#Tales of the Gilded Lands

[vagabond-umlaut]

tryst, too tempest

Icarus fell for loving the Sun.

You will, for loving your lover.

▸ trueform!sukuna x wife!reader; 1.1k wc; comprises of elements inspired by the tale of 'hades and persephone' & 'fall of icarus'; warning: sukuna is sukuna, so expect the expected [mentions of violence, murder, cannibalism]; warning 2.0: the reader is not very keen to leave or not love her husband; uraume is the BEST WINGPERSON none of you two ever deserved but still got; FLUFF & ANGST & A MADLY DEVOTED LOVE YOU AND SUKUNA FEEL FOR EACH OTHER

▸ belongs to the series 'mine? yes, mine.' – same universe as the work 'six seeds, like rubies...' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

▸ i don't own the characters, the image or the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

Foul winds howl through the land, the first year of your life as one Ryomen Sukuna's wife.

Servants cower before you the moment your shadow falls within their field of vision, yet their gaze stays steeped in pity and envy the entire time it remains trained on your feet. Grocers mumble to one another, eyes looking away when you move to look at the things in their shops. Even the very flora and fauna, you loved so much growing up, writing poems on them from the day you knew how to pen a poem– even the same flora and fauna feels so foreign to you—

"You do realize your importance to Master, don't you?"

Uraume's quiet question floats in through your thoughts, much akin a gentle breeze creating small ripples over the water surface. You smile. "Given how I haven't been eaten by him or sent to be murdered by his subordinate curses, I think I do."

Emotion, too similar to humor, flits across the mien of your husband's loyal follower — you decide not to think much of it. Too many days of having only them as someone to speak to, outside of requesting for a second serving of the soup or asking for the cost of yukata, has led to you imagining a smile on a person who is famous for their poker face. Shaking your head, you return to your poems, the quill fluttering over the roll of parchment you found lying at the breakfast today morning, and let out a content sigh — only for your peace of mind to be broken by the bursting of a guard into the garden, appearing too terrorstruck to utter a single coherent word.

It takes you nothing save one glance, moving from him to Uraume to your ink-stained fingers, before you find yourself keeping the papers on the ground beside and rising, feet breaking into a hasty giddy run down the corridors of the palace to the throne room where, certainly enough–

"I was under the impression you've run away in the extra while I spent sleeping, wife."

The world around you comes to a dead stop as the visage of Sukuna comes into your line of sight; you feel your heart skip two beats then begin a thundering rhythm against your ribcage.

Four years ago, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have given them a second of your time before walking away with a polite excuse.

One year before, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have huffed a quiet laugh. The first two have already come to pass (with too many lives lost and too many lives threatened) — yet the very last prediction? You would have considered it to be highly improbable, if not outright impossible.

Yet, now, if someone were to tell you the same three things, you think you wouldn't have shown much of a reaction. You would have simply turned to that 'someone' mentioned in the prediction, and gazed and gazed and gazed–

"I left the roll of parchment you bought for Mistress at the breakfast table, just as you asked, Master," Uraume's voice cuts your thoughts into half and you twist to catch them offer you both a very deep bow before hurrying out, to the left towards the kitchen, four baskets full of radishes in their arms.

You look back at your husband, only to find him seated stiffly on his throne, eyes landing anywhere but you. Stifling a giggle, you tilt your head to the side.

"Why do you act so embarrassed, my king?" you ask, stepping a timid step towards him, then another. Gleaming ruby eyes dart to your face then to your approaching feet. Something tingles through your veins. Climbing the stairs leading to him, you hum, smiling, "I don't think it's embarrassing – quite the opposite, in fact. To me, giving one's wife a thoughtful gift as that... it seems quite adorable to me."

"Be careful of your words, woman," the King of Curses growls, rising and taking a large menacing step in your direction; your smile grows intentionally too innocent, which does apparently nothing to quell his increasing fury: the precise outcome you've been wishing so fervently for.

He pulls you by the waist, flush to himself and lowers his lips close to yours, tantalizingly so. He smells very strongly of those bath salts you bought from a travelling merchant three moons back; faintly of blood and death, of the priest he diced last night after dinner — you wonder if you're worthy to be called a human, after finding the curse you have sworn yourself to forever, so terribly dear despite these.

Certainly not — but you reckon you're too far gone to care anyways, so you stop wondering such things – and lift yourself on your tiptoes to brush your lips with your husband's, then pull away a touch, words leaving your lips in a breathy whisper.

"What if I'm not careful with my words? What will you do then, hm? Will you devour me like the monster everyone says you are? Or, will you throw me away like everyone warns me you will one day– when you find someone prettier, smarter, better than me, huh?"

Two moments pass in pin-drop silence between the two of you.

Barking a noisy guffaw, Sukuna weaves his fingers through your hair, still damp from the bath you took a short time ago, and plants a deep kiss to your lips. Then parts his lips from yours, although a mere hair's breadth away, and grins, features teeming with that exotic species of malevolence you never saw yourself regarding to be charming.

Until your gaze met with his, one fated evening, that is.

Your nails dig crescents into the broad muscles of his shoulders.

Your lover's grin sharpens. "Let time tell the tale— yes, my queen?"

The next morning, you find a dozen or so heads waiting for you at the breakfast table, severed by a neat slice at the root of their neck– eyes and mouths which once looked down on your wedding with the King, frozen forever now in a scream of terror.

Forsaking the wonted theme of nature, you decide to pen a poem on scathing, soothing love, instead.

or... everyone: your husband is a despicable monster!!! you: uh-huh everyone: he might leave you for someone better!!! you: uh-huh everyone: you better not stay in this union anymore. you: nuh-nuh. i'm so gonna stay and love and fuck my hubby <3

▸ masterlist

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

The Queen's Gambit

pairing: Fanon!Viserys Targaryen x Female OC

summary: Vanesha Lannister will not rest until she reaches her goal.

Word count: 1,7K

Warnings: Smut, P in V, squirting

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

The Red Keep stood tall, its imposing towers casting shadows over the city of King's Landing. Within its walls, a game of power and ambition unfolded, and at the center of it all was Vanesha Lannister.

She was a woman of intelligence and cunning, possessing a beauty that could captivate even the most resolute of men. But her true strength lay in her ability to identify weaknesses and exploit them. Viserys I Targaryen, the King of Westeros, was her latest prey.

As Vanesha walked through the gilded corridors of the Red Keep, her mind churned with calculated thoughts. She knew of Viserys' insatiable desire for sons, heirs to carry on the Targaryen legacy. It was a vulnerability she intended to exploit to the fullest.

In the candlelit chambers, she found Viserys engrossed in his own thoughts. His brow furrowed as he stared at a map of Westeros, contemplating the future of his dynasty. He looked up as Vanesha entered, and for a moment, his expression softened.

"Vanesha," he said, his voice laced with a longing he could barely conceal. "You look as radiant as ever."

Vanesha smiled, a calculated glint in her sapphire eyes. She moved closer to him, her movements graceful and deliberate. "My lord, I've been thinking," she began, her voice a velvet whisper. "Have you noticed how few daughters my family has produced over the years? It's always sons, strong sons to carry the name of Lannister."

Viserys, ever the dreamer of male heirs, nodded eagerly. "Yes, I've heard the tales. The Lannisters are blessed with sons, while the Targaryens..."

Vanesha's hand gently touched his arm, a subtle caress that sent a shiver down Viserys' spine. "It's a trait that runs in my blood, my lord. And I would be honored to provide you with the sons you so dearly desire."

Viserys' eyes widened, his vulnerability laid bare. It was a promise he had longed to hear, and Vanesha knew she had him ensnared. The courtship began, a dance of seduction and manipulation, and Viserys was utterly captivated.

Years passed, and Vanesha became Viserys' confidante and advisor. Her beauty remained undiminished, even after childbirth, as she presented him with not one, but three sons. The King was besotted, his every decision influenced by the woman who had fulfilled his dreams.

In the shadows of the Red Keep, Vanesha Lannister's ambition thrived, and Viserys I Targaryen remained a willing puppet, unaware of the strings that bound him to her will.

"Gods yes" Vanesha's head fell back, pure pleasure coursing through her body. She wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment forever.

"Viserys please" Vanesha moaned out loud. her thighs burned from the position. Viserys smirked watching her bounce on his cock, she looked like a goddess, his cock so deep inside of her, filling her.

"Take it" Viserys ordered, grunting as he pushed his hips up to meet her thrusts. Vanesha felt her whole body beginning to tremble with the orgasm coursing through her fighting to come forward.

"So close" She cried. her arms wrapped around his neck yelping when he moved. Her whines made his heart thump as he pulled out of her hole.

"Whore" Viserys smirked. he manhandled her body to move her to kneel on the bed. He pushed her down on her hands before entering her again.

"Viserys!" She squeaked, desperate to cum again. Viserys' hips snapped forward into her, burying his entire length inside. He felt delicious, so deep inside of her. He had already pulled an orgasm from her earlier with his lips merely suckling on her breast, emptying them helping her with the ache from not breast feeding their newest addition, Jahaerys, their son was being fed by the wet nurse while Vanesha finished her queenly duties.

"Yes, you like to be filled up, don't you?" Viserys asked. He never felt anymore power than he did with his cock deep inside of her cunt.

"Yes fill me up, give me a child" Vanesha whined, she pushed her hips back wanting him deeper. One of her hands sneaked in between her thighs, rubbing her pearl furiously.

"Cumming" She warned, Viserys picked up his pace. Vanesha's eyes rolled back with pure pleasure. She gasped when he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her back.

"Viserys" She moaned, her back falling on his chubby belly. Her head rested back on his shoulder giving him access to kiss up and down her neck. He pushed her hand away and took over rubbing her clit.

She wiggled in his arm with overstimulation, he was adamant on making her cum having heard that when a woman cums there are higher chances to conceive. After the orgasm he gave her from suckling on her breasts he moved down to suckle on the same clit he was rubbing like a mad man, she made him a mad man and he was happy with it.

"Shit" She wailed hoarsly, her whole body falling forward, the knot in her stomach snapping making her gush around Viserys' cock. Viserys watched proudly as his wife's body trembled under him but refusing to push his cock out, her hips moving back unconsciously keeping him inside.

Vanesha shivered as Viserys ran his hands up and down her side to comfort her. She moved back on her hands and looked back over her shoulder at Viserys with a dazed smile. Viserys grinned in return and resumed the movement of his hips.

"I shall make sure your womb is filled to the brim with my seed tonight" Viserys declared. One of his hands moved onto her lower belly and pressed down on it. Vanesha gasped deliciously eating the pleasure he gave. She was ready to give him a millions sons.

"Don't stop" She begged, she was desperate. Viserys picked up his pace feeling his balls tighten, he was close.

"Fill me with your royal seed" Vanesha begged. She was going to give him more children, she was going to choke him with them, she was going to rule him with them.

Viserys' head fell back, her soaked pussy was just right, he has never felt this kind of pleasure before. He wanted to devour her if possible. His thick finger rand down till they reached down between her legs pinching her pearl again.

Vanesha's cried echoed off the the walls losing herself to the pleasure. Each touch made her skin light up on fire. Viserys collected her wetness and moved his hand up to her face. Vanesha opened her mouth welcoming his fingers into her mouth, moaning loudly when she tasted herself on his fingers.

"Good breeding mare" Viserys praised. Vanesha almost fainted right then and there at his words. She sucked his fingers as if they were his cock.

"Viserys" Vanesha moaned around his fingers. He pushed her tongue down, moaning when she swirled it around his fingers.

"Fucking hell, will fill you up with another son" He gasped quickening his thrusts. Vanesha thrashed in between his arms. he pulled out his fingers from her mouth with a pop. Vanesha cried now moans on full volume with nothing blocking them from coming out of her mouth.

She thrashed and cried and pushed back and forward, her orgasm was like fire, her back arched like the one of a cat as she squirted. Viserys pushed his cock inside of her as deep as possible making sure to shoot his seed as deep inside of her as possible, not to waste a singular drop even when he walls resisted him, even when her liquids tried to push him out.

The birth of their fourth son, Aeryn, marked another significant moment in Vanesha Lannister's plan for power and influence within House Targaryen. She had already achieved the unimaginable - securing her position as the mother of four sons, each of them a potential heir to the Iron Throne.

As Aeryn's cries echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, Vanesha held the newborn close, her mind racing with thoughts of the future. She had successfully given Viserys the sons he so desired, and now her attention turned to the next phase of her ambitious scheme.

In the privacy of their chambers, she broached the topic with the king, her voice gentle yet persuasive. "My love," she began, "I cannot help but think of the future of our sons. Aegon, our eldest, is a true heir in every sense. Strong and capable, he embodies the qualities of a future king."

Viserys, who had longed for male heirs, listened intently. "You speak the truth, Vanesha. Aegon is a fine boy, and I'm proud to call him my son."

Encouraged by his response, Vanesha continued, her words carefully chosen. "Rhaenyra is a remarkable girl, but it's well known that sons are favored in the realm. Aegon should be our heir, my love. It's the best way to secure the future of House Targaryen."

Viserys hesitated, torn between tradition and the desires of his heart. "Rhaenyra is my daughter," he replied, his voice filled with paternal affection.

Vanesha placed a reassuring hand on his arm, her eyes filled with concern. "I understand your love for her, my king. But we must consider the stability of the realm. Aegon is the strongest choice, and he would have the support of many lords and allies."

Viserys contemplated her words, his gaze fixed on the newborn Aeryn. He had always dreamed of strong sons to carry on the Targaryen legacy, and now he had them. The idea of naming Aegon as his heir, instead of Rhaenyra, held a certain appeal.

Vanesha continued to work her persuasive charm, planting the seeds of doubt in Viserys' mind regarding Rhaenyra's suitability as an heir. She knew that, with time, she could mold his thoughts to align with her ambitions.

As the days turned into weeks and months, Vanesha's influence grew, and the idea of Aegon as the heir to the Iron Throne gained traction. Viserys, still enamored with his sons, began to entertain the possibility.

Little did he know that his queen, Vanesha Lannister, was orchestrating a quiet revolution, one that could alter the course of history in Westeros. The future of House Targaryen hung in the balance, and the queen's ambitions knew no bounds.

[infinitystoner]

The Serpent of Sakaar

READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

Summary: A handsome stranger complicates your life.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Word count: 1.6k

Tags/Content: Flirting, Humor, Sexual Tension & Other Escapades on a Trash Planet, (Not Quite) Enemies to Lovers, Smuttish

Rating: Mature

The air is unbearably thick tonight. Potent. Sticky.

You slip through the crowd of chittering alien courtiers, concluding the only thing that will grant you reprieve from Sakaar’s never-ending bacchanalia is a nice, long bath. 

Dodging a purring hologram of the celestial who rules this bizarre realm, you wonder if anyone else ever grows tired of it – too much of a good thing or whatever. The unexpected pivot lands you in the middle of the throne room, and your eyes traitorously fall on the charming newcomer standing at the edge of the Grandmaster’s dais. 

The one they call Loki, although you doubt that’s his true name. 

You’re well aware of the rumors, having started many of them yourself. Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with envy and everything to do with boredom. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as each exceedingly outlandish lie leaves your lips and falls upon greedy ears. 

All you know for certain is that Loki is the bane of your existence after snaking his way into the high order’s inner circle and winning the favor of the Grandmaster within days – effectively disrupting the long con you’ve painstakingly exacted these past years and swiftly replacing it with one of his own. 

And even though you hate that you recognize something familiar in him, you concede he is quite the gifted rogue. Executing each stratagem with ease. Imparting every countermove so effortlessly. 

It’s maddening. He’s maddening. 

His voice carries over the uproarious mix of music and chatter, regaling his audience with an undoubtedly embellished tale. And now he’s summoned your attentions, too. Dark curls rest gracefully atop pewter pauldrons, a garish blend of sapphire and citrine draping over his lean, leather-clad form. Cunning and handsome. The nerve of it all. 

You glance at your own flamboyant attire. Beneath your bodice, an iridescent swirl of vermilion and silver flows to your ankles. You look like flayed salmon. But, if it pleases the Grandmaster… 

Loki’s boisterous laugh shakes you from your thoughts and he turns on his heel, catching your unwary gaze. You ignore the stutter of your heart and the warm tingling in your core, instead focusing on how his regal brow furrows and his forced smile falls. But, as the facade quickly returns and he excuses himself from the revelry, his eyes – never breaking from your own – spark with intensity. 

You have to get out of here. Now.

Ducking behind a group of faceless creatures, you shuffle along the gilded perimeter of the room, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The din of the party echoes off the walls, the unrelenting buzz pulsing in your temples and settling in the crevices of your mind. The discomfort results in a moment of hesitation, and you glance over your shoulder, but Loki vanishes into the crowd. 

