous.

You merely nodded in concordance, humming as you took in the new information as casually as possible, “Oh yes, I figured it would be something along those lines. Some people have been whispering about these two gangs having some issues, everyone in the hospital is very apprehensive,” anew, you were unable to manifest any sort of astoundment or trepidation, each scantiness of a reaction only serving to confirm your thesis — you had grown accustomed to that life, in a way. Criminals and gang members came and went in the E.R., and long ago had you lost the reasons to be scared in their presence. “What? You’d be surprised about the amount of criminals that end up at the emergency room, even more about the ones who are unable to keep a secret when they’re being treated. I’m almost part of the police force by now."

The mention of the cops caused for the man's eyebrows to elevate in minor surprise as the two of you began walking towards the ashen steps; thinking it was odd that it took your so long to mention it. His experience warned him that it might have been a technique to silently threaten him — how could he be so sure you were not aware of his reputation? —  though, on the other hand, Hoseok was certain his baseless paranoia was getting the best of him. Even if that were the case, there were no crimes to be placed upon him. Not for that night, at least.

“I’m trembling,” joked the leader, his own timbre carrying fulminating fragments of a hidden intimidation. One of his legs was raised to step up the concrete stairs to the front door, but the pain that burgeoned in his flesh caused for a hiss to rupture the peace of his lips; the hairs on his arms raising as a shiver ran down his spine, “Fucking hell— I'm alright," Hoseok was quick to add, as the preoccupation of your gaze was casted over his peripheral vision. He forced himself to step up, ignoring the pulsating agony on his skin to, instead, focus on the terminal remnants of his pride, "You did appear to have a special interest in torturing me with that hellish liquid you call antiseptics, though,” playful, he found the force to joke, hoping it would be sufficient to fluctuate your focus away from his well-being.

Timid, the phantasm of a smirk crossed over your features, but did not stay there for long. You could only dissimulate your worries so far, even if you could tell how clearly your empathy affected his demeanor, “I'm sorry, the police wasn’t supposed to scare you — be careful with your step,”  you cut your own sentence short before you could stop yourself, the comment sounding almost pitiful to your companion's ears. Hoseok had the sensation as if he was nothing more than a child you were watching over, and that felt terribly incommodious to endure. “I’m not calling the cops, don’t worry. As far as I know, you are the victim here. Though, you should be respectful if you don’t want a bit more of that… hellish liquid.”

Such guarantee came in such brusque manner that it was nothing beneath the authentic. So abruptly, in fact, that he could not measure his actions before taking them: Hoseok turned his head to the side as if to check the seriousness that ornamented your expression, but found out much more than he could have ever expected.

The lights that embellished the cimmerian night casted over your features some sort of iridescent glow, the polychromatic splendor which induced for him to drown in the kaleidoscopic waltz they created amongst you’s pulchritudinous delineations. As the two moved up the steps — three, four, five... — Hoseok focused on the warmth that radiated from your body; the way you held to his own and offered support for their mundane adventure to continue, “Again, you're quite adorable,” was what he verbalized instead of his observations, merely a glimpse of the fascination that began to germinate within the walls of his mind. You presented no major reaction, “What if I weren’t the victim, though? Would your judgement change?” he took his chance at asking.

Secretly, the truth was that he did not know how to cope with the exchanged parts. Customarily, Hoseok would be the one to call the shots; the one who assisted the hurt ones and, if he was feeling merciful, the one who avoided to reach for the participation of the law. Now, a stranger had deprived the man from his own autonomy, presenting him with a view of the the other edge of the spectrum — the one of the helpless victim. And those, he thought, were two things he would have never considered himself to be until that very instant. He was not helpless; was not the victim

So why did he feel so dangerously fragile underneath your touch?

It took you some time to fully take in the abruptness of his inquiry and, once you did, they were already walking towards the front entrance, "What do you mean?" you thought it would be better to ask than to trace impulsive conclusions. Ever so delicate, your question caused for his reveries to be broken, and Hoseok crashed back to the cold reality of opalescent fluorescence. The two were now before the closed doors, and you held a small silver key in your hands. Hoseok swore he could see shimmers of hesitation dancing within the diaphanous veils of your eyes, but that could have been merely a poltergeist of his own projected frustrations.

Hoseok cleared his throat, finding a way to reiterate his question into a more precise, almost threatening one. "Would you call the cops if I weren't the victim?"

You frowned, closing your cherry-tinged lips as you pondered that hypothesis. Not once did your stare falter; though, your gaze kept locked on his own as if you were a hungry lion measuring your prey with endless care and patience, “Not unless you give me a reason to,” you finally spoke out. That, Hoseok realized, was what a threat from your part would sound like: the pupils drowning in opaque hollowness, the concrete voice that had been filled up with sheer conviction. If you knew who he was, you were not scared of him. “I’m not here to judge your morals, okay? I’ll patch you up and then you can continue your life.”

To the man, that was more than sufficient.

Bordering on the inaudible, the noise of the key entering the hole did not bother the tranquility of the mumbling winds, soon followed by the creaking of the door opening. Soon after, the two of you stood in a dark corridor and, vaguely, Hoseok could glimpse at a flight of stairs in the right corner of the hall. He was about to whine out in disheartenment — there was absolutely no way he could go to the upper floors, if there was where your apartment was located — but, before his trembling voice could crawl its way out of his dry throat, you spoke up.

