#The tapestry of color helps me learn to see with eyes wide open what the landscape produces this month. The compact Cezanne clematis boasts

[bethestaryouareradio]

Joys of July Gardening:

[uniarycode]

Takari Week 2021 Day 5- AU

Medieval Fantasy AU: Takeru is a young boy who tames a Pegasus and goes to live in a castle in the sky, with an army of Celestials, and a young prophet.

Wordcount: 3370

Written as part of @takariweek

Takeru didn’t have many memories of being on the surface, they tended to involve either his brother, his father or Pata. The former two he missed dearly, the latter seldom left his side these days.

He’d been four when he met Pata, he’d found the foal frolicking in a field, doing summersaults over the meadow. It was against the rules to interact with creatures you did not recognize, but the Deep Ones had not been seen near his village in generations, and Takeru was couldn’t help but take the risk. And Pata just seemed so friendly. Takeru had shared some herbs he’d found, and that had been enough to earn the foal’s undying loyalty.

Pata had been his secret for a while, it may seem difficult to hide a horse, but Pata could fly, most did not look for horses in the trees or on rooftops. Some that did thought they’d gone insane rather than believe their eyes. Pata became Takeru’s closest friend, his chief confidant. Without knowing the proper name for a flying horse, Takeru had decided to call him Pata, based on the gentle sound of his wingbeat. The name stuck.

He was six when Pata had been discovered. He and his brother were gathering some goods from the market, when some bigger boys from the next town over had begun attacking them, attempting to force Yamato to hand over all their money. When Takeru had cried for them to stop, it was Pata who had answered his call, galloping straight at the boys, and scaring them away instantly.

Such a large commotion could not go unnoticed, and immediately the villager’s opinion of him became divided. Some treated him with scorn, as a devil that possessed authority over monsters, others with reverence, as a sacred omen.

The priest showed up at his door a few weeks later, flanked by two outsiders, cloaked in armor and robes the likes of which far outshone even the knights of the capital. Takeru had been scared at first, until one of the knights, a woman, had summoned her own steed and told him he was very special.

She’d explained to him that they were Celestials: the goddess’s chosen. That since he had bonded with a Pegasus, that he too must have been a Celestial. And that the Deep Ones and the celestials were fated enemies.

After that, there had been questions, they asked him how he had met Pata, whether he’d ever road the horse, what his dreams were like, if he’d ever traveled outside the village.

Far more questions were directed at his parents, they asked his lineage, where his parents came from, where his parents’ parents came from, at one time they’d even accused his momma of having stolen him from another woman.

Takeru didn’t understand it at the time, but things were very complex. Celestials did not like outsiders, but since he’d tamed a Pegasus he couldn’t be an outsider. But they could not say the same about his family.

In the end, his mother had been allowed to accompany him to his new home, and his brother and father had been left behind. Even when he was old enough to ride Pata freely, he’d been forbidden from making contact with them, and he’d quickly learned how big the world was when he tried to anyway.

Life was hard with the celestials. On the ground, they said that the goddess lived in a palace in the sky, guarded by her knights. Inside the sanctuary, the tale was similar but different. The one they protected was a prophet, who died and was reborn every one hundred and eight years. And while they had many knights, the Celestials regarded their entire race as chosen ones, the only ones worthy of serving the prophet and able to defeat the king of the Deep Ones.

Being born on the surface made Takeru inferior in the eyes of the other children. That alone earned him hardship, but he had also bonded with a Pegasus at a record age. Despite having no proper training, he was years ahead of his peers, and that brought him further scorn.

***

At eight, Pata had turned into a stallion, and that had brought a conundrum for the Celestials. By right and custom, Takeru was now a squire. The next youngest squire had recently turned twelve, the eldest squires were eighteen. Takeru was simply too young and small to perform the duties provided by most squires.

He could clean the stables and feed the Pegasi, although still at slower speeds than the older squires. But he could not carry weapons for a knight, nor was he tall enough to help them into all of their armor, nor did anyone trust him to ride Pata more than three feet into the air. He was never picked to accompany a knight on a campaign or a quest.

Then he had been given a new duty. One that none of the other squires talked about. As he’d been summoned in front of the elders, they informed him he would not talk about this duty, that it would be taken with him to the grave.

That was the first of many rules.