A portal to your left beckons with a soft, mechanical hum and you exhale, walking through the opening.

“Leaving so soon? I do hope I’m not the cause of your early departure.” 

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the glaringly bright corridor, but there he is, just ahead, leaning against the hexagonal archway, a satisfied smirk on his infuriatingly gorgeous face. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you lie, squaring your shoulders and continuing your journey to the elevators.

“Things were getting a bit monotonous,” he offers, effortlessly falling in step beside you. “And I always find a nice, long bath invigorating after, well, after anything really.” 

His words cause your feet to falter slightly – surely he can’t… but what if? Thoughts whirring, you frantically push the salacious image of Loki disrobing and stepping into a bath from your mind.

“I take it you agree,” he taunts, opening the control panel next to the elevator. “Which level?” 

“71X-P.” What an ass.

Loki punches the code for the top-level suites, muttering something under his breath. 

“I beg your pardon?” you ask, stepping into the small space as the partition opens. The two of you ascend into the darkened sky – the jagged, glimmering expanse of the city on the other side of the glass shrinking beneath you. 

“Oh,” he says. “I was unaware we reside in the same wing of this so-called palace. How fortuitous.” 

“Indeed.” The word comes out more biting than intended.  

Loki tuts. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like me very much.” 

You perch on the guardrail, refusing to give him more than a playful roll of your eyes before pretending to inspect your nails. 

“But perhaps that’s just another of your machinations?” Loki hums, a mask of feigned contemplation crawling across his face as he stalks closer. Widening his stance, he cages you against the unyielding windowpane with his arms.

“Loki,” you warn, the warmth in your hips flaring back to life like embers reigniting beneath a thin layer of ash. Can he sense how wildly your heart is beating? 

“Ah, so you do know my name. Although I must admit, darling, I’ve grown fond of the Serpent of Sakaar.” 

He knows. He knows, and now what? Will he convince the Grandmaster to order a fight between you and his beloved champion? Or perhaps he’ll have you evicted from the palace? A life out there with the scrappers might be the only thing worse than a life in here under the thumb of a deranged celestial.

Everything is moving too fast, yet time stands still. Such is the way on Sakaar. Your stomach drops, settling somewhere beneath your feet as the lift reverses its trajectory, plummeting you towards a fate you aren’t prepared for. Yet a quick glance through the glass confirms you’re still steadily climbing up, up– 

“You know, you’re quite…” Loki pauses, tracing the pattern of the silver cuff adorning your bicep with his forefinger. The rapid cadence of your breath cuts through the charged air, entwining with the weight of his gaze as it locks onto your parted lips. 

When his eyes flit back to yours, the striking green of his irises is nearly eclipsed by his expanding pupils. “Clever.” 

“I- I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Ah, but you do. And I must express my sincerest gratitude. Everyone here is so curious about my origins.” Loki raises an eyebrow, his fingertips ghosting a trail up your arm and across your collarbone. “And your crafty little rumors created the perfect illusion in which to hide. Even En Dwi Gast himself believes the stories to be true.” 

“I find the best lies are the ones shrouded in truth,” you retort, regaining a modicum of composure when Loki’s jaw twitches at your subtle accusation. 

“Such awful words from such sweet lips,” he says with an impish grin, brushing the back of his fingers along your jaw before tilting your face upwards — so close, too close, to his own. 

“And do you think me wicked?” you say breathlessly, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“No more so than I consider myself,” he replies, the pad of his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. It’s a lie of omission, but as his cool breath fans over your heated skin, you realize you don’t care if his words hold truth or not. 

Loki’s nose nudges yours, and any lingering apprehension fades away, an unfamiliar sensation enveloping you. It’s intoxicating and comforting and sets your skin aflame in each place his lips make contact – first the corner of your mouth, then just beneath your jaw, down the column of your throat, and back up again. 

“You’re divine,” he murmurs, and you understand what it is you’re feeling. Intimacy. 

His lips finally connect with yours and you melt into the kiss, curling your hands around the nape of Loki’s neck. Yet he hesitates to deepen it, pulling back each time your tongue runs across the seam of his lips. But, oh, the way he groans when you tug at his hair and take his bottom lip between your teeth makes you clench, your desire making itself evident between your thighs. 

Through whatever alchemy is sparking between you, Loki senses it and slips his knee between your legs, causing you to moan in response.

“Oh, little fox,” he rasps, roughly bunching your skirts up in his fist before lifting your knee to his hip and slowly grinding into you. “Don’t tease me. I couldn’t bear it.” 

If you had lovers before Loki, you can’t recall them – not now that he’s scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin below your ear and bringing you to the edge of ecstasy with each deliberate roll of his hips. He tilts his head, lips parting as his tongue finally slides over yours. It’s tender and warm and you ache for him. 

“Level seventy-one X P. The Grandmaster welcomes you home,” a voice announces as the elevator door whooshes open.

Loki breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, puffing out a laugh. “So, fancy that bath?”

“Mm, sounds delightful,” you purr, grabbing his hand and leading him into the hall. His purposeful footsteps reverberate throughout the space, but you barely make it five steps before he pins you against a cobalt door. 

“Stay with me,” Loki whispers earnestly, smiling when you softly kiss him in agreement. 

You continue to kiss along his beautiful neck as he meddles with a beeping keypad just above your shoulder, drinking in the scent of him for the first time. He smells like earth and bergamot – with just a hint of something familiar you can’t quite place, yet it grounds you. 

Allowing yourself another inhale, you gasp as it finally hits you: He smells of the ancient forests of Asgard. 

Of home. 

But that… that’s impossible. 

“Just for tonight,” Loki says when he feels your body tense.   

“Just for tonight,” you repeat as you follow him into his rooms. 

You always were a liar.

[semisolidmind]

For the Lion’s Den AU, what was it like when Wukong and Macaque first met Peaches? Love at first sight? Didn’t really notice her until she did/said something? Did they meet her separately or together?

(i briefly mention how they met in one of the earlier lion's den posts, but i guess i should give it some explanation)

reader attends her first meeting understandably apprehensive. she was told explicitly by azure not to draw too much attention to herself, given the nature of his comrades. he would defend her if needed, of course, but she would have to be prepared for their... disapproval, if it arose. she began to imagine what truly frightening beings may be behind the gilded doors that lead to the council hall.

the three demons already seated at the large table were not at all what reader was expecting.

they were worse.

azure failed to mention that his allies were none other than the dreaded monkey king, the six-eared macaque, and the demon bull king. anyone paying even the slightest bit of attention to local gossip had at least heard of these three; the tales of the bloodshed and ruin that followed in their wake were known across the land.

reader had seen it firsthand when the occasional survivors of their conquests would make their way (bloodied, broken, and burned) into her village begging for shelter.

truly a terrifying band.

even more terrifying was the way reader made accidental eye contact with the monkey king every time she dared to glance upward. she'd look down as soon as his golden pupils shot over to her, but reader could feel them on her for a few moments afterwards. even looking away, she could sense the way his sight would drift over to her every time he would address azure; the seating arrangement (azure on one end of the table, reader right next to him, with the monkey king on the other) didn't give her anywhere to hide.

she had to admit, the simian demon was more... upbeat? than she expected? despite his appearance, he acted not as a conquering warlord meeting with his allies to discuss how best to subdue their enemies, but as a man sharing a table with his friends. he joked, he laughed, he talked about old stories.

and what surprised reader the most... was that the demons around him joined in.

were reader not horribly aware that she sat among some of the most powerful demon lords in the world, she'd have felt as though she were back in her village listening to the farmhands after a hard day's work.

it was unsettling knowing that these were the monsters who had killed many innocent people just like those farmhands, and felt no remorse.

reader couldn't wait for this meeting to be over.

---

wukong couldn't wait for this meeting to be over.

as much as he enjoyed talking with azure and the brotherhood, he was much more interested in the human woman azure had brought with him. he could tell macaque was interested, too; any mortal that could catch the interest of one so goal-driven as azure lion must be something special.

wukong really wanted to know what her deal was. but, as much as he would've liked to call on her during the meeting, he got the feeling she'd freeze in fear if he brought attention to her that way. she looked like she wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

there were little tears at the corner of her eyes the last time she accidentally looked at him.

...it was kinda adorable.

the monkey king glanced over at his brother, finding him staring at the woman as well; seems he'd had the same idea. it also seemed like reader hadn't noticed macaque looking at her in favor of keeping tabs on wukong (which was kinda flattering; he half-jokingly decided that meant she liked him more).

wukong came up with a spilt-second plan. he hid his mouth behind thoughtfully steepled fingers (he was only pretending to listen to the battle strategies being discussed anyway) and whispered it so that only his ever-vigilant brother could hear him.

once the meeting was over, the brotherhood had dispersed outside to get some fresh air. the monkey king crossed the courtyard, intent on distracting azure. he asked the general to take stock of a recent battle so that he and a nearby scribe could make note of it. though azure was a tad confused (shouldn't they have done that right after the battle happened?), he begins to list off information such as casualties, equipment lost, rations used, etc.

conveniently taking the lion's attention away from his little companion, who seemed to be wandering off toward a grove of fruit trees a ways away from the courtyard.

wukong flicked his tail in a certain way, meaningless to anyone but his brother, who took that as his signal.

the shadowmaster sunk into his namesake as soon as eyes were no longer on him.

wukong will join up with them later, once his side of the plan is complete.

---

macaque usually didn't pay much attention to mortals, aside from when he was killing them.

but the fact that the ever-so-honorable (more like hypocritical) azure lion had a little mortal woman at his side? well...that was certainly interesting.

macaque knew that azure was much gentler when it came to human commoners, letting them escape before raiding their towns. the shadowy simian found it amusing that the lion believed he was being merciful; a crowd of defenseless humans with nowhere to go, out in the wilderness? they were basically a demon buffet. and if demons didn't get them, wild animals or the elements would.

deciding to keep that observation in his back pocket for the next time azure nagged him about killing villagers, macaque stepped out of the shadows. the human sat a short distance away, leaned back against a flowering tree. it looked like she was admiring the scenery, completely unaware of him.

what did azure call her...? reader?

hm. azure could've picked anything to give her as a protective pseudonym, and he chose that? wonder what that could possibly say about her. she doesn't really look the academic type.

although, now that he's able to see her a little closer...

perhaps the six-eared demon could understand why the lion was taken with this human, at least physically. she's pretty, she's got nice proportions...but if looks were all that mattered, there's definitely more outwardly attractive humans to choose. her appearance can't be all there is. so, macaque decides to speak to her.

he calls out, casually asking her how she's enjoying the view. she startles and begins to rush out apologies and promises that she didn't mean to come here, she didn't realize she wasn't supposed be here, she didn't mean any harm by it, she'll leave—

macaque laughs, genuinely. she definitely used to be a servant or lower class, no one of any sort of status would apologize just for being somewhere. he goes and sits himself down next to her before she can stand and run away.

he can practically feel her trembling—oh. oh, she's starting to tear up a little...but she's putting on such a brave face.

macaque's pupils dilate a little.

she's just too precious.

after assuring her she's not in trouble, he asks her about herself; where'd she come from, what was her life like before, how did she meet azure?

now that was an interesting story. she actually nursed the stupid cat back to health, despite the fact that he's a big, scary demon? she's brave, he'll give her that. her story would certainly explain why azure took a shine to her. macaque jokingly asks reader if she regularly took demons in, or if azure was just a special case—because he really wouldn't mind being taken care of by her, he says flirtatiously. reader laughs a little at that.

the demons' six ears twitch. he likes that sound, he decides.

macaque can tell reader's getting more comfortable with him. she's opening up, even joking back at him. the attractive blush on her face makes him want to tease her more. the darker-furred demon finds that he likes it when she flusters at a compliment.

he kinda...doesn't want to stop talking with her. it's so easy, like he's always known her.

of course, that's when wukong shows up.

---

wukong had managed to sit through all of azure lion's report without falling asleep, which was an accomplishment all on it's own. afterwards, he managed to get yellowtusk on a long-winded lecture on...something or other, which he always insisted his brothers sit for.

having successfully trapped azure and peng in a manners-mandated lesson (one he knew would keep them for a good while; once the old elephant got started talking, he was difficult to stop), wukong excused himself to "check on dinner preparations." he sped off on his cloud toward where the kitchens were, intent on making a u-turn where the others couldn't see.

if azure wanted to follow, he'd have to interrupt his brother; something wukong knew he'd be hesitant to do.

with that taken care of, the simian ruler quickly tracked his little mark, finding her and his brother under a flowering peach tree. deciding to eavesdrop on their conversation, he stepped gently from his cloud onto the branches above them.

after a moment listening to them (and getting a little jealous that mac had managed to get her to laugh, which was a pretty sound he wanted aimed at him), wukong swung down, shaking some flower petals free, landing gracefully in a crouch at reader's feet. he cheekily apologizes for "dropping in" so unexpectedly.

at her frightened gasp and backpedal, wukong rushes to reassure her he means no harm. he's just curious, he wants to hear her story too, honest! he keeps his tone gentle and playful, and attempts to be as non-threatening as possible (which is tough, since he knows his reputation precedes him).

when reader finally manages to speak (thanks to a little encouragement from macaque), wukong perks up. she doesn't seem as scared of his brother anymore at least, which is a very good sign. as she tells her story, he takes in her features up close.

after hearing how she cared for azure, wukong unknowingly echoes his brother's earlier sentiment; he kinda wants reader to take care of him, too.

he sees how her eyes shine with dewy unshed tears, her face flushed at the demons' proximity (they're both in her space, macaque practically leaning against her shoulder and wukong sitting so close in front that their knees were touching). he notices the way the dappled sunlight hits her skin, the way her lashes frame her eyes. he notes the way loose peach blossom petals decorate her hair. he has to stop himself from reaching out to tuck the little strands that have escaped her updo back into place.

wukong finds himself becoming a bit enamored. his tail curls a bit, and his smile becomes gentler the longer he looks at her.

after talking with her for a while and sharing his and macaque's own stories, wukong realizes that they've been gone for a few hours; the sun is beginning to set, the grove taking on a golden hue. they should probably actually go check on dinner, and (regrettably) return reader to azure.

buuuuut....maybe not right away.

wukong offers reader a tour of the stone palace before she leaves.

---

reader didn't know what was happening.

why was she able to speak with these— these murderers so easily? she should be running away, she should be excusing herself back to azure's side as politely and quickly as she could!

but...but she was having fun. she was having a friendly chat with the monkey king and six-eared macaque of all demons—and laughing, for heaven's sake.

though most of it stemmed from her fear of offending them, the fact that she's speaking with them at all feels like a betrayal of her race. these two, on their own, had killed hundreds, possibly thousands of humans. they could change their minds about playing nice at any moment.

but—but in this light, in this context...they were almost like any ordinary men. were it not for their obviously demon appearances (though reader couldn't say the two were unattractive; the soft glow of the evening light did them many favors), their status, their bloody history—reader could consider them good company.

thinking about it made her want to cry, like she'd been on the verge of the entire time she'd been on this mountain. she wanted to go home and have that cry in the privacy of her bedchambers.

so when the monkey king (he insisted she call him wukong) offered to take her on a tour of the palace, reader thoroughly considered refusing, politeness be damned. she should really just go back to the monster she knows, not run off with one she doesn't.

however, she was curious about what the rest of the cave looked like. she and azure had entered through the massive water curtain, been lead through a large foliage-infested pavilion full of wukong's chattering simian subjects, into the reception hall, and then immediately into the council room. she hadn't gotten to see much, but what she did see she considered very beautiful.

reader, through her anxiety, had marveled at everything she saw. flower fruit mountain was so...alive compared to camel ridge. she preferred it here, at least in that way.

maybe...maybe going on a little tour wouldn't be so bad. it'd give her an excuse for her absence from azure's side, for one (though it wasn't like she was doing anything wrong by not being next to her kidnapper every second). he could stand to not have her near for a few more hours. plus, how could he say no to something as innocent as a tour? and if the eager look on the monkey king's face along with the coaxing smile on macaque's were any indication, they probably weren't going to take "no" for an answer.

well, reader thought in a resigned manner, she'd already gotten this far. what was the harm in spending a little more time with these two?

[lovezbrownies]

I wanna make a request for Nia, the yandere queen.

Have you ever seen the anime, Dororo? It's pretty dark.

Anyway, for my request scenario: Queen Nia is pregnant with her darling's child. But, when she gives birth, they're met with a startling sight; the child is born without any arms, legs, eyes, nose, ears, and ears. They still have a mouth though.

Astonishingly, the baby is alive and breathing. (In the anime, Dororo, the protagonist's adoptive father fitted him with a bunch of prosthetics.)

How would they react? And what happens afterwards.