“Fist door to the left,” you pointed to a atramentous wooden door merely a couple meters away. Even lost in the dark, the man could distinguish it as being the only one which was not surrounded by unfitting decorations; vases of fake flowers; forgotten objects and — did that door still have its christmas lights on? “Come on in before I change my mind,” you groaned, your lack of patience translucent through your harsh gaze. Perhaps he was not the only one who was secretly nervous.

The wounded man could now walk with a bit more precision, but still felt as if his balance was not enough for that mundane task to be fulfilled by himself. Hoseok did not know if it was the way he had grown accustomed to your arm keeping him steady or if it was the ghost of an hypothesis — of him attempting shamefully to get back his equilibrium, maybe even leaning against the wallpaper-covered walls for support — that caused for him to hum in agreement once you asked if he still needed your assistance to walk those small meters.

Regardless, you remained unbothered. If anything, to continue helping him was worth the possible back pains that would have to be endured the following morning, for it was still above their previous situation: comparable to two children bickering, complaining in a dark alley. Yes, you, too, could take just a few more meters of carpeted floor. And so you did.

Much more hurried than before, the door of your apartment was opened, and the two of you stepped inside. Instantaneously, you felt the muffled air embracing your body, contrasting with the cold tentacles of whispering winds; the phantasmal effulgence of dusk dripping through achromatic curtains in an almost spectral manner. The floor was washed over with the silvery radiance of nearby streetlights, reflecting on the furniture and causing for it to stand out amongst the ocean of ink that covered the humble living room.  

Sighing in alleviation, Hoseok allowed for you to guide him to a nearby couch, which he promptly sat on. The absence of your embrace was felt at the very instant you adjusted your back to an erect posture, placing the palms of your hands against your hips. Facing the pallid phosphorescence, your traces were similar to the ones of an old painting; the fine brushstrokes of oil paint which caused for your fathomless stare to pull him into the endless seas of your aura.

With an exasperated exhale, you moved to a marble counter that separated the living room from a small kitchen, mumbling and whispering something about the first aid kit you worshipped so much. Unanticipatedly, your guest understood the magnitude of his position, and the odd solitude that washed over his hurt limbs caused for an unexpected sentence to drip from in between his teeth.

“You have a nice place, YN,” he verbalized your name — along with such unexpected compliment — with so much naturality that you were taken back for a second; half open lips silencing the answers that would never leave the captive of your dry throat. It bordered on the absurd how someone like Hoseok, especially under the conditions he was under, could so swiftly change back to a tranquil and even amicable attitude, “do you think your neighbors will mind… you know, about me being here?” he questioned before you could formulate your own speech.  

Exasperated, you breathed out, placing one of your hands on top of the chilled kitchen counter for extra sustentation: your back was starting to show signs of your bad posture and, combined with the fatigue of a long day of work, there was nothing else that you wanted to do more than to sleep peacefully, “They’re mostly above seventy, so I doubt they’re even up by now,” and, almost at the same moment, you acknowledged the dangers of disclosing such information to the man. As much as Hoseok was not someone threatening to your eyes, you had had countless bad experiences to know it was often a bad idea to let your guard down ever so thoughtlessly, “but thank you. For the house compliment, I mean. I try to keep things in order, since my landlord doesn’t seem to.” you admitted.

He would have shrugged if the palpitation on his shoulder did not warn him to do otherwise, “You should get yourself a new place, then,” the man spoke, forthwith observing the manner your eyebrows withered into a doubtful frown. Once again, the leader did not have much notion of manners when it came to stepping over the line and, a bit lost, he cleared his throat, innerly hoping that it had not been the case. Kindness might not have been part of his routine, but he had the minimum of education to wish to treat his host with respect, “Did I say something wrong? It’s just that... if you’re the one paying rent and doing all the work, I don’t see how that can be—”

“—With all due respect, I’m not taking life advices from a man that got beaten up in an alleyway,”  you were quick to slice his opinionated tone, his mouth falling shut once he understood how ludicrous his advice might have sounded, especially under such peculiar circumstances. Flustered, you ran one hand through your hair, skirting the counter and moving towards the corridors that would take your to, presumably, your room, “Do me a favor and wait here. Don’t you dare to bleed all over my furniture. I’ll be right back,” you said.

Hoseok sighed once again, placing his palms over his thighs as he watched your figure morph into the shadows of the small apartment, “Yes, sir. Under your command, sir,” mumbled the guest, even though he was sure you would not be able to hear it.

And, in a subdued — almost muted — tone, he added, “Thank you.”

From the half open window came the indistinct ballad of pedestrians, almost inaudible when balanced to the hushed whispering of the wind; the vernal breezes which carried along the delectable aroma of petrichor. Successively the minutes went by, lethargically stretching on before the indigo horizon begun to show signals of its subsequent conflagrant hue. At last, it was when a pallid shade of rose begun to materialize beyond the skyline that the equanimity of the living room was broken by a low inquiry, no more than a mumble from your part.

“So, Hoseok, is this the time I tell you how familiar your name sounds?”  you questioned with care as the terminal stitch was made. Even if the needle would no longer make contact with his bruised skin, he felt as if the delicacy of your tone did the same work just as perfectly: it punctured the bubble of his daydreams and, more than that, brought its piercing coldness to the secluded walls of his heart.