He was told he would be delivering food to a guest, as well as refreshing the oil on their lamps. He was not to talk to the guest he found. Nor would touch her. Nor would he touch the food, only the tray used to bring it to her. He would set the tray in front of the guest, fill all the lamps in the room, then stand in the corner until she had finished eating, retrieve the tray, and leave.

And of course, no harm would come to the guest.

After he had accepted one of the elders objected, then another, then another. They were all overruled, and a knight directed Takeru to the kitchens.

It seemed silly, to have a knight guide him around, but send a squire anyway. Takeru followed the knight into the castle, through some twists and turns, to a small door guarded by two more knights.

They reaffirmed his directions, then let the door open a couple of feet, barely more than he could fit himself and the tray through. Even then, he was not at the guest. He had to walk down three more hallways before he found her.

He opened the final door to reveal a girl who looked no older than himself, to his shock. But he was a squire now, he couldn’t show such a weak reaction. The rest of the room was fancy, if cramped. A large four-post bed, a single dresser for clothes, no chair nor desk nor anything else. On the walls hung lanterns and tapestries, and in the corner of the room, there was a lectern with paper, a pen, and a chute.

He walked over to the guest and set the tray down in front of her when his eye caught a tapestry draped across the wall. So deep in the bowels of the castle, this room had no exterior light, and he moved to get a better view in the flickering lanterns.

The tapestry itself displayed a great battle, many knights fight deep ones and a strange giant monster. On the edge of the tapestry were eight symbols he did not recognize, perhaps they were words in an ancient language? Each one held a separate color: yellow, pink, red, purple, blue, green, grey, and orange.

The lantern flickered, reminding Takeru of his duties. He turned back to the tray, remembering he’d left the oil there, only to jump in horror as he saw the guest, one hand on the canister full of oil, bringing it to her lips.

“Stop!” he cried, “You’ll get sick if you drink that.”

The girl turned to him; eyes wide at his outburst. Takeru realized his mistake, raising one hand to his mouth.

“You can talk.” She said, “I’ve never talked to anyone before, except my cat. But she doesn’t like talking back.”

Takeru felt his heart speed up. He’d already broken the rules, but the guest seemed so excited. Why wasn’t he supposed to talk to the guest if she wanted to talk? His mom would yell at him for being rude.

“Yeah, I can talk.” He thought for a second. “How’d you learn to talk, if no one talked to you before.”

“Learn?” she asked. “I always knew how to talk, like how I know how to breathe or eat or write.” She said as if it were obvious.

“You know how to write too?” he asked in amazement. All the other squires knew how to write, but none of the teachers ever bothered to explain it to him.

“You don’t?” she asked. “So you can talk, but not write.” Her face twisted into a smile. “You’re an odd one.”

That was true, he was the only celestial who wasn’t born a celestial, he became a squire at such a young age. But somehow when she pointed it out, he felt all funny.

“You should eat.” He said, “You must be hungry.”

“I don’t want to eat. I want to talk. Everyone else left when I finished eating, you will too, won’t you?”

He blushed. “I-I’m supposed to.”

“And I don’t want you to leave. If I never eat you have to stay.”

That didn’t sound too bad, but he did want to see his mom and Pata again at some point. “If I take too long, they’ll probably never let me see you again. Then I won’t be able to talk to you anymore.”

“You have a point.” She said, grabbing the utensils and beginning to shovel food into her mouth. “Whurts your name. Everyone has a name, even my cat. She won’t tell it to me though.” she said, not bothering to swallow before speaking. Takeru’s mom would have called it rude, but if it's what it took to keep her eating, he could accept it.

“Takeru Takaishi.” He said, beginning to fill the lanterns around the room. “What’s yours?”

“I have many names. Guiding Star, Eternal Shepherd, Prophet of the Goddess. I like Hikari the most, though.”

Takeru ended up spilling some of the oil, he quickly tried to recover himself. “You’re the prophet? What are you doing in a place like this?”

He could have kicked himself. The room, while cramped and locked away, was still far better than the dormitory he shared with the other squires or the cold tower they’d relocated his mother into. And she had said that both were fancier, if not larger, than their old home on the surface.

“This is where I’ve always been.” She replied. “And you? There’s something mysterious about you, I can tell.”

Should he admit it? Somehow he felt he could trust this girl, she was the prophet after all. “I lived on the surface before, unlike the others. Everyone says Celestial’s are stronger than the surface dwellers.”