Hello! I felt like this would be a pretty sensitive topic to write about regarding disbality so I hope i did well! If I ever said something horrible or ableist please please tell me so i can change it! ofc other than Nia being ableist

Loser. (Yandere!Queen x GN!Reader x Queen.)

Nia's Masterlist - General Masterlist

Synopsis: A greedy self-absorbed Queen loses the love of her life by being an ablesit shitbag.

Warnings: Ableism, a lot of it, be warned. Nia goes crazy, Darling is a rizzler bagged two baddies. Happy ending, sad honeslty

The palace had always been a monument to opulence—a fortress of splendor rising against the backdrop of an unyielding kingdom. With its grand marble columns reaching toward the heavens and tapestries woven with tales of glory draping its walls, it was a place meant to inspire awe. Yet, for you, it had become a gilded cage, a space filled with echoes of laughter and revelry that only served to highlight the absence of warmth and love. As you sat in the nursery, the air thick with a melancholic silence, you cradled your son in your arms, feeling the weight of a thousand burdens settle upon your shoulders.

Born into a world that had never asked for him, your son was an embodiment of hope and despair. He was born without arms, legs, eyes, or ears—his only defining feature a small mouth that could barely form a sound. The first time you laid eyes on him, your heart had shattered and mended all at once. In a moment that should have been filled with joy and celebration, you found yourself wrestling with a storm of emotions. And yet, through that storm, one truth remained clear: he was your child, a beautiful miracle in a world that had no place for him.

Every day, you fought against the oppressive atmosphere of the palace. Nia, your queen and wife, used to be so nice, so sweet, but since the moment she had seen their child, everything had changed. You had watched her features twist into horror and disbelief, her disdain wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud. “This is not my child,” she had whispered in that cold, clinical tone that stung your heart. Those words echoed in your mind like a ghost, haunting every moment you spent with your son. Her eyes, once filled with adoration for you, had turned into a mirror of contempt whenever they landed on him.

You spent your days nurturing your fragile son, filling the nursery with soft whispers and gentle touches. He was a tiny being full of potential, and you had made it your life’s mission to give him every ounce of love you could muster. You’d sing lullabies that filled the air with a warmth he could feel, even if he couldn’t hear them. You’d tell him stories of brave knights and far-off lands, weaving tales of adventure that would inspire dreams in the darkest corners of his mind. Each interaction, no matter how small, strengthened the bond between you, forging a connection that defied the cruel world outside those nursery walls.

But Nia’s disdain for their son only grew. Her laughter, once filled with lightness and joy, turned hollow whenever she passed the nursery door. The whispers of her courtiers followed her, echoing her sentiments. “Why would they waste their time with that monstrosity?” they’d ask, their voices laced with condescension. “He’ll never be anything.”

With each derisive comment, your heart ached for your child. You wished more than anything that Nia could see what you saw. The beauty of his spirit, the strength in his fragile existence—it was all there, waiting to be embraced. But Nia was blind to it. She only saw a burden, a shadow that loomed over her once-glorious life.

In her mind, your love for your son had turned you into a stranger. You were no longer the partner she adored; you had become a parent, a protector, a barrier between her and the life she craved—a life of frivolity, laughter, and the adoration of her subjects. The palace was filled with parties, celebrations, and grand events, but you had begun to drift away from it all, entangled in the delicate needs of your child. And Nia resented you for it.

You tried to explain it to her, to make her understand. “He needs me, Nia,” you would say, your voice trembling with urgency. “He needs us. He’s our son.” But each time, Nia would turn her back on you, her shoulders rigid with anger, her lips set in a tight line.

“Don’t bring him into this,” she would snap, her tone icy. “He’s not a part of our world.”

And yet, to you, he was everything. He was the light in your life, the reason you got out of bed every morning. You often caught yourself dreaming of a world where he could run and play, where the laughter of children rang through the air without the weight of judgment looming above them. You wanted to shield him from the cruel realities of the kingdom, to create a haven where he could simply be.

Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you and Nia grew. Her obsession with you morphed into something darker, something possessive that gnawed at the edges of her sanity. She began to visit the nursery less and less, preferring the company of her courtiers over the child she had borne. Whenever she did grace you with her presence, her remarks were sharp and cutting.

“Why do you spoil him so?” she would demand, her voice filled with contempt. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Every child deserves love, Nia,” you would reply, your heart heavy with frustration. “He deserves a chance to be loved, even if you can’t see it.”

She would scoff, her eyes narrowing with disdain. “He’s a monstrosity. He’ll never amount to anything. You’re wasting your time.”

You found yourself growing weary of the fight. How could you convince someone so resolute in their beliefs? Nia had crafted a fantasy world in her mind, one where she reigned supreme and was adored by all. And in that world, there was no place for your son. He was a living reminder of everything she detested, everything that disrupted the perfect image she had built around herself.

You often turned to the stars for solace. On sleepless nights, you would sit by the nursery window, cradling your son as you gazed up at the vastness above. Each twinkling light was a promise of hope, a reminder that beauty existed even in darkness. You would whisper your dreams to him, telling him that one day, you would escape this place together. You envisioned a life beyond the palace walls, far away from Nia’s possessiveness and the cold judgments of the world.

But as much as you dreamed of freedom, the reality of Nia’s fury loomed like a storm cloud over your head. She could be volatile, and every time you saw her slip deeper into darkness, fear gripped your heart. What if she decided to take matters into her own hands? What if she tried to erase him from existence altogether?

The night it all came to a head, Nia’s anger erupted like a volcano, spewing forth a torrent of words that cut through the air like knives. She stormed into the nursery, her face a mask of fury, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. “Enough!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. “I will not have you ruin everything for a creature that doesn’t deserve your love!”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat, and instinctively, you tightened your hold on your son, feeling his fragile form against your chest. “He’s our son, Nia! You can’t just dismiss him like this!” The desperation in your voice was palpable, but Nia’s eyes blazed with fury, her lips curling into a sneer.

“My son?” she spat, her tone venomous. “He is a burden, a mark of your weakness! You think I want to be reminded of him every day? You think I want to watch you waste away caring for him?”

“Caring for him is not a waste!” You could feel the fire of your emotions surging within you. “He deserves love and compassion, even if you can’t understand that!”

Her expression shifted, something dark and dangerous flickering in her eyes. “If you won’t let him go, then I will. I’ll send him away—far away—somewhere you’ll never find him. I won’t have him here, ruining everything.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a physical blow. “You wouldn’t dare.” Your voice was barely a whisper, fear coiling around your heart. The thought of her taking your son from you, of him being lost to the world, was too much to bear.

Nia stepped closer, her presence oppressive and overwhelming. “I will do whatever it takes to protect what’s mine. You think I won’t?” Her voice dripped with malice, and you could see the glint of madness in her eyes.

“No!” You couldn’t breathe. Panic surged through you as you turned and bolted from the nursery, clutching your son close to your chest. The weight of her threat pressed down on you, suffocating you as you raced through the palace corridors, your heart pounding in your ears.

You could hear Nia’s voice echoing behind you, her angry shouts growing fainter as you reached the stables. You didn’t think; you just acted. You mounted a horse, your hands shaking as you settled your son securely in your arms. He whimpered softly, sensing your fear, and you whispered promises of safety to him as you urged the horse into a gallop.

The night air whipped around you, cold and biting, but you didn’t care. The palace receded behind you, its towering spires fading into the darkness as you rode deeper into the unknown. Each beat of the horse’s hooves against the ground matched the frantic rhythm of your heart. You were escaping—escaping from Nia’s madness, from the gilded cage that had constrained your life. But the freedom you craved was laced with uncertainty, and your thoughts spiraled into a whirlpool of emotions.

The moon hung high in the sky, a silver sentinel watching over your flight as you rode into the night. With every stride, the sound of your heart echoed in your ears, thrumming with a mix of fear and determination. You could still hear Nia’s voice ringing in your ears—her threats wrapping around your heart like a vise, squeezing tighter with each passing second. You had to get away, to put distance between your son and the chaos of the palace, where Nia’s obsession could twist into something darker.

As you rode, you glanced down at your child, whose tiny form felt so fragile in your arms. His skin glowed softly in the moonlight, and for a moment, you let the world around you blur. His breathing was steady, a reminder that he was here with you, alive and full of potential despite the harsh realities of his existence. In that moment, he was your everything—the reason you had fought so hard to carve out a life for him within the confines of the palace.

You reached the edge of the forest, the trees standing tall like ancient guardians. You dismounted and found a secluded spot beneath the canopy, where the branches intertwined overhead, creating a natural shelter. You spread your cloak on the ground, carefully laying your son down on it, and knelt beside him, your heart swelling with a mix of love and fear.

“I promise,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his soft skin, “I won’t let anyone take you away from me. You are my light, and I will protect you with everything I have.”

Tears filled your eyes as you looked down at him, every moment of nurturing and love flooding back to you in a rush. Memories of soothing him when he cried, of the laughter shared during those quiet moments, filled your heart with warmth. He was your child—innocent, beautiful, and deserving of all the love you could give.

But the darkness of the world loomed larger now, and the thought of Nia hunting for you sent shivers down your spine. She had always been fiercely protective of her image and her reign, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that she would stop at nothing to regain control over the life she believed was slipping away from her grasp. Your heart ached with the knowledge that the woman you loved had become a stranger, consumed by her fears and obsessions.

As the night deepened, you held your son close, whispering stories of adventure and bravery to fill the silence. The stars above twinkled brightly, casting a soft glow that illuminated his fragile features. You thought of the life you had envisioned for him—a life where he could thrive without fear, where he could feel the love of a parent unburdened by the weight of judgment.

Hours passed, and the cool night air wrapped itself around you like a blanket, the chill biting at your skin as you held your son close, feeling his soft breaths against your chest. Exhaustion crept in, your eyes growing heavier with each passing moment, but the adrenaline still coursed through your veins, fueled by the single, burning thought of keeping your son safe. You knew you couldn’t stay in the woods forever; the shadows of the trees offered momentary refuge, but Nia’s reach was long, and her wrath was unrelenting. You needed to find a new home, a place where her power would never touch you or your child again.

As dawn began to break, the soft light filtering through the canopy of trees, you made a decision. You mounted your horse once more, your son securely nestled against you, his tiny body providing a fragile sense of purpose and hope. With a deep breath, you urged the horse forward, its hooves pounding against the earth as you moved deeper into the forest, farther from the only home you had ever known—and from the woman who had once filled your heart with joy, but now filled it with dread.

Days blurred into each other as you journeyed further into the wilderness. Each night, you found a secluded place to rest, your arms wrapped protectively around your son, and each morning, you pushed onward, driven by the fierce love you felt for the small life that depended on you. The bond between you and your son grew stronger with every mile, his innocence a source of strength as you navigated the harsh realities of survival. You foraged for food, hunted when you could, and discovered a resilience you hadn’t known existed within yourself.

The first time you found fresh berries, the joy of providing for your son filled you with a deep, unexpected warmth. You watched him eat, his tiny face lighting up with delight, and for that brief moment, your worries seemed to ease. You would do anything for him, anything to protect him from the world that had turned so cruel.

But Nia’s shadow loomed ever closer, her obsession with finding you growing with each passing day. Word had spread throughout the kingdom of your disappearance, and Nia’s anger had turned into a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. She searched for you with a madness that had begun to unravel her once formidable reputation. You could almost feel her presence in the distance, a suffocating weight that hung over you, but you refused to let it pull you back.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wandering, you stumbled upon a stone wall—tall, thick, and ancient. It was a fortress, a symbol of strength and safety. Your heart raced as you searched for the entrance, and when you finally found it, you realized where you were: the kingdom of Dacos, Xelera’s sworn enemy. This was the land Nia despised, the kingdom that had risen from poverty and oppression to become a powerful force under the rule of its new queen. And now, it seemed, fate had led you to its gates.

You approached the guards, desperation evident in your voice as you begged them to let you in, your son cradled in your arms. The guards exchanged glances, recognizing your story—whispers of the mad queen of Xelera and her “kidnapped” spouse had spread far and wide. By a stroke of fortune, they allowed you entry, offering you a chance at safety in a land Nia could never touch.

You were brought before Queen Estoria, a woman of undeniable strength and grace, slightly older than Nia but with a warmth that instantly put you at ease. When she heard your tale, her eyes softened, and without hesitation, she welcomed you into her palace, offering you and your son sanctuary. There was an immediate connection between you, a shared understanding of the pain Nia had caused. Estoria promised you protection, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Life in Dacos was a world apart from the one you’d left behind. Estoria’s palace became your sanctuary, a place where your son was adored and cherished. Estoria, in particular, took a special interest in him, requesting the finest prosthetics to be made every six months to accommodate his growing body. She showered him with love and care, becoming a mother to him in ways you had never imagined. Over time, her role in your life deepened, and she became not just a protector but a partner—a stepmother to your son and a source of comfort and joy for you.

Years passed, and the bond between the three of you only grew stronger. Estoria’s love for your son was as fierce as your own, and together, you created a life full of warmth and happiness. Your son, who had once been abandoned by his birth mother, now thrived in a home filled with love, his laughter echoing through the halls of the palace.

But Nia… Nia had not forgotten you. Her obsession had driven her to the brink of madness. She waged a war against Dacos, a desperate attempt to reclaim what she had lost, but her forces were no match for Estoria’s army. The war ended swiftly, and with it came a final, crushing defeat for the Queen of Xelera. Estoria, ever strategic, offered Nia a peace treaty—one that would seal Nia’s fate forever.

“Give up your rights to your son and legally divorce your runaway spouse,” Estoria had declared. “Swear never to wage war against Dacos again, or face total annihilation.”

Nia, her power shattered and her kingdom in ruins, had no choice. With a heart full of bitterness and regret, she signed away her last claim to you and your son, her hand trembling as she forfeited everything she had once held dear.

As Nia faded into the past, your life in Dacos flourished. You had found love, safety, and a future for your son—something Nia could never offer. And as you stood by Estoria’s side, watching your child grow, you knew that you had finally escaped the shadows of the past, finding peace in a kingdom where love reigned supreme.

Meanwhile Nia’s downfall was inevitable. Her obsession with finding you had twisted her mind, her once-sharp intellect dulled by the madness that had consumed her. The queen who once ruled with calculated precision now spent her days locked away in her chambers, pacing frantically as she ranted about betrayals and conspiracies. The kingdom that had once flourished under her assistant's iron rule crumbled around her, her subjects whispering of her insanity. Rumors spread like wildfire—Nia had lost her mind, and with it, her grip on the throne.

It wasn’t long before the council stepped in. Her cousin, a distant relative with no interest in power but a keen sense of duty, was called upon to take the throne in her stead. The decision was made quietly, behind closed doors, as the council agreed to strip Nia of her title until her son—your son—came of age to rule. The transition of power was swift, and Nia, once the fierce and unstoppable Queen of Xelera, was quietly removed from the palace, confined to a distant estate where her madness could no longer harm the kingdom she had once ruled.

As for the throne of Xelera, it waited—an empty seat of power, destined for the day your son would come of age.

News of Nia’s final fall reached Dacos weeks later. You and Estoria sat together when the messenger arrived, the weight of his words settling over the room like a heavy cloud. Estoria’s brow furrowed in thought, her hand resting on your shoulder as the two of you exchanged a glance. The message was clear: Nia’s reign was over, and your son was now the rightful heir to the Xeleran throne.

Later that evening, you found yourselves sitting with your son, the weight of this revelation resting heavily between you. He was older now, his mind sharp and curious, the prosthetics Estoria had commissioned for him growing more advanced with every passing year. You could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes as you told him the news—the kingdom of Xelera, the throne that was now his by birthright, and the choice he would one day have to make.

Estoria knelt beside him, her voice gentle but firm as she explained, “One day, you will have a decision to make, my love. Whether you will take your place as King of Dacos, alongside me and your parent, or… whether you will return to Xelera, to rule the kingdom that once belonged to your birth mother.”

Your son looked between the two of you, his face thoughtful, yet unreadable. The question hung in the air, a heavy silence filling the room as he considered the weight of the choice laid before him. His young eyes, once filled with innocence, now held a glimmer of something else—something deeper.

He finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll need to think about it.”

And with that, the future hung in the balance, teetering between two kingdoms, two worlds—one that had embraced him with love and security, and another that had been shaped by the shadow of his birth mother’s madness.