Throughout the time that had passed ever since you returned from your bathroom — alongside with the first-aid kit you so praised — you sat down by his side and promptly begun working. The two had actually opened up a bit more than before, gaining just the enough courage to keep subjects smoothly transitioning from one to another; even if they were both skirting the occurrences that unraveled before their uncommon encounter.

Hoseok had considered, even if briefly, that you were aware of his identity. After all, it was quite complicated to maintain his position a secret when, as you claimed yourself, most criminals bulged after presented with just a bit of force. The only reason police had not arrested him was because of the unspoken peace that had been sealed between the two gangs, besides, of course, the lack of proofs they necessitated to get him behind bars. He was a cautious man, knew how to cover up his tracks and cut out the tongues of the ones that spoke a bit more than they should.

Though, occasionally, it was not enough.

A small, lamenting sigh left the gap between his dry lips, appearing to linger in the warm air for longer than it should. Suddenly, the world felt much stiffer than ever before, the ponderation of his reluctancy crashing upon his mind like tempestuous waves to the bay — he had been right to suspect you already knew who your peculiar patient was, “Is this the time you change your mind about calling the cops?” at last, he questioned back, hoping you could detect some fragments of emotion beyond his controlled timbre.

Your profound eyes coruscated to the pallid hue of the moon as a melodious laugh ruptured in the form of a smile upon your lips — again, Hoseok had to mentally confess that you were breathtakingly beautiful, “Not unless you give me a reason to,” you spoke in infinite kindness, feather-like fingers hitting his own skin time and time again. you were close, but it felt good, “I’m not forcing you to say anything, don’t worry. I just want to make sure I won’t get in trouble for helping someone like you,” at that, you looked up to meet his stare.

The delicacy in your voice was something he did not expect to hear, and it caught him a bit off guard. In fact, it was sufficient for his own speech to take a few seconds to return, sounding, too, much softer than ever before, “You won’t get in trouble, I’ll make sure of it,” he spoke with so much certainty that your assuagement was almost instantaneous, removing a mountainous weight from upon your tense shoulders, “Now, it’s my turn to ask something back.” he was quick to add before the subject could stretch itself any further.

You sighed, placing your hands on top of your thighs, “Go for it.” you reluctantly said.

The tension that followed your confirmation only increased as Hoseok cleared his throat, his eyes avoiding to glimpse down at his exposed chest. The apartment was warm enough for him not to suffer under the necessity of his shirt and jacket, but he still felt terribly vulnerable in the overwhelming tides of your presence. Furthermore, the deep rubicund cuts and stains of violaceous that ornamented his chest and lower body did not help his ego the slightest. It made him feel weak, and he despised that.

At last, he forced himself to meet your curious gaze one more time, a small smirk blossoming on his scarlatine lips, “Is it allowed for hospital workers to keep anesthesia in their fridge?” questioned the whimsical guest.

For the first time, your mask broke under the alleviation that dripped in your chest in the form of a suspiration, “Is a gang member asking me about laws? Priceless,” you rolled your eyes, tensed up shoulders relaxing right away. As his inquisitive stare continued to burn your flushed cheeks, you gave in, following with a legitimate answer, “I’m not sure, to be honest, but it never got me in trouble. Not that anyone knows of it, of course,” you made sure to add, raising one eyebrow in playful mischiviancy. “I take care of it so I know if it’s good for usage, and I only had to reach for it once. This apartment complex is filled with old people, I never really get out of duty. You know the deal.”

He could not help but open a smile, taken aback by your justificative, “I do know the deal,” he repeated your sentence from earlier that night, but neither of you noticed it at the time. “You’re a private nurse for your neighbors, I get that, but the anesthesia���”

“Came from a traumatic experience,” you completed, “one day this man from the fourth floor needed it after a specially gruesome accident with a knife, and I didn’t have it. Ever since, I’ve kept it just in case — and I don’t see why you’re complaining,” you interrupted your explanation with a sudden comment, causing for him to understand, somehow, that the subject would be switched back to him. “I’m starting to think you have issues with needles, mister Hoseok, and not the anesthesia itself.”

It could not have been that obvious. He frowned, chest growing tighter under the ties of his growing defensiveness, “You have no proof.” spoke the man, but was not so sure himself.

From the vivacious lights that reflected in your eyes, Hoseok could claim for sure that you had expected a counterclaim like that, “Only your absolutely horrified gaze when I pulled the syringe out of my refrigerator,” you laughed freely at the image that returned from your land of memories, much more delightful than you would ever expect it to be. By your side, the man allowed himself to chuckle freely, “don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Don’t tell anyone about my anesthesia and I’ll let you live on as a threatening gang leader with absolutely no fear whatsoever,” guaranteed the nurse.

Ethereal, the smile that ornamented your gloomy features entered in resonance with the chords of his soul, causing for an unknown compassion to irradiate from his drumming heart. It was not often that he would feel ever so comfortable — relaxed, even — when alone with a stranger, and it felt fantastic to experience those pure sensations after so long, “How nice of you, really pulls my heartstrings,” the improvised patient rolled his eyes, but understood that his words meant much more than he would consider himself, “I’ll have to say, this is an outcome I never really predicted for tonight.” he confessed.

You leaned your head to the side, looking him up and down in sheer amusement, “Don’t you spend your nights on random women’s places? Who would’ve guessed?” you teased.