That earned him a laugh from Hikari. “Do they? How quickly they forget. The only reason this castle exists is because they were too scared to fight the Deep Ones themselves. They chose to flee to the one place they could not be harmed before mounting any resistance.”

Takeru looked at her, blinking. “How’d you know that, how old are you?”

“Eight. But I just know that. Like how you know to talk or write.”

There was a clatter of metal against porcelain. “Oh, I guess I’m done.” She looked down. “I was having so much fun, I must have forgotten to go slowly.”

“It’s okay.” He said. “You were probably hungry anyway.”

He lingered like that a few minutes more, neither of them talking beyond pleasantries, before he finally excused himself.

The next day he was not chosen to bring Hikari her meal. But he was the day after. That pattern continued for a couple of weeks. Eventually, Hikari admitted that whenever someone else brought her meal, she would send a letter to the elders insisting it was him who came instead.

The elders must have gotten the hint because Takeru began to visit Hikari as part of his daily routine. No one but the elders and some of the knights knew his task, but all of them regarded him differently. Like back when Pata had first been discovered. Some looked at him with reverence, some with scorn.

He and Hikari talked about everything they could, sometimes they even talked about the same things on different days. Hikari was very knowledgeable about the outside for someone who had stayed in one room her entire life and never talked to anyone. She claimed the knowledge was natural, instinctive.

One day he’d been talking about his brother, how he’d left him behind to join the celestials, and how much he missed him.

Hikari had held out her hand in response, Takeru had hesitated at first, he wasn’t supposed to touch her. But then he also wasn’t supposed to talk to her. When he took her hand she closed her eyes and began to describe a scene for him.

A young blond boy who worked the fields by day. He stayed separate from the other kids when they gathered, but kept himself close enough to watch them play. He’d fashioned a flute out of a reed, and played it only when he thought no one else was around.

She told him that his brother missed him very much.

After she released his hand, she confessed to having a brother of her own. But as she’d not been two when she’d been moved to this room as part of her duties, and she was worried that her brother had forgotten her. However, she could scry her brother at any time and learned he’d recently bonded with a Pegasus so that in a few years he’d have the qualifications to serve her himself.

***

That time came when Takeru was eleven. He’d not known, which boy to look for at first, but when a fourteen-year-old with the same dark hair as Hikari had joined the squires and the very next day he had not been told to bring Hikari her meal, he was smart enough to figure it out.

Having someone else to feed Hikari also allowed Takeru to leave with one of the knights on a quest or two. He was still the youngest of all the squires, but he had more years of training than all but the eldest. Some knights still shunned him due to his birth, but those who were willing to take him along were also quick to ask for him again, whenever he wasn’t needed to keep Hikari company.

It was after one such quest that he’d found Hikari ranting, complaining about her brother’s seeming vow of silence. It was at this point Takeru had admitted there was a rule against speaking in her presence.

“You break the rules? Every time you visit me?” she asked.

“I like you more than the rules.” He said, “Besides, you’re the Prophet. You’re probably the most important person here. You should make the rules.”

“I did make the rules.” She said. “In my past life. The past prophet always makes the rules for the next incarnation.” She looked at him “Is that odd?”

Takeru shrugged “I don’t know anything about my past life, I’m not a prophet though.”

She nodded. “Did you break any other rules?”

“I’m not supposed to touch you.” He admitted. “But you were always the one who asked.”

“That’s because I like touching you.” She said. “You make me feel nice, like watching the clouds part, or the first sunbeam cresting a mountain to welcome the new day.”

Hikari tilted her head. “Why would I tell no one to talk to me or touch me if I want to talk to everyone and I want you to touch me?”

Takeru shrugged. “Are you sure you made the rules, maybe the elders changed them?”

She shook her head. “They wouldn’t dare. They do not know how my gift works; I don’t even know how my gift works. For all they knew I would know as soon as they tried it.”

“I don’t know.” Something caught his eye. “But if you can’t talk, that doesn’t mean you can’t communicate.” He pointed at the lectern in the corner. “How much paper do you have? Taichi knows how to read and write.”

“The paper and pen are blessed; they don’t run out.” She said. “That might work, but if Taichi won’t talk to me, why would he write to me?”

“It’s not against the rules, is it?”