[thebestofoneshots]

THE MARAUDERS

Your favourites: ❈ Lilly’s favourites: ✩ Smut: ♡

Want to support me? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi <3 Or just rebloging this post

SIRIUS

timeless morning bliss

REMUS

No sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin Part 2 ♡

Drabbles:

Ink and Secrets

JAMES AND LILLY

Drabbles:

Chasing Butterflies

SIRIUS AND REMUS

ONESHOTS

A little bit of paint ♡❈✩

Waiting for a girl like you for @msblacklupin & @propertyofrjl

SERIES

Gilded Constellations ✩ ❈

The book that tells the story of how you, Sirius and Remus, ended up entangled in a poly relationship. A/N: This is my current baby (weekly updates)

JAMES, REMUS AND REGGIE

Mr. Blue Sky for @starchaser-lily

JAMES, SIRIUS AND REMUS

ONESHOTS

Cum Feel the Noize ♡❈✩

The Stash ♡❈

Birthday Girl ❈ for @kquil

ANTHOLOGY SERIES

The Five Senses ♡ ❈

Anthology series, each chapter is a stand alone, independent fic, where passion intertwines with the symphony of our senses, beckoning you into a land of infinite possibilities derived from the way we perceive the world around us.

Maraudween ♡ ✩

Halloween-inspired anthology series where each chapter transports you into a distinct alternate universe. From the real world to old western Texas and even through the dark times of vampires. These standalone tales invite you into a realm of boundless potential. Experience the enchantment of Halloween as it weaves its spell, intertwining the magic of costumes, terror and spice.

[floweroflaurelin]

So Pixlriffs’ finale is a masterpiece and I’m experiencing a lot of emotions right now ✨🌻✨

For my own reference I made a transcript of the monologue and thought I might as well share it! It's under the cut to avoid spoilers but the whole first 8ish minutes of his video are typed out. I recommend watching at least that much, if you haven’t yet, because it’s really something worth hearing.

We are not done.

Not yet.

Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But before they fade into obscurity, as so many events do, there is one more story left to be told.

[It is the Story

of

the World.]

It’s important to remind ourselves that history is an account of events remembered—and there are so few left who remember, so it mingles with myth and hearsay, folklore and fireside stories. This is the account of just one man, and others may recall the tale differently. Others still may decide to change the narrative to suit their own ends. And this, it must be said, is no bad thing. So it goes.

[Sun setting

over

our Creation.]

—

In a long-lost age before records truly began, our world was built by Titans (or so it is said). The lands they created became home to people who would seek to emulate and even to surpass that act of creation, and that would eventually bring about their destruction. But destruction is simply part of a cycle. Nothing is ever truly lost.

Those who foresaw the destruction fled before it could bring the walls of their homes down around them. And many who had been downtrodden and overlooked saw it as their chance to find a new life for themselves.

Thus began a great migration, leaving behind the old nations of the world and striking out for somewhere new, a life untethered from the follies of their former state. And though the road was long and treacherous, and many fell behind in the wake of such an awful endeavour, new bonds were forged in the fires of adversity.

As time passed, and more joined the great caravan, the host became a nation of its own, a glorious congregation sharing one purpose, singing the same resolute song. Though the road was long, they were homeward bound.

And a home they found nestled in a mountainous landscape, one that might have been carved by the very bones of the gods themselves. There they planted roots, drank deep from the water, and continued to grow. The farmers sowed new fields and raised new flocks. The work of many hands turned to building a new city. And together the architects conceived a castle upon a great plateau that would stand as a monument to their past apart and their future together. To them, the castle itself would tell the Story of the World.

Stone-whisperers from Mythland and the Grimlands, well-versed in masonry of all kinds, sculpted its walls from the abundant rock of the nearby mountains quarried for the glory of their new capital. They wrought rock and iron, carved and timbered their great halls, and raised mighty towers to stand atop the grand cliff.

The mages of the Crystal Cliffs brought knowledge of magic and the beauty of gemstones, and theirs was the sanctum at the heart of the castle, ever-seated at the Ruler’s left hand: their shield and protector.

A tribute was raised to Gilded Helianthia, whose ruler was still revered in the hearts and minds of many, and in time she became their warden against the spectres of the past, carrying the twin burdens of light and shadow on her shoulders; a burden with which the people of Rivendell were all too familiar.

And below, far below, the engineers of Pixandria sought to reproduce the jewel of their empire. A mechanism that would surpass the work of the Copper King himself.

Not all who came to found the Ancient Capital remained for long. Like dandelion seeds, the people of the Overgrown were scattered on the wind, alighting on the mountaintops and valleys. The vast majority of them came to settle in the rolling meadows of Chromia, which was renowned for the richness and beauty of its dyes for lifetimes after.

In the absence of their king, the nation of Mezelea resettled in new badlands, establishing laws and ordinances of their own. Many of them had been armour stands before the king imbued them with life, and some found this a hard habit to shake.

The people of the Cod and Ocean empires, bereft of the waters that gave them life, took to diving in the rocky pools of vast caverns and their affinity for stone grew. Over many generations they adapted, becoming the green-skinned race that folk came to know as goblins—their pointed ears the only remaining vestige of the fins they had once had.

For the gnomes of the Undergrove, this was a homecoming! They had long dwelled here before their exodus through the Nether and the fairy circles of the Evermoore welcomed them with open arms.

And the villagers of the Lost Empire, hiding in plain sight amongst the caravan of peoples, sought to find a place where they would be unburdened by this facade of humanity, standing at last on their own two feet.

But the boundaries of this land were ever-changing, and the nations soon found the cataclysm they had left behind had weakened the walls between their world and others. Waters rose and fell unpredictably; incursions from other realms were possible, bringing chaos in their wake. The tide of history churned and rippled.

None now remember how the Capital fell, only that its remains have lasted: an epitaph to all they had achieved together.

And just like before, new nations would arise. The pirates of Eversea ruled the waters from their secret cove. The inventors of Cogsmeade arrived sailing in from the air on their skyships—only to find whole buildings floating in the golden kingdom of Stratos. Rumours abounded of a Sanctuary hidden in the deepest jungle for those who knew the way.

Their tales are better told by those who knew them well. Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But for this tired historian, it is perhaps best to leave these things in the past and begin to look towards the future.

For whatever comes next, we who have sown the seeds can only hope for a bountiful harvest.

[zapreportsblog]

Yandere Aemon Targaryen ( Jaehaerys 1 son)

❝you and I will rule together❞

✭ pairing : yandere aemon targaryen x reader

✭ fandom : game of thrones

✭ summary : aemon targaryen is a known as the ruthless prince and it’s a wonder to the people how he managed to get with a sweet young women such as (y/n), wherever she goes, he lurks in the background watching her every move.

✭ authors note : yeo I turnt his picture around and now it’s fucking with me 😭

✭ yandere masterlist

In the realm of Westeros, tales of the Targaryens had always been shrouded in mystery and intrigue. Stories of dragons, madness, and power were whispered through the halls of King's Landing. Yet, amidst the legends and blood feuds, one Targaryen stood out in a different way - Prince Aemon Targaryen.

Aemon Targaryen was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Ruthless Prince. His demeanor was cold and calculating, his words sharper than Valyrian steel. His reputation for cunning, ambition, and a ruthless determination to achieve his goals preceded him wherever he went. Many pondered how such a man could ever find solace in the arms of a woman, especially one with a reputation as sweet and gentle as his wife, (Y/N).

(Y/N) was a stark contrast to her husband in every way imaginable. Her smile was a beacon of warmth in a world that seemed perpetually shrouded in shadows. Her kindness and compassion had won the hearts of all who had the privilege of knowing her. But what truly puzzled the court and commoners alike was how Prince Aemon, the feared and obsessed protector of his wife, could ever have found love in the first place.

Their union had been a source of endless fascination, for Aemon had always been notorious for his affairs and dalliances. He had indulged in passionate liaisons with countless women, including his younger niece, before the day he married (Y/N). Yet, as soon as their wedding vows were exchanged, a transformation occurred. Aemon's infidelity ceased, and the relentless pursuit of his desires turned towards his wife.

It was said that he had been obsessed with her long before their marriage, though few dared to speak of it openly. Some whispered that he had been captivated by her ethereal beauty, her radiant kindness, and her unwavering loyalty to him. Others believed that it was something darker, an obsession that consumed him entirely, making him willing to forsake all others for her.

Regardless of the reasons behind their union, one thing was certain: Aemon Targaryen was fiercely protective of his wife, (Y/N). Wherever she went, he was never far behind, though often he remained concealed in the shadows, lurking like a silent sentinel. It was as though he believed himself to be her unseen guardian, sworn to protect her from any harm that might befall her.

The courtiers of King's Landing often gossiped about the strange relationship between the Ruthless Prince and his sweet wife. Some speculated that he kept her locked away in their chambers, a delicate bird in a gilded cage. Others claimed to have witnessed tender moments between the two, glimpses of a love that defied the prince's reputation.

As the tales of Prince Aemon and (Y/N) continued to unfold, it became clear that their union was far more complex and enigmatic than anyone could have imagined. The Ruthless Prince had indeed been tamed, but the reasons behind this transformation remained hidden, buried beneath layers of secrecy, obsession, and the shadows that clung to them both.

The court of King's Landing was always abuzz with rumors and speculation about Prince Aemon and his sweet wife, (Y/N). Some said that their marriage was nothing more than a strategic alliance, a move to solidify power and alliances in the ever-shifting game of thrones. Others believed that there was something deeper, something hidden beneath the surface.

(Y/N) moved gracefully through the courtly affairs, her gentle smile lighting up even the darkest corners of the Red Keep. She was a beloved figure among the nobility and commoners alike, known for her charitable deeds and her ability to bring a sense of calm to the chaos of the capital.

But as beloved as she was, there was always a lingering unease whenever the conversation turned to her husband. Aemon Targaryen was a man of sharp edges and unpredictable moods. His obsession with (Y/N) was undeniable, and it was often the source of hushed whispers among the courtiers.

Whenever she attended social gatherings or events, Aemon's presence was felt, if not seen. He remained hidden in the shadows, a vigilant guardian who watched over his wife with unwavering devotion. Some found his protectiveness endearing, a testament to the depths of his love. Others couldn't help but feel a shiver of discomfort at the way he loomed, unseen but ever-present.

Aemon's transformation from a notorious philanderer to a devoted husband had been abrupt and mysterious. It was as though a switch had been flipped on the day they were wed, and his former pursuits were cast aside. No longer did he entertain the company of other women, no longer did he engage in reckless liaisons that had once been the talk of the court.

The court's intrigue only deepened as time passed. (Y/N) seemed content in her role as the beloved wife of the Ruthless Prince, but there were moments when glimpses of unease flickered in her eyes. Those who were closest to her noticed the subtle changes in her demeanor, the way her laughter sometimes sounded forced, and the hints of sadness that occasionally clouded her bright spirit.

As the court's whispers grew louder, one question remained unanswered: What had driven Aemon Targaryen, the Ruthless Prince, to forsake his past and become the shadowy protector of (Y/N)? What secrets lay beneath the surface of their marriage, and what price had been paid for their union?

The sun hung high in the sky as (Y/N) strolled through the bustling marketplace of King's Landing, her heartlighter than usual. The aroma of exotic spices, the calls of vendors haggling, and the vibrant colors of fabrics and trinkets surrounded her. Despite the lively scene, there was a persistent absence by her side, a shadow that never strayed too far.

"Sweet King," she whispered, her voice gentle as a summer breeze. It was the affectionate nickname she had bestowed upon her husband, Prince Aemon. She paused her steps, glancing over her shoulder towards the concealed figure lurking among the crowds. "Would you come out from the shadows and walk beside me today?"

Aemon hesitated, his silver hair concealed beneath a hood as he observed his wife from afar. He had always been vigilant, his eyes sharp and wary. But at her request, he reluctantly emerged from the shadows, his presence sending ripples of unease through the marketplace.

His tall figure materialized beside (Y/N), and for a moment, the people of King's Landing seemed to hold their breath. The Ruthless Prince, now visible in the daylight, was an imposing sight. But as his wife took his arm, her smile warm and welcoming, some of the tension dissipated.

As they strolled through the market, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. Her husband had a reputation as the ultimate protector, a guardian that lurked in the darkness. Yet today, he had yielded to her request, stepping into the light by her side.

Amidst the stalls and vendors, (Y/N) stopped at a jewelry merchant's cart, her eyes sparkling as she admired a delicate necklace adorned with sapphires. She exchanged a few words with the merchant and handed over a few coins, and he, in turn, reached out to give her the purchased item.

Aemon's watchful eyes never left her, even for a moment. He saw the merchant's hand brush against (Y/N)'s as he handed her the necklace, a seemingly innocent gesture of transaction. But to Aemon, it was an intrusion, an unwarranted touch that sent a jolt of anger through him.

Later, in the privacy of their chambers, Aemon summoned the merchant who had dared to touch his wife. The man, trembling with fear, stood before the Ruthless Prince, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon him.

With a swift, merciless stroke, Aemon ordered the man's hand to be severed, a gruesome punishment for what he had perceived as an act of disrespect towards his beloved (Y/N). The merchant cried out in agony, his life forever altered.

When (Y/N) came to her husband with questions in her eyes, her voice trembling with concern, Aemon held her close, his arms a shield around her. "My perfect little dove," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with an underlying intensity. "I saw that man doing something unspeakable with his hands before he touched you. I couldn't let him near you."

(Y/N) was mildly horrified by the brutality of her husband's response, but she didn't doubt his words. She had always trusted Aemon's judgment, even when his actions seemed extreme. Nestled in his protective embrace, she nodded and whispered, "I know you'll always keep me safe, Sweet King."

The enigmatic shadows that clung to their marriage deepened, and the secrets that bound them together remained hidden from the prying eyes of the court. As they held each other close, Prince Aemon and his sweet wife (Y/N) faced a future filled with uncertainties, their devotion to each other stronger than ever, and their love veiled in mystery.

Late that day, as the moonlight gently cascaded through the curtains, Aemon lay beside his wife, watching her peaceful slumber. He couldn't help but be captivated by the delicate contours of her face, tracing his fingers softly over her features.

Whispering tenderly, he shared his deepest promises, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. "I'll always be there for you, no matter what," he murmured, his words filled with unwavering devotion. "When I am king, you will rule beside me as queen, sharing in the power and responsibilities that come with it."

His heart swelled with affection as he imagined a future where she stood by his side, their love a beacon of strength and unity. "By my side is your rightful place, your birthright," he continued, his hand resting gently on her stomach, envisioning a time when it would be rounded with their heirs.

In that moment, the room seemed to hold an air of anticipation, as if the dreams they shared were on the brink of becoming reality. Aemon's mind raced with thoughts of the legacy they would create together, a dynasty built on love and unity.

As he watched her breathing steady and calm, he felt a surge of gratitude for the woman lying beside him. She was not only his partner in life but also the embodiment of everything he held dear. Her strength, grace, and unwavering support were the foundations upon which his dreams were built.

With a gentle touch, he pressed his lips against her forehead, sealing his promises with a silent vow. In that quiet moment, Aemon knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them with unwavering determination. For his wife, his love, and the future they would forge together, he would give his all.

As sleep finally began to claim him, Aemon held her close, cherishing the warmth and comfort they found in each other's embrace. The night was filled with whispered dreams and the tender hopes of a future that seemed closer than ever before.

[autistichalsin]

Hey, hope this message finds you well, I read about furioso is there any fic you like about them or your favorite moments of them?:)

I don't know of any on AO3. There's a few ficlets on Tumblr but I don't have the links on me at the moment, sorry!!

Some favorite moments?

If Halsin gets kidnapped by Orin, Karlach growls, "she thinks she can take my Druid and live to tell the tale?"

There's a party banter where Halsin admits to being nervous about entering the city, and Karlach promises to protect him. 🥲

There's another banter where Halsin mentions a woman he once knew who was strong as an ox, and Karlach stammers out, "a-are strong women your type, Halsin?"

Halsin is so sympathetic and supportive when Karlach learns she doesn't have much time left even with her engine upgrade. He says he won't try to soothe her with gilded words but he's there for her, in an origin Karlach run, and otherwise he tells the player that they can't help her, but they can be there for her.

There's a line (I don't know if it made it in the game or not) for Origin Karlach where at the end, when Karlach is about to die, Halsin tearfully says, "do not yield, Karlach. The world has need for you yet. I have need for you yet. Please." With the saddest trembling on the word 'please'.

There's a few party banters in the Shadow-Cursed Lands were Halsin basically talks about his trauma from the battles and Karlach is supportive and sympathetic.

If they fail to break the Curse, Karlach is sad he's leaving and says she misses having another Strong around, and that he "smelled nice, too- like outside."

There's yet another party banter (sensing a theme here?) where Karlach asks if Halsin has any good stories. Halsin says everyone wants the most salacious chapters, but a lot of his life is spent on things like studying and meditating, and as a bear, hibernating, laughing that he must have spent 100 years asleep. Karlach then says "sleep and adventure. Maybe I'll come back as a bear in some future life!" and if that ain't symbolism I don't know what is

Karlach calls him "bear man". It's so sweet and precious, I just can't.