He scoffed, unable to believe the switch of atmosphere that had, again, been casted over them, “Can’t you keep your mouth under control?” Hoseok threw back, thinking it would be a rather wiser approach if he did not attempt to find a justification for your question, “For a health worker, you’re too much of a brat.” complained the man.

Chuckling, you leaned over and delicately ran one of your palms over the placed bandage, making sure it was all in place for one last time. The gentle contact of your touch against his warm skin felt revitalizing to him, and the man found himself focusing on it for a bit longer than necessary, “You don’t seem bothered,” contradicted the nurse, your voice bringing him back to substantiality. you set back in a quick movement, admiring your work for a short second before declaring it had been completed. “all set, Hoseok. My work here is done.”

With a sigh, Hoseok leaned back against the couch, not wasting a single moment before reaching back for his blood-sprinkled shirt. Again, he noticed how exposed he was, but decided to overlook it so he could properly verbalize his bottled-up gratitude, “Thank you, YN,” he spoke in clear appreciation, for a second unaware that those words had not only walked over the barrier of his pride, but also left his lips with the harmony of a symphony. Rapidly, he placed the ensanguined fabric back on and started reaching for his leather jacket. “I’m good to go. It was a pleasure meeting — and getting stabbed with a needle — by you. Truly a memorable first date.”

Though, you were far too deep inside your own philosophies to hear his words with clarity. You bit the insides of your cheeks, ruminating on the proposal that weighed upon your tongue. As if waking from a daydream, you blinked twice, not thinking for long before enunciating it with certain apprehension, “Actually, I don’t think you should leave just now,” you started, stopping for a second to meet the confusion of his frown. Impulsive and reckless had been your decisions so far, but this could be the most absurd of them all, “you said it yourself that those guys might be after you to finish the job. I won’t be able to sleep if I just let you go like that. Especially if you can’t even walk.”

Hoseok did not take the offer seriously, understanding it as a mere presentation of politeness. With almost no difficulty — but a quick failing of his knees, rapidly masked — the man stood back on his feet, “How romantic,” he teased with a summery smile, an appearance that did not match the the stories that his exhausted eyes carried with so much melancholy; nor the cuts and bruises that ornamented his tanned skin, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” he guaranteed once more, but his voice held no veracity as he claimed so.

The truth was: Hoseok did not know if he would. He had been on that business for far too long to even gift his own life with any sort of worth, even less to expect he would be alive to experience the next sunrise. As melodramatic as that might sound at first hearing, it was exactly what had occurred during that very dusk: when he was trapped amongst a cloud of mockery and phantom punches, he swore he would meet his departure right then and there: lost, alone, and injusticized. And, asymmetrical to all that he had known, he now faced someone who, for the very first time, actually took time to present him with a taste of preoccupation and, dared he say, value for his safety.

Licking your lips, you stood to your feet as well, unsure of what you were planning to do — were you really attempting to convince a gang leader to spend the night at your place? It was simply preposterous to even consider the hypothesis, but it was exactly what was unfolding, “I’m already worried, Hoseok,” you contradicted and, in a natural reflection, your hand reached out for him, curling around his wrist. you did not appear as if you noticed your own action — hell, it could be a mundane thing for you, for all that he knew — but Hoseok felt it so deeply that his movements actually ceased. His eyes widened for a second in wonderment, but he said nothing, “please, stay just for the rest of the night. That’s all I ask. You can sleep on the couch, it really would make me feel better. Besides, you kinda owe me one.” you added.  

Incredulous, he scoffed at your constant tries of convincement, finally deciding to oblige to them. It was the very least he could do, after all: if all that you desired back was for him to remain safe for the hours that would stretch before the morning’s dawn, he could do it, “You are something else,” Hoseok breathed out, slowly sitting back on the couch with a long suspiration. He did not exactly despise the idea of just crashing asleep right then and there, it was far more compelling than pursuing the hyperborean streets of that asleep, loveless city, “Lucky for you, I’m too tired to head back to my place.” he added.

Unable to camouflage the tranquility that broke your demeanor, you opened a smile bright enough to illuminate the entire town and, as a consequence, the sorrowful heart of the man by your side fluttered in content, “Yes, okay! Good, okay, yes...” you mumbled on, again running one of your hands through your hair as you moved back to your feet, looking at the world around your as if searching for an invisible treasure, “I’ll just get you a pillow and a blanket in my room. I’ll be right back, don’t run away from me.” you warned and, within a second, was already heading back to the obscuration that consumed the corridors.

Overtook by an unknown bliss, your peculiar guest could only smirk. Hoseok was not even close to considering doing something so absurd.

The living room had succumbed into the auriferous luminescence of the rising sun once you woke up the next morning. Beyond the curtains that swirled in the warmth of the air, the mellow breeze transported the unmistakable sonorousness of tremulous leaves in the wind combined with the distant, melancholic harmonies of solitary birds. From where you stood — leaning against the cream wall, looking at the universe that expanded past your window — you could only ruminate on the occurrences that had taken over your previous night, feeling as if it all belonged to a preposterous, inverosimil daydream.

After returning from your usual shift at the hospital, you would have never guessed your night would arrive at the point it did. Veritably, the ponderousness of reality only appeared to fully drop on top of your cognizance once your head met the softness of your pillow; drowsy eyes fighting to focus on the dim lamp by the side of the bed. The criminal you had assisted had laid in your living room, collapsing into a world of dreamless sleep; one that you would soon follow.