His scheme had ultimately proven successful, although it had taken a few days to get Taichi on board. Soon enough the siblings were truly reunited, and Takeru had never seen Hikari or Taichi looking so happy.

***

When he was fourteen, Hikari’s demeanor changed. She became more withdrawn, more distant, even to him. He couldn’t ask Taichi directly if it were the same, no squires were supposed to know who anyone else in charge of Hikari was, but he could tell that the older squire had grown more somber as well.

He confronted her directly. It took a couple of days, but he wore through her resistance.

“Takeru, you break the rules every time you come here, right?” she asked.

“I do.” He said, “But they were your rules, and you wanted me to break them, right?”

“They were.” She agreed, “I think I understand now.”

“Understand?” he pressed “That I talk to you because I enjoy it?”

“No.” she said. “Why I would make rules I barely tolerate and enforce them on myself.” She looked at the tapestry. “I think, I think I needed someone who could break the rules.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, “Hikari, what is going on?”

“Promise me.” She said, “Promise me you’ll break the rules for me. No matter which rules. Please Takeru, you’re the only one I can trust with this.”

“I do.” He pulled her into a hug. “I’ll break whatever rule you need me to. I swear. Just please, let me help you.”

Her tears began to stain his shoulder. “Kill me.”

His blood turned cold. “What?”

“Kill me. Please Takeru, everyone else here, they think I’m a saint. They won’t let me so much as stub my toe. Even my cat won’t scratch me. You are the only one who can do this for me.”

“Hikari, I don’t understand. What is going on?”

She took a deep breath. “I had a vision. The Deep Ones were back. I watched them conquer nation after nation, I watched as even the Celestials fall. I watched them kill Taichi, I watched them kill you.” She swallowed. “And I saw all that because I was there. I was leading them, I made it happen.”

“Hikari you would never.”

“I will.” She insisted. “I’ve never been wrong before. I’ve never heard of the prophet being wrong before. This is the only way I can think of, I need to give up on this life and hope for the next one.”

Her arms squeezed tighter around him. “Please Takeru, you’re the only one I can ask.”

“No.”

“No? No! But you promised! You promised me you’d do anything!”

This was the first time he’d seen Hikari get mad, and it scared him, but still he did not relent. “I promised you I’d break every rule for you. And I will. If you tell me not to visit you again, I will break that rule. If you decree that I must kill you, I’ll break that rule as well. If it’s a rule that the profit’s visions must come to pass, then I’ll break that rule too.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“Ahh, Hikari. I’m afraid that I must break the rules of logic as well. I made a promise, you see.”

She scoffed at him, but for the first time in weeks, she was wearing a smile.

[lovemesomehwa]

Come To Brazil

Shoyo Hinata

After hearing that the Greatest Decoy had trained in her home country, Y/N just had to find out what his experience was.

Based on: Come To Brazil - Why Don't We

Warnings- cursing, implied nsfw, she/her pronouns

a/n: This took way too long to finish, but I'm back ! This is the first fic I'm basing off a song so I'd highly recommend giving it a listen as you read <3

They were gorgeous, beautiful even. The red sequins sparkled in the light every time they moved. I didn’t notice how revealing it was until they sat down, the low cut complementing their build. I could tell they were nervous, but I couldn’t tell what for. I wasn’t one to talk though, my senses were on fire, leaving me a bit overwhelmed.

I don’t usually tag along on these things, especially not when Atsumu has anything to do with it. But tonight was an exception since it was his birthday. I told myself I was ready but in all honesty, I don’t think anything could have prepared me for this. The music was so loud I swear I felt the house shake. It was packed wall to wall with people, most I didn’t even know he knew. I didn’t even know them and we’ve been teammates for years.

Somehow I made it into one of the less crowded rooms, one of the waiting staff handing me a glass of liquor as soon as I came through the doorway. This one held a different vibe than the others, the music not as loud and you could actually see the floor. It looked like a lounge, the dark velvet couches pushed against the wall making it seem larger than it was. Curtains and solid tapestries covered every inch of wall available. I looked around, trying to find somewhere to sit that wasn’t already taken. Luckily there was a corner piece available that gave me a good view of the room. I took a deep breath and took a sip from my glass, starting to get anxious. I wasn’t one for crowds but one night couldn’t hurt right?

(Y/N) pov.

“Wait really?”