When Origin Karlach gets her engine upgraded, Halsin says, "Karlach. I am glad you can enjoy the touch of another once again... and I hope you are afforded much more time than you have been told. A lifetime and more, if I have a say in it."

They're both just so kind and so protective to each other, literally every bit of dialogue is them showing each other warmth and kindness (Well... some are them teasing each other instead or commiserating over how much it sucks when someone tries to pick a fight with them to prove their strength) and it's just... I love them SO MUCH, anon

[pradnyesh1008]

Embark on a journey to the heart of Veridonia, an empire shrouded in tradition and mystique. The Golden Throne stands as the symbol of power, yet beneath its gilded exterior lies a realm of political intricacies and hidden secrets, waiting to be unveiled. In a world where politics, intrigue, and war are the norm, you must navigate your way through the complex web of alliances and enemies that surround you. This game is for those who love adventure, drama, and intrigue. It is a game where every decision matters and every outcome are different. It is a game where you can shape the fate of an empire and make history.

“Dive into the epic world of ‘The Golden Throne’ with its first book, ‘Crown of Conquest’. A journey you won’t forget!”

In the vast continent of Veridonia, a great empire stands on the brink of uncertainty. Emperor Varian III, the revered ruler who has led his empire with wisdom and strength for decades, finds himself facing a devastating reality.

As his health deteriorates, the absence of a suitable heir threatens to plunge the entire continent into chaos and ignite a destructive war between the kingdoms. Now, facing his own mortality, the emperor grapples with the realization that his thriving nation could crumble without a clear successor.

News of the Emperor’s failing health spreads like wildfire, reigniting ancient rivalries. The various kingdoms, each vying for power and control, sense an opportunity to assert their authority. Fear murmurs within the hearts of the people, and trepidation blankets the land.

Whispers of an impending civil war pervade the corridors of power, and tension begins to mount as rival factions strategize and secretly forge alliances in anticipation of the emperor’s demise. Drawing upon an elite advisory council, composed of trusted ministers, scholars, and military strategists, the emperor endeavours to explore all possible avenues to secure a peaceful transition of power.

Noble houses assert their claims to the throne, while whispers of treachery and deceit echo through the corridors of the imperial palace. A sense of urgency fills the air, as the emperor’s condition deteriorates, and time becomes the most precious commodity.

As the final days of the asserting claims and authority draw near, a solution begins to emerge from the chaos. King Aric, the king in the north, your/MC’s father, emerged victorious, chosen as the heir to the Golden Throne. In this epic tale of power, loyalty, and betrayal, will you succeed in helping your father preserving the legacy of his predecessor, or will Veridonia descend into a dark age of war and destruction? Are you ready to claim your destiny? Will you follow your father’s footsteps and become a worthy successor to the throne? Or will you carve your own path and challenge the established order? The fate of a continent hangs in the balance, and only time will tell. This is the thrilling saga of “Crown of Conquest”.

 A rich and immersive setting inspired by real medieval history, culture, and geography.

 A branching storyline with multiple endings and consequences based on your choices and actions.

 A customizable character with four different personality options and various traits that define your skills and abilities.

 A dynamic stat system that reflects your character’s growth and development throughout the game.

 A diverse cast of characters with their own backgrounds, motivations, and agendas.

 You can befriend, romance, or antagonize them depending on your choices.

 Violence and Gore: The game frequently depicts gory, brutal battles and graphic acts of violence.

 Frightening/Intense Scenes: There are many intense scenes that can be frightening for some readers.

 Graphic Deaths: Characters often meet violent, graphic ends.

 Torture Scenes: There are scenes depicting torture.

 Sexual Content: There will be many scenes with sexual acts.

 Dark Humor: The game contains dark humor, which may be unsettling or offensive to some viewers.

 Sadistic Behavior: Some characters exhibit sadistic behavior which can be disturbing.

 Substance Abuse: Characters are shown consuming alcohol excessively.

Demo:

Forum:

https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-the-golden-throne-60k-words/142838/59

RO's

Male RO's

Female RO's

[court-of-constellations]

there's just something about identities.

you lie as you breathe, weaving the illusion into reality until not even you know what's real and what's not. you start believing you truly are who you pretend to be, until the two of you are so deeply intertwined that it's impossible to separate fiction from fact.

you discard names and faces as needed, move on to a new life and a new opportunity, but you cannot forget what brought you to this point. you will not forget, because if you forget, then that time and place will be lost forever. if you forget, then there's no reason to keep going.

you really did think you were them. you delighted in their joys, mourned their losses, let their goals and beliefs shape you into who you are today. your entire sense of self has been built on them, on who they once were. but they're gone. and you are nothing but a pale imitation of their light.

you know you're not them. you could never be them. you think their loved ones know it too, but they can't face it. you're a liar, a fraud who has taken their place, but even that is better than admitting that they're really gone. that their light was snuffed out long ago, and this twisted version of them is all that remains.

you can't escape who you once were. your sins taint everything you do, your inner darkness pervades every inch of the life you've carved out for yourself. and every lie you speak, every false tale you tell in order to keep this new life, it's all just another weight on your shoulders. you will never be able to truly escape, and you know you deserve it. there's nothing that has happened to you that wasn't entirely your own fault.

you live only for their sake. they are the only thing you have left. you've destroyed anything else you could have had, all to protect them. they are everything to you. they have to be. you must live for them, die for them, offer up everything you are at their altar, because if you don't and they lose, then what was it all for?

you live and die and live and die again and again. you will never be granted the sweet embrace of death for long, for there is something twisted and broken in your very soul that spurs you ever on. you have to find something to cling to, something that will never die. your other half is with you always, until they're not, and you know you'll be reunited in the next life, but you're still alone now. madness threatens to consume you whole, so you throw yourself into blood and death in the hopes that it will keep the monster at bay. you are a broken vessel, a tool for others to use as they wish, and it has been so since before you ever came into this world. you attach yourself to one of the worst monsters of all, for they will protect you and stay with you, for they are the only trace you can find of the mother you lost so long ago.

you are not real. you were never real. you are simply a reflection, an ideal of someone in some long-forgotten land. your wishes, your hopes, your dreams, none of it mattered. the malice that threatened to tear your mind to shreds was manufactured, made to make their mistake disappear. you are not real, your life was a lie, your entire world was just an experiment to see if they could. you are not real, nothing was ever real, and now it's all destroyed.

you are not yourself. who you were is gone, your past self entirely erased. you are just your title now, a false prophet. you are revered as you sit atop your throne of lies, and your true name is never spoken- not even by yourself. still, you hold it close to your chest, clinging to those days when you were still free. you are trapped within a gilded cage, a puppet to be played with as they please. are you even human? or are you just a broken doll, without a heart and without any true life?

who are you? you cannot remember. there are so many people you could've been, so many lives and stories that might have once been your own. your story was always a tragedy, and it is only a matter of discovering which tragedy it was. you don't know if you want to remember, or if you'd rather forget. you don't know anything.

there's just something about identities.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Prolog ~ The tale begins

The lost boys x princess!reader

warning : reader is the princess, forced marriage, no use of y/n, fluff, comfort, attempted assassination, a little angst

Summary : Once upon a time in a kingdom the king with his only child was the princess of the realm. A young woman is the king's hope that his line will continue because after all, she too must marry, but she was not told that this marriage would come sooner than she would have liked. The bells and joys of the wedding ring out and a new royal couple rises to the inner incongruity of four men who pay more attention to the princess than they should. For all is not right in this fairytale wedding and dead bodies may appear before the marriage bond has even been consummated.

info : So the start of my second tlb - mini series i'm very excited because i could just write so much about the thing. The themes, characters and everything else i hope you all like the prologue and see you next week for part two of the six part series

series - masterlist

tlb - masterlist

Part.1 , Part.2 , Part.3 , Part.4 , Part.5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The story begins with Once upon a time...there was a kingdom in a faraway land full of possibilities, lands, houses, knights, towns and villagers. An old kingdom with many good and bad dark times but a kingdom that has existed for generations until this day.

The crown with blood-red rubies on the head of King Max, who had received it from his father and who from his is to the conqueror of this land who had his roots in distant Transylvania.

A king with sternness towards his enemies, with understanding for his people, a just man to his vassals and a father to his daughter, his only flesh and blood.

The princess of the realm, the only heiress to the throne who would take it on her twenty-first birthday when her father died one day. But that would take time, the king full of health and goodness for a daughter, the man who remained loyal to his first wife and swore to remain unmarried until his death. ,,You are the best of your mother," he used to say when he looked at his daughter, the same loving eyes, the sincere smile and the beauty that surpassed everything.

But it wasn't a shadow of war that settled over the land, no, there were always such things, there were daily hardships among the population and requests to attend meetings always came via the ravens.

No, it was the time that dragged over the land, it was the tradition and the natural rules that his daughter had to marry. ,,If you want to take this throne in the name of your husband and rule by his side, you need his hand and his presence...without this, I am powerless too, my child" his words were full of truth, but they hurt worse than any prick of an embroidery needle in her finger.

Pain that made her turn away from her father's calls, ,,I want to be alone father" she had only said and had walked past him out of her own room, knowing that she was only condemned to walk around until the king was gone.

Her eyes blinked away tears of anger, anger at tradition, at nature, at her sex which always seemed to weaken no matter what she did. Reigning in his name is like a gilded cage, she thought, raising her eyes to the sky as she stepped out onto the courtyard.

A few wispy white puffy clouds could be seen, the sun was coming out and warming her skin and a few birds were singing. It was peaceful and quiet for how long?

She was no longer a naive young girl who believed that everything belonged to her as she had always been told in the songs. No, every time she looked at herself in the mirror she didn't just see her mother's words, the spoken image, it was the time she saw.

With each winter that came and went, she grew older and more like a highborn lady, the princess of the realm...with a burden of hundreds of people on her. But I will not rule no matter how much I am charged, it will go to my husband she said innerly, not that she wanted to have everything on her own, carrying the crown and taking care of the girls she had accompanied all her life was a task she gladly took on.

But her friend Lady Star, a married daughter of a lord and vassal of her father, already had a son. She was the same age as she was when she had her son, the heir, at nineteen, an age that was perfect, as the masters and healers always called it, but it was an age that only frightened her even more.

,,Still nothing at twenty-one, either I'm blessed with luck or I'm poorer than I thought", she murmured and walked on across the courtyard past the servants who lived and worked in the castle.

But she knew that would change soon, perhaps there was still the coming midsummer in which she could enjoy nature with outings on horseback or a meal in the meadow with Star.

Her thoughts and fantasies were interrupted, however, when she heard the sounds of a sword fight. Turning her gaze to the practice area, she smiled as she saw the fair-haired knight and leader of the Kingsguard, Ser David.

Not only someone who had accompanied and protected her for ages, but also someone who had shown her the merits of the common people at one time or another. Slowly approaching, she watched as he demonstrated the best moves for a duel for the new recruits who were only a few years younger and he could have been a recruit himself.

But in his mid-twenties he had been appointed commander by her father himself, and not only had he proven himself in battle, he also had the strategies to show for it.

A natural leader. He always looks like he's having fun, she thought as she saw the slight grin on his lips as he seemed to swing the sword effortlessly, almost like an excited dance as he went around his opponent and struck.

The sparks like lights appeared again and again and his bright hair shone in the sun. He was a true knight from the love stories she read from time to time at night when sleep would not come. But then he took another swing and she saw it in his green blue eyes, the victory like a sparkle when he knew he would win and his smile became almost satisfied.

With a muffled clang from the sandy ground of the fenced square, the recruit landed on the ground and the sword beside him. ,,You fought well and-" he paused as his gaze met hers he had finally spotted her and the younger ones hurriedly followed suit and a half-sounding ,,Good day princess" came from the youngsters who hurried away as they saw the nod of their commander who picked up his helmet from the ground and came over to her.

She smirked, ,,They're more startled than mice," she commented and looked after the offspring who hurriedly disappeared into the King's Guard building and did God knows what again, words that also made David smile.

Nevertheless, he bowed to her personally, his hands gently caressing hers and placing a kiss on the back of her hand, ,,My princess, what gives me the honor? Or have you just come to see how little mice run?" he asked with a wink, which she dismissed with a roll of her eyes and she hooked onto him as they walked across the courtyard together. But he didn't seem to feel the tingling on her skin that his touch caused or were his eyes not on her hand?

Pushing the thought aside, she was silent for a moment before she began again, ,,I always like to come and watch you, a commander without training would be a shame...no, to be honest, I ran away from the king," she confessed, avoiding his worried gaze, sensing that he wanted to stop, but she braved it and he continued to walk with her.

In the end he always did what she wanted, he was just a knight and she was his princess. She saw his questions in his eyes and knew what he would and wouldn't ask.

But before he could open his lips, they heard the barking of dogs running towards them. ,,Looks like the hunter is back," the commander muttered, looking towards the gate through which their mutual friend and royal hunter Dwayne was riding on horseback.

His dogs Arthur, Jack and William, who had always been at his side since he took over, were gentle animals with friends and beasts to enemies and prey.

Detaching herself from David and leaning towards the animals, she stroked the soft fur of each one, which nudged her hand with their damp muzzles and wagged their tails happily.

But her delight was not spared, the dogs wanted to practically hug the blond and kept jumping on him, which amused the princess. She knew that David liked the animals, but with so much affection he seemed almost overwhelmed, hardly imaginable since she had seen him so responsibly before.

,,That's enough now," came the voice of the black-haired man who had dismounted his horse and was leading it by the reins behind him towards them, but he too hid himself with a ,,My princess...Commander" before a slight smile crept onto his lips and the tension of hunting and duty left him when he was with his friends.

His dark brown eyes and black hair were mysterious like the cloaked figures in stories, but his confidence and gentleness with animals was something that had always appealed to her. ,,Was it successful?" the blond asked, looking past his friend to the horse, which had a number of strange animals attached to its saddle and back, almost enough for a feast if one were to walk off the traps.

A nod came before Dwayne indicated he would take the horse to the places and his friends followed beside him, ,,More animals than usual good for us and good for my companions...the king has asked for a lot of meat" he admitted after a moment of silence as they arrived at the stable and the stable boys took the kill from the horse and carried it to the kitchen apparently they had been instructed to do so.

,,More meat? Winter is still so far away he didn't fear another famine," David mused, leaning on the wooden rail holding up the roof while Dwayne just shook his head and stroked his horse but the princess was beginning to feel uneasy. Her lips opened to let Dwayne know the reason for her uproar outside, and suddenly there was a stirring in the hay one stall over.

The three of them watched curiously as a blond tousled head of hair and the sound of bells could be heard and none other than the court jester Paul stood up. ,,Well, that was a nap...oh princess, it's so nice to see you all naked without any straw," the blond man said and rose with a broad smile at his own words before he moved away and put his jingling cap back on and put an arm around the knight's shoulder.

Suppressing a grin and rolling her eyes at his once again bad puns, she was hardly surprised to find him in the straw the last time he had fallen asleep on the castle tower high up by the banner. ,,Nice to see you drunk fool sober again," David replied and fished some straw off his and Paul's clothes that had stuck to them, ,,And not on a tree," ,,Or the tower," Dwayne and the princess replied before the group laughed at the confused expression on the fool's face as he shook his head and his bells rang.

The group not only smiled at the mostly eye-rolling jokes of the court jester, who, however, had his nose more in smoking substances and alcohol than in reasonably good books that would teach him to laugh.

The friend joined the group, not only was his stomach rumbling for food, but the straw seemed to be too picky for him after his intoxication, making his tousled hair look even more disheveled and messy, ,,Such behavior in front of the princess," she reprimanded, tapping the bells on his scarlet cap with her finger as Paul fished the last of the strands out of his hair.

The group next to her, each of the castle servants usually walked next to the princess since she was little, she had insisted. How could you have a proper conversation when your servants and friends were always several steps behind you, annoying and useless? The friends were almost complete, only one was missing who was usually to be found inside the castle anyway, Dwayne's remark about the meat, an even drunker Paul with even worse jokes and David who already had new recruits something was wrong.

Something was wrong as if a summer thunderstorm was in the air and would hit the land with a shock when no one expected it, ,,We're going to get Marko I need your eyes and ears something is going to happen" she said and headed for the next best door into the castle and her slightly confused friends followed her everywhere not only as subordinates, protectors and maybe more.

,,Our eyes and ears are here," the blond said with a chuckle and the others just sighed again at the fool's not-so-good words, ,, You mean the extra meat, the early recruitment and Paul's even worse condition aren't a coincidence?" Dwayne asked, ignoring the younger man's miffed look.

But her nod said enough So he's noticed too, she thought, wishing inwardly that she had paid attention rather than oversleeping and missing out on the weaving lessons by always picking up words of gossip. As the group of four walked through the castle, the men behind her followed the etiquette not only to avoid the punishing looks of the king but also to avoid setting a bad example for themselves.