Contrastively to those unrealistic experiences, the pale blue blanket that had been folded over your couch told a different story. It had been placed over the white pillow you had handed him the night before and, filled with solitude, the two objects stood in the middle of the furniture, awaiting for your arrival as the somnolent clouds navigated across the roseate skyline.

Hoseok, per contra, was long gone.

In your hands, the heat of your ivory mug combined perfectly with the spectral curls performed by the achromatic smoke coming from the coffee. You took it to your lips, and the characteristic taste of the beverage washed your preoccupations away. In the background of your perceptions, the murmur of your neighbors gradually moving in their apartments could barely be noticed; sounding as mere echoes in a sea of  whimsical, more important ponderations.

You had woken up less than an hour earlier and, at first, forgot of your unusual company. After mindlessly walking into the living room, though, you had been quick to realize the man had long departed from your residency, making sure to keep the sofa clean and tidy, as if he had not been there in the first place. It might have been a baseless judgement from your part, but that was not something you expected him to do: to treat those objects with care.

Though, before separateness could wash over your slumberous thoughts, your investigative gaze had moved itself to the turned off television; the half open window; the corners of the room and, at last, to the marble counter of your kitchen. There, a small cerulean post-it sat in silence.

I don’t think I had the proper change to thank you for what you did yesterday. You’re a good person, YN, thank you for giving me a chance. I hope we meet again soon, next time with less needles. (Not that I’m scared of them. I’m more scared of you holding them.)

Yeah, thank you again.

When you first read the message, you found yourself unable to win the battle against the amicable smile that effloresced upon your lips. As unusual as the mere hypothesis appeared to be, some part of you did wish to meet the man once again; to feel the strangely remarkable comfort that his casual conversation provided, even through such tenebrous times of the night. Criminal or not, you swore you could see some sort of humanity still lingering behind his every move, an asleep compassion and understanding that did not resonate with the reputation placed upon him. Either by simply curiosity or by the welcoming sensation of a new friendship, you truly hoped the two of you would, anew, cross paths.

And, sometimes, the universe listens.

[gahye0n]

Dead Daffodils

pairing: le (hyojin) / reader

word count: 1400+

genre: angst

warning(s): character death

desc: vampire!au -- Daffodils are new beginnings and rebirth but a bouquet of golden prosperity is just that, a bouquet. Misfortune is a kiss of death, lost love, and a single daffodil. Unfortunately for Hyojin, she was acquainted with all three.

-

She was used to losing the ones she loved but never so suddenly. She always had fifty or so years to prepare and, although it was sad, she was ready to let them go. Sickness came over you like a storm though, quickly making it’s appearance and leaving irreparable damage in it's wake. She wasn't ready to lose you, the sight of your ashened face unsheathing the human emotions she'd buried long ago. She'd spent decades, sometimes centuries, mourning the loss of her lovers after their parting from the human world but she knew she'd spend an eternity trying to forget you. An eternity was all she had after all.

She intertwined her fingers with yours, praying that her grip alone would be enough to keep your soul from fading out of existence. Her hand was ice but yours wasn't much warmer in comparison. She swallowed thickly, the human response resurfacing as, for the first time in two millenniums, she recalled how it felt to cry. Resentment for herself settled in her unbeating heart as she realized she couldn't remember the feeling of your warm palm pressed against her cold one. She wished she had spent more time holding your hand and, for one last time, she yearned to feel it again.

She tried to remember the sun against her skin and the smaller sun pressed against her palm, your fingers intertwined sweetly in hers. Like an old film, it coarsely played but she couldn't bring the feeling back to life. She remembered your head falling against her shoulder, eyes softly fluttering shut. A sigh escaped from between your parted lips.

“Aren't you uncomfortable?” your voice sounded clear enough to have her glancing in the direction of your resting form to make sure it was her memory and not reality. 

 “Not really,” Hyojin remembered humming in response, stealing a glance at you.

“The sun is really bright today though...”

You were right – the sunlight burned the exposed skin of her shoulders but it was bearable and she would do anything to see you smile, even if it meant going out in daylight to pick the daffodils you adored so much.

She laughed to mask her discomfort, pulling you closer. “Are you worried about me, love?” You nodded in response, bottom lip drawn in a pout. “If you're worried, you shouldn't be so close all the time. What am I supposed to do when the sun is always close enough to kiss.”

Suddenly, she pulled her hand away from yours with a sharp inhale of breath as if she’d been singed by your touch. You scrunched your nose at her cheesiness, recapturing her palm in yours before peppering kisses against it.

“You're going to ruin me, I swear,” she'd absentmindedly mumbled. Her words were playful at the time but, looking back, they couldn't have been more true.

“The sun will probably ruin you first,” you sighed, interlacing one of your hands with hers and gathering the bouquet of daffodils in the other. “Let's go inside before you turn into a pile of ash.”

“That's just a superstition, you know,” she scoffed, lightly bumping against you as you ambled away from the garden. You chuckled, the light jab, however, caused a flower to come loose from the rest, a splash of yellow falling softly atop the dirt path. In the moment of delight, you hadn't realized until you'd already stepped on it, breaking the stem in two.

You turned to Hyojin, holding the bouquet to your chest as if you were afraid they'd fall too. “Look what you made me do, that's bad luck you know...”

“I'm sorry for harming your precious daffodil, oh great flower goddess,” she joked, bending down to pick up the damaged bud. “Who knew bad luck could be so pretty though?” she hummed, placing the shortened stem behind your ear and admiring how the makeshift accessory complimented you. “Besides, did you forget who I am? Nothing will hurt you when I'm by your side, I promise.”

The sound of your breath shallowing haphazardly, lungs exerting themselves just to intake a single breath, brought Hyojin’s mind back to reality. She met your gaze, hand ghosting over your cheek, hoping to draw your attention towards her. Her words were a strained whisper, “Can you see me? I'm right here, love. Everything will be okay.”

Your gaze was settled in her direction, yet she still questioned if you were looking at her or through her. A weak smile curved weakly at the corner of your lips and she shuffled closer, body hovering over your own like a human shield or, rather, an anchor, hoping to keep you tethered to her side and prevent you from drifting away for good. She whimpered pathetically. “Please don't leave me.”

Her eyes burned like fire, tears that she couldn't shed fighting to emerge from the depth of her blackened soul. She was so angry – angry at you, angry at herself, angry at the universe itself. Oh how she wanted to send her blood coursing through your veins, having you reborn as one of her own – as a vampire. 

She would have done anything to keep you by her side but, with discontent, she accepted that it would be equivalent to laminating a flower. She wouldn't be saving you, she would be saving a memory, a dull imitation of the life you once held. You would be, despite the outward appearance, completely and utterly withered and, even if Hyojin could accept that, she knew you would never be happy. The sun that you loved so much would become torture and the world you once saw in yellow would be painted shades of red. Thus she buried her own selfishness, allowing you to live your final moments as a human.

Curling up next you, she intertwined her fingers with yours and lied her head on you chest, feeling it's unsteady rise and fall with each arduous breath. Slowly, so slowly, she listened as your heartbeat began to decline. She moved closer, a sob caught in her throat as she tried to chase the elusive sound until, finally, it was gone.

Her body didn't move a centimeter for several hours, hand never leaving your own. Finally, she allowed her fingers to dust lightly over your cheek, memorizing the feeling of your skin beneath her fingertips. Somehow she managed to pry herself away from you, trembling hand taking hold of the scarlet sheet before lifting it over your head.

As she turned away, her eyes caught a glimpse of the vase of daffodils sat atop the maplewood bedside table. Eleven of the dozen were wilted but one still faintly clung to life. Plucking it away from the rest, she stared at it sharply, the memory of that day resurfacing once again.

Under the plush quilt, she remembered pressing you against her side, arm drawn around your waist. The sound of your breathing and the distant chirp of crickets were Hyojin’s lullaby. She would usually stay quiet, waiting until you slept to get rest of her own but curiosity had gotten the best of her that night. “What did you mean when you said dropping the daffodil was bad luck?”

“Dropping it wasn't bad luck,” you mumbled sleepily, words muffled against her nightshirt. “It's because only a single one fell. A single daffodil foretells misfortune, you know.”

She remembered scoffing, pulling you closer. “You really believe in that?”

“I don't know. We'll see, huh?” you had laughed, the sound ringing in her ears like a curse, feeling as if it would haunt her for at least another two lifetimes.

She pinched the nearly decayed petals between her fingers, tempted to pick them one by one until nothing was left. It seemed to taunt her, having the audacity to continue living when you were not. She knew you loved them though and, as much as she wanted to destroy the so called ‘misfortune’ petal by petal, she couldn't bring herself to mar her last piece of you.

So, laying the bud atop your scarlet silhouette, she began to walk away. Her steps slowed as she drew further from you before they halted altogether. Hands drawn into fists at her sides, she raised her head towards the ceiling. Eyes fluttering shut, she prayed that you were somewhere listening to her.

“Wherever you are, even if it takes another two millenniums, even if it takes an eternity, wait for me. I promise I'll love you twice as long.”

[dfroza]

many people in this world have stood against our Creator’s truth.

just as Paul was opposed in ancient times in the message he shared.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 25th chapter of the book of Acts:

Three days after arriving in the province, Festus traveled south from Caesarea to Jerusalem. The chief priests and Jewish leaders still had a plan to kill Paul and gave a report to Festus about their unresolved grievances against Paul. They suggested that as a favor to them, Festus should move Paul to Jerusalem. Of course, this was part of the plan to set an ambush for Paul and kill him en route. Festus instead offered to reopen the case. He would be going back to Caesarea soon.

Festus: So let your leaders accompany me, and bring your accusations against the man.

Eight or ten days later, Festus returned to Caesarea, and the next day he took his seat in court. He ordered Paul to be brought before him. The Jewish opponents from Jerusalem immediately surrounded Paul and from all directions bombarded him with all sorts of serious charges, none of which could be proven.

Paul (quietly and simply): In no way have I committed any offense against Jewish law, against the Jewish temple and all it represents, or against the emperor.

Here Festus saw an opportunity to do just the favor Paul’s Jewish opponents had requested.

Festus: Would you like to have your trial in Jerusalem? I’d be willing to try your case there.

Paul: If I had committed a capital offense, I would accept my punishment. But I’m sure it’s clear to you that I have done no wrong to the Jews. Since their charges against me are completely empty, it would be wrong to turn me over to them. No, I do not wish to go to Jerusalem. I am appealing to the court of the emperor in Rome.