The closeness they had to the high-born lady was already cause for enough talk…of any kind and relation. ,,Another tournament, even if one was made for you only a few moons ago, princess," the commander of the guard murmured in a calm voice and leaned towards her, ,,Perhaps, but I doubt for me my father the king will have made decisions without me on the council… a council without a place for me," she added and suppressed a sigh.

She was the royal blood, her father's heir and just because she didn't have a tail between her legs and carried a sword, such talk of politics and trade was none of her business, ,,It would only bore you and fill your head with more nonsense daughter" were her father's words as he ordered her out of the room in front of all the councilors, a shame she took from him to this day.

She loved her father and knew what he had been through, what burdens lay on his shoulders and yet sometimes he could not see the potential, as she felt, because of his blindness to her body.

Shaking off the thoughts, they walked down the stone stairs, the light of the sun present in the castle, but the further down into the cells they went, into the corridors of horror of his rooms, the darker and colder only the torches and lanterns soaked in fire showed the way.

A path they all knew they all knew the way to the one small room he usually stayed in when he wasn't putting his fingers to metal bloody instruments of torture.

The two guards downstairs saluted and let the princess through but closed the way for the other three, ,,Let them through I command it" she muttered with a sigh and a wave of her hand she appreciated the loyalty of the guards there had been enough fights in the time the king had been killed by his guards and worse.

They had all been down here before, the chill familiar and the muffled voices behind the renewed door told them all they needed. Walking into the small room where Marko lived, complete with bed, table, boxes and a few other things, seemed almost like a mouse cage as the four of them made their way inside. ,,Lovely and snug," commented David, who had already banged his sword against the furniture several times and Dwayne's whip caught on one of the chairs, ,,Now normally our bat comes to us not us to him," interjected Paul who sat down on the table and the princess sat down on the bed and was surprised to find no knife there

They kept quiet, either not knowing whether to comment on the bare furnishings, Paul's frayed hair with scattered hay still in it, Dwayne who was smiling too little again or David who was about to take out his pipe and smoke. ,,He seems to be doing his job well," she mumbled as they heard a particularly guttural cry of pain that was only amplified by the stone walls, which the three of them responded to with a ,,He's well, Princess," before it fell quiet again.

It was almost amusing whenever they were down here they hardly dared to speak or it took a moment it seemed like a good retreat from the duties and the sounds were a change from always just the hopeful fussing around.

But after a few more moments of the room becoming a tavern, David smoking, Paul making bad jokes, the princess lying on the bed and Dwayne tending to his carving, the door suddenly opened and Marko almost slammed the door in the juggler's face, ,,In the name of Satan what's going on here….good day princess," he added, bowing to his lady who rose from his bed more hastily than anything else.

The blond curly hair lips immediately curled into a grin which, with the blood spattering his face and hands, gave him a truly gruesome but above all adorable expression. ,,What an honor to be visited down here, is there something you need a tooth? Finger? An arm? Or an ear?" he enumerated and she looked in the small bag at his side as he tucked it away in a box, knowing that he was hiding his little specials there.

Something macabre, but it sent a pleasant shiver down her spine as she thought back to the harsh stories he had told her. The young torturer Marjo had taken over the trade at an age when others might have gotten sick of it, but no, he was just the devil himself and had been able to get lots and lots of information that way.

Blond hair like an angel, a calm spirit among new people and enemies but just as big a fool as Paul was when he was with them. ,,An ear for the dogs next time," Dwayne murmured and after a short search Marko tossed him a small leather bag in which the said object was probably located. ,,Extra big and tough for the hellhounds," Marko winked and joined David who put his pipe away so as not to envelop them all even more in smoke, especially so that the lovely rose scent of his lady didn't evaporate.

Marko placed his instruments on a cloth, the blood and pieces of hair and skin were visible on it but it hardly bothered anyone, ,,So why do you need me princess?" he asked and his bright eyes were on the dress wearer who was smoothing her fabric.

,,Have you heard or heard of any information about a tournament, an attack, an ambush or something big?" she asked, getting to the point, unable to shake the feeling inside her that something else was going to happen, something that would affect them all.

Marko leaned his head against the cool wall and thought for a moment while he cleaned his hands and face with a cloth, ,,No, no attack or ambush, at most smaller lords your father's concern. The tournament season is still here but no whispering there either unless-" he was about to continue talking when the door flew open and poor Paul was trapped behind it as a guard stood in front of it, ,,The king wants to see you princess immediately," he said, not caring about the grumbling Paul holding his nose.

What does he want now? the question popped into her head and she nodded, walking past her friends who nodded at her and David assured her, ,,We'll wait for you princess" and the men dismissed her with a bow before she walked back up the stairs alone, past the flames of the torches, through the corridors adjusting her clothes and jewelry and hoping the smoke wasn't too obvious before the door to the throne room was opened for her, ,,The princesses of the realm my king! " echoed through the grand hall with its tapestries, statues of her ancestors and weapons belonging to legendary heroes.

Moving forward, she curtseyed to her father and was surprised to see several advisors and a messenger standing in front of the throne, who greeted her with a greeting. ,,You wanted to see me father?" she asked and saw Max rise from the iron throne and come towards her, a gentle smile playing around his lips and giving him a few wrinkles around the eyes, he seemed to have truly grown older in recent years.

He came to her, suddenly clasping her hands and pointing to a hidden screen, ,,I know it will come somewhat suddenly but the kingdom will not be ruled by me forever. I'm getting older and times are changing and you are my only flesh and blood" he began, not paying attention to her increasingly confused look and the nodding of her innermost tightening more and more Surprises were one thing but this morning's conversation was something else entirely.

,,Yes, Father, but please, what would your Grace like to get out of this?" she asked as he walked around her again, his still cheerful smile fading slightly and he let out a heavy sigh before placing a hand on her cheek, a gesture he only made when he was burdened by something.

A gesture that only made her more uncomfortable and the words that followed gave her a blow that knocked the ground out from under her feet. ,,I as the king have decided to give you my legacy after my death my lands, titles and coins will go to you…as soon as you have consummated the marriage with Prince Michael of House Emerson when the full moon appears" the words left the king's lips, a command, an act of torture for his daughter whose own confidence turned to shock.

She backed away a few steps but her father reached for her hand instead and pulled her in front of the painting as with a wave of his hand the cloth was lifted and she looked into the portrait of a young man perhaps the age of her friends curly hair and a hauxh of a smile on the painting…but above all it was one thing not her wish and desire.

It was not her decision, her heart that did not desire him, her love and body should not belong to him, not in a few days as she realized with horror that there were only a few days until the full moon. ,,Isn't he a wonderful match for you? I heard he has a younger brother and his mother is said to be very spirited," the king continued to talk to her, seemingly oblivious to her fears and emotions, instead pulling her into an embrace when she could do nothing but nod appathetically.

Because in the end what was left for her to do being a princess had its advantages, you had more power than others, you were treated well but the marriage, the privilege and honor, the childbed was what she suffered…she gave her heart to someone she didn't want because the heart in this story already belongs to four people who protected it.

In this story that begins with a once upon a time, there always has to be a twist, a twist that would happen. A marriage between two houses, old and powerful, harbors not only happiness and fortune but also danger, a danger that lies in the air like the words written on these pages.

But what it will be that happens to her and who dries her tears who knows…maybe it will be the handsome commander with his urge to protect her or the calm and engaging hunter who would follow her everywhere, maybe even the nar whose jokes always make her laugh and whose jokes have always accompanied her or is her heart in the end with the highly skillful torturer with his stories that rob her of sleep.

Which heart did the princess choose in this story at the end between the four who have been with her all her life or the promised prince charming who might not be so horrible after all? Who should know except the eyes that will be found in the next chapter?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@misslavenderlady , @palomam18 , @rl-nancyholbrook , @ghoulgeousimmaculate , @oceansrose2002

[trainingdummyrabbit]

you have abnos???? ooooooo......

pelase elbrate....... if not an isue....

i have beasts !!! :] idont talk abt them very much but ilike them a lot.. one day i might write a full thing for all of em but ican give a rundown hwehe ^_^

This Place Won't Stay - [EGO: With The Tide] Duty and Inevitability; Thankless Jobs. A mostly humanoid abnormality with the exception of having the head and tail of a fish. appeared to me in a dream. takes heavy inspiration from salmon, but looks more like a rainbow trout. very no-nonsense and constantly at work; it is Deathly serious despite the way it looks. the idea of responsibility-- jobs that only you can do. tied inextricably with death, yet working for the benefit of many. the greater good. living, working; not for any personal gain, but simply out of obligation, habit, nature. equal parts resentment and pride, it toils in an endless cycle; laying claim to none of the fruits of its labor other than the cold satisfaction that its served its purpose.

Pious Nightingale - [EGO: The Fool] Well-Meaning yet ultimately Self-Centered Hubris. A small, plain bird adorned with a lavish red cape and jeweled gold crown. draws from The Nightingale fairytale. it sings of tales of grandeur and eclectic feats, sparking inspiration in any that hear its voice. lands from afar and things beyond the imagination; it can show you all of them. a silver-tongued creature of many stories-- however, it is still simply a plain, ordinary bird. it insists it can solve any problem, lead everyone to true freedom; yet all these experiences it claims to know are naught but stories. its never lived them itself. it insists it can save anyone and everyone; yet cannot talk itself out of the gilded cage where its lived its whole life. the blind leading the blind.

Whispers of Another Life - [EGO: Hiraeth] Misplacement; Yearning for that which doesn't exist. A vaguely humanoid shape that takes the form of a rapidly shifting child's drawing, hastily cut out of paper. the elusive desire to Belong, rapidly changing the self in order to fit into a perceived 'gap' in the perfect image of How Things Should Be. it riles itself into hysteria searching for something it sorely misses, yet never truly had. yet, in trying to change itself so rapidly, it can never truly fit in anywhere. all it has to do is get it right. all it has to do is keep trying. the pieces will surely fit together next time. or the next, or the next, or the next.

[venture-through-the-mist]

Careful, This Beast Bites

Drifter Lēna meets someone shockingly familiar the first time she dares to approach Kullervo’s Hold. A voice she never thought she’d hear again. A voice she’d never wanted to hear again.

TW:

Brief mentions of canon-typical violence.

Very, very brief, non-graphic mentions of abuse.

With that out of the way, the fic begins under the cut.

The first time the Drifter ventures to the large floating island dubbed ‘Kullervo’s Hold’, she has little idea of what to expect. Her Kaithe—still unnamed, she cannot, for the life of her, figure out what to call the beast—lands atop the tallest tower, and as Lēna dismounts, she hears the sing-song voices of children chanting. From what she can gather, they’re telling tales of the soldier imprisoned here, the one for which the island is named. She shakes her head decisively, a short huff escaping her. Kids will be kids, she supposes, before eying the path into the gilded tower. That must be where she needs to go, and go she does. As she walks through the hall, leading towards the circular arena, the Drifter notices a figure seated at the edge of the odd section of tower that overlooks the arena. She tilts her head, his blue ceramic skin resembling that of any other Duviri citizen, though she cannot shake the stinging feeling that she knows him.

“Do not block my light.” The annoyed scoff catches her attention. Something about his tone, his inflection, the condescension in his voice strikes a knowing chord within the woman’s mind. Her eyes narrow. No. Before she can stop herself, her hand darts to her trusted Sirocco, the pistol that has saved her time and time again at the hands of the Dax soldiers hunting her day in and day out. Her blood chilling like ice, she fires a single shot into the man’s forehead, though the bullet passes through as if he’s not sitting in front of her. Fury rises within her, and she simply turns away, whistling for her Kaithe. The beast canters towards her, hooves clopping against the stone floor of the outcrop, and she jumps onto its back, pushing it into a gallop towards the edge of the island. As her Kaithe spreads its wings, as she feels the wind lash against her face, as it whips through her short hair, Lēna only has one question, hissing it to whatever sadistic deity clearly has it out for her.

“What the fuck is Ballas doing here?” The only answer is the whistling of the wind and the strong beating of her Kaithe’s wings against the air currents. 

The next time the Drifter brings herself to return to the cursed prison, she really doesn’t have much of a choice. It seems Lodun enjoys a fight, and also seems to believe that Kullervo will have his uses. She huffs in partially irritated amusement as the so-called Prince of Fire insults the Warden. So that’s his title here. The Warden. Fitting, he always enjoyed controlling anyone he could, what better subject—victim—than a criminal with no means of escape? Once again, she walks onto the area overlooking the arena, once again she hears his deceptively elegant, definitely grating voice, filled with clear disdain as he notices her presence. 

“What are you? Beggar, lunatic, or monarch clad in rags? Ugh. Trouble me not, chimaera.” Lēna scowls, speaking curtly. The sooner she gets this over with, the sooner she can move on and forget that he’s here. The sooner she can pretend that Ballas’s appearance—though, she’s not entirely sure that this is Ballas, he certainly doesn’t look like him, and from what Mag told her, he’s dead—doesn’t completely gnaw at her mind, reminding her of the months, perhaps longer—time is subjective to her anyways, and she didn’t care much about what day it was when she was running for her life—that she spent trying to fix what he ruined. 

“I’m here for the prisoner. I’ve heard he’s a formidable opponent.” Not-Ballas rolls his eyes, though snaps an impatient response.

“I keep him locked up here for his own safety, and that of all Duviri. Care to find out why?” The Drifter’s lip curls into a half-snarl, matching his tone closely. If this is how he’s going to act, she’ll give it right back. Regardless of if this ‘Warden’ is Ballas or not, his voice is already getting on her nerves.

“Obviously.” She’s allowed down into the arena without much argument—he seems to enjoy watching the prisoner get punished, she realizes with a sinking feeling—and as she fights with Kullervo, Lēna finds that she has a rather difficult time blocking out the Warden’s taunts. It’s as if she’s back in the Origin System again, and by the time she’s defeated the criminal—though, it was really more of an intense sparring session…seems they both needed to get some anger out—her mind is clouded with white-hot fury. Instead of leaving the island, as she’d planned, she stalks back towards the Warden’s viewing point. She knows before she even pulls her swords out that the blows will simply glance off of him, unable to mar his ceramic ‘skin’. But, she can’t deny a certain, momentary satisfaction as she lands several slashes across his gilded torso. As with most things, however, the satisfaction is only fleeting, and as she rides off, following Lodun’s next set of instructions, Lēna only finds herself more frustrated, angry, and confused than before.

The third time, she’s determined to get to the bottom of this, to find out what the hell he’s doing here, in her domain. The gray sky serves as a perfect accent to her mood as she explores the arena, realizing that, outside of each cell, there are plaques detailing Kullervo’s crimes. She remembers what Acrithis had told her once, realizing that the prisoner was once a member of the Origin System. The Drifter smirks as she reads, finding that she and the attempted assassin would’ve gotten along well, had they been around at the same time and place. As she reaches the end, Lēna finally realizes who, or rather what, the Warden is. He’s little more than a manifestation from Kullervo’s mind, a twisted version of the Executor that he had attempted to kill. She mutters to herself, her voice raspy from lack of use—after all, there really aren’t many people to talk to here.

“Wish he’d been around when I was there. Could’ve saved us some trouble.” She makes her way up to the outcrop, her hatred still burning, though tempered slightly with the knowledge that this isn’t actually him, that the Warden is simply a manifestation. He must notice her narrowed gaze, or the ghost of a snarl on her lips, because the ceramic-skinned man snaps harshly.

“Do not eye me so venomously. I do not know you.” His words only serve to deepen the scowl on the Drifter’s face. She hisses a reply, hardly thinking about anything else other than the fact that she knows him, or the person he was based off of.

“No, you don’t. But I know you, Warden.” The low growl causes his metallic face to crease, a movement similar to an eyebrow raise creasing what would be his brow bone if he wasn’t made of ceramic. Lēna says nothing more, smirking at his confused, irritated silence as she makes her way down to the arena. She still can’t block out his taunts as she spars with Kullervo—she finds that she certainly has a new respect for the prisoner now—, but they don’t affect her fighting skills as much as they had previously. As she shoots at the prisoner, she ‘accidentally’ aims upwards, where she knows the Warden is seated. She knows the bullet won’t hit him, but she also knows that this is what he deserves. Yes, he might not be the real Ballas, but he’s based off of him. That’s enough for her. Ballas tortured Lotus, attempted to kill—succeeded, really—both her and Mag, and was responsible for hurting so many others. If she had to listen to his horrible voice every time she ventures to this island, Lēna figures she may as well get something out of it. It’s cathartic in a way, she finds. Not the whole ‘trying—and failing—to hurt him’ thing, because of course not, she isn’t completely insane. But, being able to focus her anger on a manifestation of Ballas, since she can’t do so on the actual Orokin, is…well, she finds she’s unable to actually describe how that feels, but there’s something about it that lessens her stress, lessens her worry that somehow he’ll come back and hurt Lotus and Mag again. She may not be as connected to Lotus as the kid is, but she did nurse her back to health, and gods-damnit, that counts for something. She doesn’t want her to get hurt again, nor does she want that for Mag, who’s become almost like a younger sister to her. So, if she has to stab the Warden in order to convince herself that Ballas will not—cannot—come back, so be it. She never said she was a hero. Hell, she’s hardly even good. That’s fine by her. A caged beast has to bite eventually, doesn’t she? 

[misfitwashere]

Putin's Legend

The Nonsensical Basis of a Terrible War

Timothy Snyder

Aug 25, 2024

Two-and-a-half years ago, Russia began a full-scale invasion of Ukraine, setting off the largest war the world has seen since 1945. 

Although Russia's leaders have offered various spurious justifications for their illegal war of aggression, Vladimir Putin's nost consistent explanation has been ideological: Russia is an ancient state, and Ukraine is historically Russian land.

Let us take advantage of this half-anniversary to consider this claim. 

Anniversaries take hold of the imagination, especially the round ones.  The fullness of years and the beauty of numbers seduce us into myths of eternity and goodness.  But history, unlike legend,  is composed of fragments, of bits, of things we understand halfway, and seek to grasp ever better.

This is one reason why few historians grapple with the gilded myths that Putin has put forward about the ancient past, most notoriously in a long essay in 2021 and then in a tedious interview with Tucker Carlson in 2024 (both linked below).  

When confronted with magical thinking by dictators, historians feel out of place, like a bridge player invited to judge prestidigitation, say, or a surgeon hired to care for wax figures. 

Putin is in love with a legend.  Historically speaking, this is very familiar: new regimes, such as Putin's, seek compensation in myths of ancient origin.

Putin's idea of Russia, his justification for the killing of hundreds of thousands of people, his rationalization of his attempt to destroy Ukraine as a people — it all rests on a very familiar sort of tall tale: we were here first.  These stories are generally complete falsehoods, from the “we” through the “were” and the “here” and the “first.” And so it is for Putin.

But the stories get repeated so often that they take on a kind of leaden plausibility, like a bad habit. It takes a little work to throw them off. So here goes!

The legend begins with a single obscure incident, understood by Putin to prove the existence and endurance of a Russian state: Long ago there was a city called Novgorod, inhabited by people who were unable to get along.  These quarrelsome folk, the Slavs, invited three Viking brothers, known as the Rus, to come and rule them.  The arrival of Vikings began an unbroken tradition of a Russian "centralized state."

As he says, Putin has the story from a medieval chronicle, "The Tale of Bygone Years," probably from the early twelfth century.  The monk (or monks) in Kyiv who compiled this text had heard about the arrival of the Vikings known as the Rus from Scandinavia, which had taken place about four hundred years earlier.  In the intervening centuries, the various parts of the fractious Scandinavian clans had founded, taken over, and lost control of a number or towns in eastern Europe. The monk or monks knew were trying to explain why the Kyivan part of a Scandinavian ruling clan still known by the name Rus was more important than other clans in other places. 

"The Tale of Bygone Years" is one of dozens of helpful medieval sources which touch on the Scandinavians in eastern Europe, which mix fable and useful information.  These texts have to be read critically and together, and alongside the findings of archeologists and numismatists who have worked in the places in question.  In what follows I will be doing this.

Before analyzing the legend that Putin loves, it would be helpful to spell out all of the claims it contains and that he draws from it, some of which are explicit, and some of which are implicit -- things that the listener might go away from the story believing, even though they are never stated.

1.  There was a city called Novgorod when the Vikings known as the Rus arrived.

2.  There were three Viking brothers.

3.  The Vikings accepted the invitation and peacefully and durably ruled.

4.  The people of this city were in some sense Russians because they were Slavs.

5.  These Vikings were also in some sense Russians, since they called themselves “Rus.”

6.  The existence of an ethnic group in a town more than a thousand years ago means a right to rule today by a dictator who calls himself a name that he also associates with that ethnic group.

7.  The existence of the rulers of that ethnic group more than a thousand years ago means a right to rule today by a dictator who calls himself a name that he also associates with those rulers.

8.  Events in one location more than a thousand years ago justify the existence and actions of a transcontinental empire engaged in a war of aggression against a neighboring state.

9.  An algorithm exists whereby we can justify repression and war today via obscure, distant events.

10.  This algorithm is known to dictators who tell the story, carry out the repressions and start the wars.

When spelled out like this, the claims reveal their magical character.  Even if claims 1-5 were completely correct, the moral and political interpretations Putin offers in claims 6-10 are illogical and repugnant. 

Such “reasoning” is why few historians will engage Putin's legend directly.  It has nothing to do with history -- with assembling evidence, with questioning hypothesis, with making reasonable arguments based upon sources and traditions of interpretation.  It is a claim to power, whose only sense arises from the power itself. That is really all that needs to be said.

Having understood that, historians can choose to go the extra mile, and note that the factual claims (1-5) are balderdash.  It only really makes sense to do this in a constructive rather than in a destructive spirit, in an effort to reveal something about what we actually do know about early medieval Scandinavia and eastern Europe, and how we know it.  It is in that spirit that I will proceed.  Let us consider each claim in turn.

1.  There was a city called Novgorod when the Vikings known as the Rus arrived.

There was not.  Novgorod had not yet been founded at the time of the arrival of the Rus in the territories that are now northeastern Russia.  It was founded about a quarter millenium later. (It had also not yet been founded when Vikings first began to lay claim to Kyiv, which already existed and was probably controlled by Khazars.)

Novgorod is attractive for a Russian myth because it exists now and it existed at the time the monks were writing. But it did not exist at the time of the events the monks were recounting. But this is just the very beginning of the profound untruthfulness of the story.

Here is what we know. Traders from Scandinavia were present around the body of water we now call Lake Ladoga in the sixth century.  Around the middle of the eighth century, the Vikings who called themselves Rus established a trading emporium at a site that Russian archaeologists call Ladoga, but which the Vikings themselves called Aldeigja. 

Packed away in storage in the Hermitage in St.Petersburg is a bronze figure from Aldeigja in its early days: Odin with his two ravens. This contemporary piece of evidence, similar to other figures from Scandinavia, and one among thousands, tells us more than later chronicles about the time and place and people.

The power center associated with Aldeigja was probably called the Rus Khaganate. We believe that it was called this because of contemporary evidence: a recorded encounter between Rus emissaries and the king of the Franks.

About a century after the foundation of Aldeigja, the Vikings known as Rus established another trade center, which they called Holmgar∂, and which Russians later called Gorodishche. 

The town Novgorod in its turn was founded more than a hundred years after that and about a mile away. It had nothing to do with the first encounter of the Rus and the locals. It could not have done so, since it did not then exist.

2.  There were three Viking brothers.

This is a different sort of claim.  One can show with considerable certainty, on the basis of the archaeological evidence, when Scandinavian Rus towns such as Aldeigja and Holmgar∂ were established, and have a pretty good idea of who lived there and what occupations were pursued. 

One cannot of course disprove, on this basis, that there were once three Viking brothers.  The reasons to disbelieve this claim are of a different kind, arising from the study of political myth and its structures. 

The number 3 has a profound significance in Indo-European stories about the origin of the world.  According to Tacitus, the ancient Germanic peoples (whose culture preceded that of the Germanic Vikings), believed that the earth god had a son, and that son had three sons, and those three sons founded all the other peoples.  Odin was himself one of three brothers. In Viking times, the settlement of new (from the Viking perspective) lands was systematically justified by a story of the arrival of three brothers, usually sons or grandsons of Odin.  In this manner the Viking clan who had power justified its position and its right to control lands (and native peoples).  The Tale of Bygone Years, which is essentially one saga among many others, reproduced this standard trope of the Scandinavian sagas. 

It is worth emphasizing that the story of the three brothers is always about why Scandinavians get to rule other people. The survival of the “three-brothers” trope is a reminder of Scandinavian domination. That is its meaning.

3.  The Vikings accepted the invitation and peacefully and durably ruled.

In the case of this bit of nonsense, both literary and archaeological methods help.  One does not have to be a student of early legends to understand that the "invitation" story is suspect.  Right down to the present, invading armies claim that they have come only at the invitation of the people whose lands they now occupy. 

Contemporary Russians should be particularly sensitive to this, since the Bolshevik invasion of Poland in 1919, the Soviet invasion of Poland in 1939, the Warsaw Pact occupation of Czechoslovakia in 1968, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979, the Russian invasion of Georgia in 2008, and the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2014 were all justified by supposed invitations from within the invaded country. 

The ancient Scandinavians also knew this trick, and the story of their being "invited" to the region of Aldeigja and Holmgar∂, in what is now northwestern Russia, is an obvious colonial tale.  Not only is it certainly fictional, its purpose was to deny (not to affirm) the agency of the local people. 

The entity that Putin has in mind was the Rus Khaganate. The name Rus referred to the Scandinavian clan; the Scandinavians borrowed the term “kagan” for ruler from the Khazars, their partner in the slave trade. Vikings were in the area in order to facilitate trade southward for Arabic silver.  The chief goods they traded were at first furs and then slaves. 

During the period in question, the Vikings known as the Rus understood systematic slave raids in the area, killing the adult men and then selling women, boys and girls into slavery. The power center around Aldeigja and Holmgar∂ had its ascent and its collapse. Either it was attacked by other Scandinavians, or it was challenged by local rebellions of peoples subject to slave raids, or perhaps both. The Rus Khaganate seems to have collapse in about 870. Rus and other Scandinavian traders remained active, and trade emporia would be revived and new towns founded, but the first Rus polity seems to have ended then.

4.  The people of this city were in some sense Russians because they were Slavs.

Here one must apply the literary criticism not to the Tale of Bygone Years but to Putin himself.  He never actually says that the people in the Aldeigja and Holmgar∂ regions were Russians; he wrongly believes that they were Slavs, and implies a Russian identity by claiming that their actions laid the basis for a "centralized Russian state."  This is, of course, a trick. 

It is absurd to imagine Russians existing 1200 or 1300 years ago, and Putin avoids the absurdity by slipping in his imaginary Russians by silent implication.  And so the point must be made explicitly: there were no Russians anywhere in the world 1200 or 1300 years ago.  There was no notion whatever of a Russian people. 

The backup position would be that these people were Slavs and thus in some sense proto-Russians.  

That is not how history works: there is no natural, inevitable progression from people speaking a language 1200 or 1300 years ago to the cultural identities or political regimes of today. 

But even if one believes in this political magic, and even if one believes that people speaking a slavic language 1200 or 1300 years ago were somehow proto-Russians, there is still a major problem.  The people who lived in the area at the time did not generally speak Slavic languagues. They were mainly Finns, not Slavs. 

For that matter, Finns seem to have been the most important group not only in the Aldeigja and Holmgar∂ regions, but in all of what is now northeastern Russia, including what is now the Moscow region. (There was, of course, no city of Moscow at the time.)

5.  These Vikings were also in some sense Russians, since they called themselves “Rus.”

Here again we confront an implicit claim, one that is is backed by a semantic trick.  There is now a country called the Russian Federation, which is named after an earlier country called the Russian Empire, which was named after Vikings who called themselves Rus, or after the medieval power centers established by the Rus, the first of which was the Rus Khaganate. 

There is a power in names, just as there is a power in anniversaries and round numbers.  If those people were called Rus, must they not have been Russians?  Well, no. The Rus came first. The Russian Empire was named after them about a thousand years after they appeared. The naming confuses things, but it need not confuse us.  

At the time period in question, other European rulers had no difficulty establishing who the Rus were: they were Swedes.  In the poems and stories they sang and wrote, and in the traces they left in their burial ground, the Rus were unambiguously Scandinavians.  To be sure, they were influenced by the peoples with whom they came into contact: Finns, Balts, Arabs, Bulgars, Khazars, Slavs.  This was a period of the globalization of Scandinavia, and the Rus were part of an exploratory impulse that reached four continents

In the eighth and ninth centuries, the Rus were Scandinavian trading and clans.  Later on, as some Rus settled ever further south, for example in Gnezdevo, Chernihiv, and Kyiv, the Scandinavians reinforced their elite status by marrying Scandinavians from Scandinavia, by treating them as allies and friends, and by expanding upon and sharing in Scandinavian culture. 

After the collapse of the Rus Khaganate, other Rus managed to establish another power center, much later, at Kyiv. Now rather than cooperating with the Khazars they were taking over their land and tribute centers. The Rus (or other Scandinavians) also built the first towns in other parts of eastern Europe, for example in the area around Moscow (which of course did not exist at the time).

After telling his deeply implausible legend about Novgorod, Putin's next move is to cite the Tale of Bygone Years about Kyiv.  The person or people who wrote that saga was concerned to show that the Rus ruler of Kyiv, was the most important prince in the region. By the time of the writing of the chronicle, Novgorod did exist, and so a story presented itself which linked the two places and showed the superiority of Kyiv.

The story is that a Viking from Novgorod managed to take Kyiv by dressing himself up as a trader and fooling the naive local rulers.  At his moment of his triumph this Viking produced a baby and proclaimed that the child was by blood the true ruler of the land. After this improbable succession of events that Viking of the story proclaimed Kyiv “the mother of Rus cities,” a bit of language meant to assure people in the twelfth century that the present rulers of Kyiv should dominate over other Rus in other towns.

One could perform the same kind of analysis on this story.  At the time The Tale of Bygone Years was written, there was no Russia. There were no Russians. There were clans of Scandinavians called Rus, who were engaged in a contest of dominance, with towns and emporia that rose and fell. Part of this contest was a story, set down in the early twelfth century, describing the arrival of the Rus in Kyiv, a historical event of the early tenth century.

Rus did in fact arrive in Kyiv, but not as the story describes. The Vikings in the story could not have come from Novgorod, since at the time the Rus began to settle the Kyiv area Novgorod had not yet been founded. It was much later on, when both cities did exist, at the time of the chronicle, when the Scandinavians in Kyiv wanted to justify both their own pedigree and their own dominance. The story can only be understood in these terms. Otherwise it is just comical.

The baby thing is ridiculous; no Viking ever went to war with a baby on display, nor did any Viking have the idea of a royal dynasty of which the baby would be the heir. The dressup game is a fictional stratagem familiar from Scandinavian sagas as well as contemporary Byzantine war stories. Even if one ignores the legendary and preposterous character all that, the timing of the events is challenged by the recorded birth and death dates of the clever wardrobe Viking and the portable baby Viking.

The hero of the Kyiv story, the clever wardrobe Viking known as Helgi (or Oleh or Oleg in Ukrainian or Russian) is a semi-mythical character. There is no reason to believe that he represented a dynasty coming from Novgorod, since Novgorod did not exist yet, and since the Rus khaganate had ceased to exist. It is likely that, if he came at all, Helgi came from Gnezdovo, which was a rival of Chernihiv and Kyiv at the time. Helgi means “hero” and this Helgi is one of dozens who populate medieval Scandinavian stories. This Helgi supposedly died by fulfilling a complicated prophesy involving his horse, a story which features in multiple north European settings.

The Kyiv incident could not have happened, did not happen, and even had it happened would have no implications for the present war.  It is not really worth the effort to press the point further about Kyiv, not least because the validity of the Kyiv tale, which is nil, would depend on the validity of the prior Novgorod story, which is nil.  

You can see why historians hesitate to engage in all this.  What Putin is doing has nothing to do with history as a discipline.  He is engaged in building a legend, which us based on other legends. And each of his sentences is so rich in various kinds of error that it takes hundreds of words to explain all of the wrongness! 

And in taking the tale seriously, the historian fears that he has made it more serious. This is what I called “dancing with a skeleton” in my book Reconstruction of Nations, where I discourage it. I am only doing it now since the both the myth and the war persist, and people (even outside Russia) persist in justifying the war by the myth.

By concentrating upon the fundamental legend, the one on which all the others depend, I hope to have shown that the structure itself is empty.

The rules Putin sets down for interpreting the past cannot be accepted.  It is nothing more than fantasy following force. This is the most important point. If we grant that tyrants are right to start wars because of fictions of brothers and babies, because of stories that are not even wrong, then every single corner of the world is subject to invasion and the entire international legal order is void.

Even were we to accept the way Putin thinks about the past, which we absolutely should not do, it would lead to a very different conclusion than he thinks. The best guesses of long-dead monks are not a solid basis for contemporary statehood. The Tale of Bygone Years cannot do what Putin asks of it.

If, in order to exist today, states have to prove their ancient pedigree and their durable ethnic and political history, then Putin would have to accept that there is no basis for the existence of today’s Russian Federation.