Festus conferred privately with his council and returned with this decision:

Festus: You have appealed to the emperor, so to the emperor you will go.

Several days later, the provincial king Agrippa arrived in Caesarea with his wife Bernice to welcome the new governor. Their visit lasted several days, which gave Festus the chance to describe Paul’s case to the king.

Festus: Felix left me some unfinished business involving a prisoner named Paul. When I was in Jerusalem, I got an earful about him from the chief priests and Jewish elders. They wanted me simply to decide against him, but I informed them that we Romans don’t work that way. We don’t condemn a person accused of a crime unless the accusers present their case in person so the accused has ample opportunity to defend himself against the charge. I arranged for them to come here for a proper hearing. In fact, the first day after I returned to Caesarea, I took my seat in court and heard his case without delay. Contrary to my expectations, the accusers brought no substantial charges against him at all. Instead, they were bickering about their own religious beliefs related to a fellow named Jesus, who had died, but whom Paul claimed was raised to life again. I had no idea how to handle a religious squabble pretending to be a legal case, so I suggested Paul be taken to Jerusalem so he could be tried on Jewish turf, so to speak. But Paul refused, and instead he appealed to be kept in custody so the case could be referred to his Imperial Majesty. So I have held him until we can arrange to send him to the emperor.

Agrippa: This sounds interesting. I’d like to hear this fellow in person.

Festus: You will, then. We’ll bring him in tomorrow.

The next day, King Agrippa and Bernice arrived at the great hall with great formality, accompanied by the military commanders and the city’s leading men. Festus ordered Paul to be brought before them.

Festus: King Agrippa and all our honored guests, here is the man who has been charged with wrongdoing by the Jewish community—both in Jerusalem and here. They yelled for his execution, but I found him guilty of no capital offense. Then he appealed to our Imperial Majesty, so I have agreed that he will be sent to Rome. Here is where I need your help. I can’t send a man to our emperor without a letter logically detailing the charges against him, but I have no idea what to write. So, King Agrippa, and all of you honored guests, I’m requesting your help in determining what to write in my letter to the emperor.

The Book of Acts, Chapter 25 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 16th chapter of the book (scroll) of Isaiah that looks at Judgment against Moab and points to their idolatry, but also reveals hope in the coming King who is the Son:

A Refugee (to the Moabites): Bring tender lambs to the ruler of the land.

From Sela through the desert

to the beautiful mountain called Zion, maybe they’ll let us in.

And indeed like birds whose homes were demolished,

like baby birds torn from their nests,

Moab’s daughters, scattered and fluttering, arrive at the fords,

ready to cross the Arnon River.

(to Jerusalem) Give us your best advice and do what is right.

When the day is at its fiercest, hide us in your cool shade.

Shield the trammeled and abused.

Keep your mouth shut when our enemy comes looking, seeking us out.

Let these refugees of Moab come in and stay.

Protect these tempest-tossed; be their hiding place,

a shelter safe from the destroyer.

See, when the one who has squeezed and oppressed you is gone

and the forces of crushing violence wane in the land,

Then God will establish a royal throne, in loyal love—

the One who rules there will be utterly reliable,

With absolute integrity under the auspices of David.

With a passion for justice, He will be quick to decide and do what is right.

Oh yes, we’ve heard of Moab, how much they think of themselves—

so important, so valuable, so hot-tempered;

But we know it’s just idle boasts.

Let them bemoan their destruction and fall—every last one of them.

Go ahead, mourn, all you who were struck down;

Cry for the raisin cakes of Kir-hareseth.

The productive fields of Heshbon are withering in the heat;

the choice vines of Sibmah are decimated.

The rulers of the nations are wreaking havoc across the land,

crushing its grape clusters and leveling its old stout vines.

Moab’s tender shoots spread from Jazer to the desert,

then right down to the sea and even across it.

This is why I cry salty tears over Jazer,

over the vines of Sibmah and over the fields of Heshbon.

And God’s-Ascent, Elealeh, I weep for you—over your branches,

once so green and strong, now broken and brown with death.

No one rejoices anymore over your fruits and harvest.

What joy these fields and orchards brought, what pleasure and delight,

with their beauty, with their bounty.

But no more cheerful shouts accompany the harvest of the vineyards.

No one is left to press the grapes into wine.

I have silenced all your joyous shouting.

My heart hums like a harp with grief for you, Moab.

I ache with soul-sadness for Kir-hareseth.

When the people of Moab present themselves to their gods, when they weary themselves with frequent journeys to their high places, when they enter their sanctuary to pray, then they will find none of their gods are able to help them. This is the message the Eternal gave Isaiah earlier about Moab. But now He has another message.

Eternal One: In just three years—as a hired hand might count them—the power and prestige of Moab will come to an end. Its population will be killed and scattered; only a few, the poor and powerless, will survive the onslaught.

The Book of Isaiah, Chapter 16 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice Translation:

God’s answer to Moab’s plea for help is none other than the Messiah. One day David’s son will take the throne and rule with absolute justice.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Thursday, june 24 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that reveals our pure hope:

“Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you” (Psalm 73:25). Such is the “exile of hope” we suffer in this world... Torah begins: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, and the earth was “tohu va’vohu v'choshekh” (תהוּ וָבהוּ וְחשֶׁךְ) - "confusion and emptiness and darkness" - which the sages interpret to mean that when we truly understand that God created the heavens and the earth, we will realize our earthy desires to be barren, empty and unreal.