Were Putin to follow his own logic, he would not be invading Ukraine, but handing over European Russia to Finland or Sweden.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Heirs to Empty Thrones (ao3)

In the absence of the king, Nesta finds herself carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and there's only one knight in the world that can take her mind off it. (For @cassianappreciationweek day 5. We're playing very fast and loose with the term 'lionhearted'...) (psst, @c-e-d-dreamer)

The gold circlet at her brow was heavy.

Heavier than before— heavier than it had been that morning. It was a burden, a chain around her neck, and it didn’t matter how fine or gilded it was— the hammered band was a mantle she did not wish to bear, and now there was an invisible weight crushing and pressing and bearing down on her as the strain worked its way into her very bones. It curled up around her veins and grew tighter, squeezing until it felt like the cold, thin band was constricting, determined to make her bleed.

It ached.

Everything ached.

Her father was gone— abandoned them a decade ago to wage holy war in lands so distant they seemed like another world, and now every day that dawned brought a horde of dissatisfied noblemen to her door, in their fine clothes and gold rings, horses hooves clattering in the courtyard every morning as the gates to the castle were thrown wide. The same men who had decades ago refused to accept a woman’s rule now crowded in her hall, begging her to write to her father and bring him home, as if her words could do anything, as if they were of any value at all.

Nesta shivered, the nighttime chill seeping through the stone of the central keep, and through the thick-paned and lead-lined glass she saw the torches glowing on the curtain wall, flames stark against the night sky, devouring the dark.

Beyond the light of those torches, in the distant miles outside that high stone wall, the realm crumbled. The roads were filled with bandits and rebels, taxes went unpaid, and as each day gave way to night, the laws of the realm seemed ever more breakable, no stronger than reeds swaying in the wind. Her father had left her uncle as regent, charged him with the protection of the crown and its lands, and yet unrest had never been so widespread. There were rumours of men in the forest stealing from the rich to give to the poor, tales of children starving, and with no king to call on there was no solution to be had, nothing to be done.

Nothing— and Nesta dropped her head into her hands now, wondering when exactly she’d been the one to pick up the weight her father had dropped ten years ago. She had been a child when he left, the eldest daughter he’d gotten in place of a son, and for so many years she had awaited his return, watching for his ship on the horizon, counting the sails of every vessel that came to port. In vain— she had waited in vain, and when her mother and sisters had returned to their estates in France, Nesta had stayed behind, a woman now, all alone and bearing the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. 

Weary, she sighed.

The hour grew late, the darkness deepening, and yet Nesta didn’t move. She remained sitting alone in the small chamber branching off the great hall with only the silence for company. A single candle cut the dim, sweet wax scenting the air as night descended, the flame flickering in the draughts that crept through the stone.

Already, she knew sleep would not find her tonight.

Her head began to throb, the coronet she wore unbearable. Her people suffered, her realm burned, and what was she but a princess in a world that didn’t hear the voice of women, powerless and vulnerable until her father returned? She shook her head, and with a steadiness that surprised her, she lifted her hand and removed that God-forsaken band, casting it onto the thick wooden table before her, leaving it to sit in a pool of candlelight, gold and shining and bright with something she had once thought to be promise. The jewels winked, garnets and emerald and sapphires, cut stones set into the band, and oh, once Nesta had looked at the diadem and thought it pretty.

Once she had thought it beautiful.

She didn’t think so any longer.

And with her head resting in her hand, she sat alone in that chamber, lost, only waiting for somebody to find her.

It didn’t take long. 

Soon enough a knock sounded at the door, echoing through the silence, and Nesta almost opened her mouth to ask for peace— but before her lips could part the door was opened, iron hinges creaking as old wood slid across even older stone. Footsteps sounded, muffled by the rushes scattered across the floor to fight the chill, and as Nesta looked up, fingers still resting against her temples, she glimpsed the bulk of a man slipping around the doorframe, a silhouette against the candlelight.

Somebody had found her indeed, and as she straightened in her chair, she realised that perhaps she didn’t mind so much that out of all the souls in this castle, he had been the one to seek her out. 

Cassian.

The man who had helped her off her horse so many months ago, when she’d first arrived at this particular castle, so close to the coast. He was her father’s knight, a broad span of hardened muscle with hands no strangers to the hilt of a sword, and yet when he’d lifted her down from her horse at that first meeting, when her hands had slid down the length of his chest, his fingers had curled around her waist and brushed her spine, and she’d felt a jolt go through her that had her suddenly wanting to ride every day, if it meant he would be the one to lead her horse to stable when she returned.

When her feet had hit the ground, his hands had lingered at her waist as hers had tarried at his shoulders. He had dipped his head as he took her horse’s reins, wrapping the leather around his fist, and when he’d glanced up at her from beneath thick eyelashes, he’d murmured welcome home, princess— and Nesta had known then that she was in trouble, swimming in dangerous waters, at risk of drowning.

He’d been knighted by her grandfather before the late king’s death, earning his spurs fighting rebels, and daily he could be seen in the courtyard practising with his blade, so lethal it was a wonder her father hadn’t ordered him to lead the armies fighting in the Holy Land. Silently, secretly, Nesta was glad he hadn’t. Cassian was confident, arrogantly so, but loyal to a fault, and since that very first day he’d worked his way into her good graces, slipping so easily among her thoughts it was though he was always supposed to be there, taking up space inside her head. 

And now she prayed for meetings on the turrets stairs, chance encounters in darkened halls, where his hand might brush hers, or his smile might make her heart race.

“You should be in bed,” he said now, looking at her across the candlelit chamber, over the long wooden table surrounded by empty chairs. “It’s late.”

His familiar face eased the ache that had plagued every part of her, and as his eyes dropped to her circlet lying discarded on the table, Nesta tipped her head up to see his face, raising an eyebrow as she rested her hands on the arms of her chair.

“Are you my nursemaid now?”

Cassian let out a small laugh as he stalked closer, prowling through the darkness as his eyes studied every inch of her he could see, as if searching for injury, looking for strain. As her father’s household knight, he was honour-bound to protect and serve her, but as he raked his gaze across her face, Nesta knew with certainty that it wasn’t honour that had him closing the distance between them with even, determined strides. Slowly, he tilted his head, giving her a brazen smile.

“Would you like me to be?”

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he came to a halt, standing on the other side of the long table. His silhouette was stark in the golden light— broad shoulders lined with muscle were covered with a simple linen tunic dyed a watery, washed-out red, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. Golden brown skin shone almost bronze beneath the glow of the candles, and his wrist lay idle atop the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip. Nesta dragged her eyes over him, from his leather boots to the silver bracelets at his wrists— a matching pair, each studded with a single large garnet. They glimmered, deep crimson stones shining like molten rubies, and even though they were far from extravagant, Nesta’s eye caught them anyway. Cassian lifted his wrist from his sword as he crossed his arms over the wide span of that chest, his gently curling hair spilling over one shoulder and brushing his collarbone.

He was…

He was everything she shouldn’t want, and everything she couldn’t have.

And yet still she met his eye, his hazel gaze a delectable blend of gold and green and brown— rich and warm and sweet. Cassian didn’t blink, and just as she always did, she felt stripped by the intensity of his gaze. He looked at her now, expectant.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted at last.

Cassian frowned. “You seem troubled.”

Nesta barked a laugh, one that was bitter and as sharp as shattered glass. She shook her head, and even without the golden circlet around her temples, she felt the pressure still there, pushing in on all sides. 

“Do I?”

“You do,” Cassian nodded, taking another step forward until he stood directly behind one of the chairs tucked beneath the empty table. He reached out and braced his hands on it, fingers curling around the wood as he leaned down to her level, canting his head to the side and sending his long hair tumbling over the other shoulder. Something thick and heady stirred in his eyes, something that seemed like concern mixed with something… something else, something she couldn’t recognise. His face softened as he let out a breath, tension seeping from his jaw as his fingers loosened on the chair.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment. “Tell me what burdens you.”

Nesta blinked. “It’s your brother that’s advisor to the crown,” she said, thinking of Cassian’s adopted brother— Rhysand, the one who was, even now, with her father in the Holy Land, kept deep within the king’s confidences. “Not you.”

Cassian shrugged. “I don’t want to be an advisor to the crown.”

“Just advisor to me, then?”

His lips split into a grin, one that made her heart ache. 

“If you’ll have me.”

Nesta shook her head again, dipping her gaze to her hands, just to stop herself from dragging her stare over every inch of him, over the forearms where his exposed skin shone in the candlelight.

“I can guess,” Cassian continued, his voice a drawl through the otherwise silent chamber. “What it is that brothers you— I can guess. Your uncle is causing chaos outside these walls, princess. Soon there will be riots.”

A chill gathered at the base of her spine. Nesta knew this already— had spent hours being lectured on it by the very men who her father had trusted to keep his lands safe. And now they looked to her, as if she could fix it— as if she had any sway at all over the man who had left when she was a child. The king had become a stranger to her, hardly a shadow in her memory, and she was naught but the princess of a failing kingdom, the daughter of an absent father. What did she have— what power did she hold at all?

“The law means nothing anymore,” Cassian said with a wave of his hand, lips pulled downwards in distaste. “Your grandfather I respected, but his sons leave him a poor legacy. Your uncle takes what he wants when he wants, and his retainers are worse. The taxes he levies are brutal and—”

Nesta let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I don’t want to think of it anymore,” she said, tired. “I want to forget about it— about all of it, for just one night.”

She looked up, at the warrior on the other side of the table. His words died on his tongue, and the silence stretched for a beat too long as he met her gaze. Her heart seemed loud enough for him to hear, and as the night pressed against the windows and the candle flame flickered, Nesta looked at him with a challenge - a plea - in her eyes. She blinked, but he merely looked at her the way he always did, like he knew her down to her bones.

“I want to forget,” she repeated, a whisper as he pushed away from the chair and took a step towards her, bringing him close enough to touch, now. “Let me forget, Cassian.”

Silent, he nodded. In the gathering dark he reached for her, lifting her hand from the arm of her chair and bringing it, reverently, to his lips. His mouth was warm against her skin, his hand tightening around hers, holding her against him as though he wanted to keep her there forever, and though this ought to have been a knightly gesture, something chivalric and gallant, there was something in the way he held her that made it deeper, made his kiss something far more than a show of loyalty from a knight to his lady.

Something far more meaningful— and something far more dangerous.

“I can help you,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breathless whisper in the darkness. Nesta found her eyes drifting closed, and even though he lifted his lips, he didn’t drop her hand. “I can make you forget all of it, princess. Just for tonight.”

Her eyes fluttered, and oh, it was a kind of treason— to let him touch her, to let him press such a lingering kiss to her skin, to let him speak to her as though he knew her, body and soul. With effort, Nesta forced herself to remember where she was— who she was, because with that raw heat dancing in his eyes… oh, yes. It was treason to touch the king’s daughter the way he did.

“My father…” she began.

“Is absent, princess.” Cassian let her hand slip from his, and the absence of his warmth was jarring. “Your sisters are in France. There’s nobody here but you and I, and no king on these shores to object to anything.”

“Treason,” Nesta breathed, her voice soft. To speak against the king, to speak of him with such disdain… that was treason too, or as close as one could get without lifting a sword. But Cassian only let a grin curve his lips, crooked and charming as he pulled away just enough to draw his sword an inch from its sheath.

“Will you end my life here, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Brave, Nesta thought wryly, looking at the hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his blade. They called her father coeur de lion, but it was Cassian who had a lion’s heart. A foolish heart— but brave nonetheless. He smirked a little still, even as he unsheathed his sword all the way and set it on the table. The steel was bright, polished, and the hilt was simple— wrapped in leather with a silver pommel. Her father’s was decorated with gold, vines engraved down the blade, a groove down the middle to wick away the blood he shed. Cassian’s was far simpler, but no less sharp— no less deadly. It lay between them as he nodded.

“Go on, princess.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes dark and daring. “Attaint me. Have me stripped of everything I own, take my name and ruin it.” His voiced dropped lower, his gaze turning heated. “Because even if your father were here, my loyalty would be to you. I wouldn’t go to the edge of the courtyard for a man that abandons his realm for ten years. But for you— for you I’d go to the ends of the earth, and you’re right princess, that’s all kinds of treason, so you should do everything that I’ve just said. Have me attainted, confiscate my lands, and then have someone slit my throat, because death is the only thing that could stop me from doing this.”

With an unwavering gaze, Cassian lifted a hand.

Slowly, purposefully he cupped her cheek, his touch far too bold and far too brazen as his fingers strayed across her jaw, sliding into her hair— braided and bound and up. His rings snagged on her braids, the plain silver bands he wore with swirling engravings reminding her of the woad tattoos she’d once heard about the ancient Scots decorating their skin with, and as his lips neared hers, her heart began an off-kilter beat inside her chest. His touch was one of devotion— unyielding and unshakeable and so very, very treacherous.

She didn’t move— couldn’t. His eyes roamed her face, searching, as her lips parted he looked at her like he’d just found whatever it was he’d been looking for. He risked his life, his neck, and yet something thrummed through her as she felt his callouses against her skin, rough from all those years with a sword in hand. The cool metal of his rings pressed against her cheek, and it felt all kinds of forbidden and yet— she didn’t pull away.

The gold circlet on the table was all the reason in the world that this was a bad idea, but outside the world was already going to Hell, and Nesta just wanted one moment of peace— one breath of it, no matter how brief. Cassian looked at her like she was the closest he would ever come to Heaven, like he’d already resigned himself to his damnation, and she knew without needing him to speak that she was the only thing he’d kneel for, the only altar he would worship at. 

“You can’t,” she whispered as he tilted his head. Those eyes - those damned eyes - were afire, blazing with a kind of heat Nesta had only ever heard about in songs and chansons de geste— epic, lyrical poems. They were certain to be her undoing, those eyes. Her unravelling. But as the candlelight glowed, reflected in that unwavering, steadily burning hazel… Nesta longed to fall, to let herself come undone.

“And why not?” Cassian asked with a rueful smile, daring to drag his thumb across her cheekbone.

“Because I—“ she began, but her breath faltered as he moved his thumb to her lips, tracing the bow in the centre before dropping to her chin and circling beneath her jaw. Nobody had ever touched her before— nobody had ever dared. “My father is the king,” she forced out.

“Your father hasn’t been here for ten years, sweetheart.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” she said, forcing her eyes open even as they threatened to drift closed. 

Cassian let out a breath, and when he spoke next his voice was firm. “Princess, your great-grandmother sank this country into a civil war to get the crown. You could too, if you wanted.” He didn’t waver, and his touch didn’t slow, exploring the planes of her face with a gentleness that contradicted the sword on the table, the scar through his eyebrow. Treason danced on his tongue, but he spoke of war and bloodshed as if it were nothing, as if he’d serve up this realm to her singlehanded if only she’d ask.  “And I will cut down every single person who stands in your way, if I have to.”

“That really is treason,” she whispered. 

“I care not,” he murmured, dipping his head until his lips were barely an inch from hers. She felt his breath on her cheeks, felt her heartbeat grow wild.

“Fool,” she said softly, but there was no ire there, none at all. He only hummed, nodding in agreement.

“Only for you,” he answered, and it seemed, somehow, like a promise. Like a vow. “Only for you would I draw that blade— only for you do I kneel.”

The candle flame flickered in the corner, and with the moonlight drifting through the windows, she let herself, for just a moment, lean into his touch. She turned her face into his palm, and he hummed again, daring to let his other hand curl around her hip. 

She felt herself slipping, falling. With the golden light dancing on his skin and setting his hazel eyes aglow, she felt herself forgetting all of the turmoil outside of these walls. Tomorrow— she’d deal with it tomorrow. For tonight she only wanted this— the man who looked at her like she was the sun and the moon and the sky itself, who offered her the sharp end of his blade, hers to command as she wished.

“No one can know,” she breathed. “About this— whatever this is.”

He smiled softly. “I always have been exceptionally good at keeping secrets.”

Nesta smiled too, and with every beat of her heart catching, stumbling, she reached for the hand he had rested at her hip. She tangled their fingers together, his rough against her smooth, and Lord have mercy on her— she melted at that touch, felt herself sinking into it and letting it enfold her, engulf her. His thumb moved across the back of her fingers, his lips parting on an exhale, and with all of the weight and authority that she could muster - every ounce of regality that circlet gave her, that her royal blood gave her - she lifted her chin and sought out those eyes of burning, burning hazel.

“Kiss me,” she said.

Cassian smiled, his fingers squeezing hers, tightening his hold. Nesta longed to feel the curve of those lips against hers, yearned for it, and just before Cassian pressed his lips to hers - just before he gave her everything she had ever wanted - he let out a soft breath, one hand moving behind her back, resting between her shoulder blades to pull her closer, to hold her pressed to his chest. As Cassian’s lips brushed the corner of her mouth, he smirked.

“As you wish, princess.”