In their despair, Plato and the early Greek philosophers sought “timeless universals” which they believed disclosed the reality of an “upper world,” a heavenly realm of unchanging goodness, beauty, and truth. The world we experience with our senses is a shadowy place of change and decay; but the real world, discerned by clear thinking, is a place of permanence, goodness and illumination. Likewise the righteous soul trusts that despite this fleeting world (העולם הנעלם) that turns to dust, there is an eternal realm (התחום הנצחי), a place of abiding love, and a heavenly home.

The land of promise is a “foreign land” to this world, but the heart of faith beholds “the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God” (Heb. 11:10). “For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come” (Heb. 13:14). Therefore “we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen; for the things that are seen are transient (πρόσκαιρος), but the things that are unseen are eternal. For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens” (2 Cor. 4:18-5:1). In this world we suffer exile, groaning to be with our Savior, the Source of all blessing: “I say to the LORD, "You are my Lord; I have no good apart from you" (Psalm 16:2). [Hebrew for Christians]

and a set of posts about the sovereignty of our Creator:

Among other things, our Torah reading this week (i.e., Balak) teaches that God can (and does) turn curses into blessings (see Neh. 13:2). There are many instances given in Scripture. For example, Joseph was blessed despite the ill-will of his brothers: "You devised evil against me, but God devised it for good" (Gen. 50:20). Note that the same verb for “devised” (i.e., chashav: חשׁב) is used to describe both the evil intent of the brothers and the good intent of the Lord. This teaches us that God overrules the malice of men to effect his own good purposes, and therefore we can rightfully affirm gam zu l'tovah (גם זו לטובה), "this too is for good" (Rom. 8:28). Underlying the surface appearance of life (chayei sha'ah) is a deeper reality (chayei olam) that is ultimately real, abiding, and designed for God's redemptive love to be fully expressed. Resist the temptation, therefore, to judge by mere appearances. Forbid your troubles (or the troubles of this world) to darken the eye of faith. Do not unjustly judge God's purposes or try to understand His ways. As the story of Balaam shows, God makes even the wrath of man praise Him (see Psalm 76:10). "Then God opened Balaam's eyes, and he saw the Angel of the LORD (מלאך יהוה) standing in the way, with his drawn sword in his hand. And he bowed down..." (Num. 22:31). Indeed, every knee will bow to the LORD our God and Savior (Isa. 45:22-23; Phil. 2:10-11).

We find comfort that the schemes of the wicked are ultimately subject to the sovereign purposes of the LORD our God. "Ein od milvado" (אין עוד מלבדו) - there is no power that can be exercised apart from God’s consent and overarching will... Indeed all authority on heaven and earth belongs to Yeshua, the “the Ruler of the Kings of the earth” (עֶלְיוֹן לְמַלְכֵי־אָרֶץ). As it is written, “All the nations you have made shall come and worship before you, O Lord, and shall glorify your name” (Psalm 86:9). Amen. Hashevenu, Adonai... [Hebrew for Christians]

In this week's Torah portion (i.e., Balak) we read an ancient prophecy of the coming Messiah: “a Star shall come out of Jacob...” Amazingly, the “meshugenah” prophet Balaam – who may have been the forebear of the “magi of the east” (Matt. 2:1-2) – actually foresaw the advent of the Messiah: “I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near: a Star shall come out of Jacob (כוכב מיעקב), and a Ruler shall rise out of Israel” (Num. 24:17). Balaam’s prophecy actually described the coming of the Messiah and his reign in two distinct aspects: “A Star from Jacob shall come" (literally, "shall lead the way," i.e., דרך), which refers to our Messiah’s first coming as the way of life (i.e., הדרך החיים, John 14:6), “and a Ruler shall arise (i.e., וקם שׁבט) from Israel,” refers to our Messiah’s second coming to establish the Kingdom of Zion upon the final redemption. [Hebrew for Christians]

6.23.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

June 24, 2021

Prayer of the Whole Heart

“Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.” (Jeremiah 29:12-13)

There are many promises and instances of answered prayer in the Bible. Unfortunately, many of us really don’t seem to believe them and therefore don’t experience the answers to our prayers. Halfhearted praying may sometimes secure partial answers, but God exhorts us to pray wholeheartedly. “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much” (James 5:16).

The principle is timeless and is stressed often in the Word. “Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not” (Jeremiah 33:3). God’s resources are unlimited, but our motives must be pure, and our prayers must be from the heart. “Let him ask in faith, nothing wavering” (James 1:6). “Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts” (James 4:3).

In addition to right motives and genuine faith, there must be deep sincerity as we pray from the heart. “Men ought always to pray, and not to faint” said Jesus (Luke 18:1), who Himself found it necessary to pray long and earnestly. “Rising up a great while before day, he...departed into a solitary place, and there prayed” (Mark 1:35).

The early church followed His teaching and example, and saw His blessing. “These all continued with one accord in prayer and supplication” (Acts 1:14). “And they continued stedfastly...in prayers” (Acts 2:42). “We will give ourselves continually to prayer” (Acts 6:4). Consequently, “the word of God increased; and the number of the disciples multiplied in Jerusalem greatly” (Acts 6:7). God is honored when we search for Him and pray to Him with all our hearts. HMM