“Yea, he trained there for two years before joining the team. Pretty sure ya would like him, he’s yer type too…” I looked up at Atsumu, eager to learn more about his teammate. “Pretty sure he’s here if ya want to talk to ‘em.” He turned around, his attention shifting onto the next person. I scrunched my nose and walked off, wanting to find this ‘decoy’ ‘Tsumu was talking about. Something about Brazil had piqued my interest in him.

I pushed through the crowd, stumbling a bit from being pushed around. It took four rooms and one awkward intrusion before I finally found him in the lounge. It was definitely less crowded but there was still a good number of people. He seemed unbothered, taking a sip from his glass as he put away his phone and looked up. I made my way over, narrowly avoiding an elbow or two.

“Hinata right?” I spoke up, looking down at him. He smiled brightly and nodded, his mood seeming to change. This wasn’t my first time seeing him, he’s been on countless magazine covers and all over Atsumu’s page; but It was my first time up close. I finally understood why everyone compared him to sunshine. He truly was a ball of light, what with those wide eyes and bright smile, I felt like my heart skipped a beat just from looking at him. I couldn’t help but notice how nicely he cleaned up. His hair was gelled and swooped back, accentuating a fresh looking undercut. The white button up certainly made him stand out against the room's darker colors. I sat down next to him, adjusting my own clothes out of habit.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I flashed a smile, shaking my head.

“Afraid not, I’m one of Atsumu’s friends.” I laughed nervously, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “He was telling me about how you trained for a while in Brazil and since that's where I’m from I wanted to ask you a few questions-if that’s alright with you…”

“No no no, of course it’s okay! I’m actually quite interested in your experience now!” He shifted to face me, accidentally bumping our knees.

Hinata pov.

They were gorgeous, beautiful even. The red sequins sparkled in the light everytime they moved. I didn’t notice how revealing it was until they sat down, the low cut complementing their build. I could tell they were nervous, but I couldn’t tell what for. I wasn’t one to talk though, my senses were on fire, leaving me a bit overwhelmed.

made me more anxious than I already was. I took another sip from my glass, hoping it’ll give me some liquid courage. I felt my throat burn with the aftertaste, making me scrunch my nose.

“So, you first, what do you wanna know?” I looked over at them, locking our gaze.

“Well, what made you choose Brazil in the first place?” I grinned, happy to answer.

“It honestly wasn’t my first choice, initially I had wanted to go to California so I could learn to play on the sand. But I got an offer from a trainer who said he was based in Rio. Next thing I know I’m boarding a plane with nothing but a backpack and my passport!” I explained, chuckling at the memory.

“Woah, that’s so cool! You must’ve had so many offers from professionals who wanted to train right?” Their eyes shone with curiosity. I don’t think they did it on purpose but they got a bit closer, leaning in like it was an interrogation. I rubbed the back of my neck, gulping nervously.

“Well-not really, I didn’t have too many but I was grateful for the ones I did receive. I think one of my favorite things about my training there was how much time I was able to spend outside. The sun there is just so much more intense, it's honestly insane. I did get heat stroke during the first few days though. That was not fun.” I glanced to the side, trying to calm my sudden spike in nerves.

“I’m sure, did you get any sunburns?” They tilted her head, smiling. I nodded, humming and swirling my glass to make a whirlpool effect.

“Oh yeah, definitely.” She didn’t respond after that, instead she looked away. I couldn’t help but stare, admiring the stray hairs that refused to be pinned down. The way the gloss made her lips shine. I had to tear away my gaze before she caught me, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It felt like I was trapped, almost in a trance. It felt like a while had passed before she finally spoke up, turning back to me.

“Do you wanna dance or are you just gonna stare...?” I could feel my face warm up from being caught.

“I- sure…” She smiled, standing up and holding out a hand. I took it and pulled myself up, letting her guide me to the dance floor. I downed the rest of my drink while she led, hoping it would take the edge off. I blinked a few times, not expecting it to be that strong. I set the glass on a staff tray as we passed, not needing it anymore.

She ended up taking me through a couple different rooms before she found one she was satisfied with, if I didn’t know any better I would assume the house was just one giant maze. I couldn’t see much from where we were in the crowd but it was definitely hotter. The lights would alternate between blue, green, and red; similar to the lighting you would find at a rave. The room itself was hot, the temperature definitely warmer than the one we talked in.

We were awkward at first, trying to loosen up was harder than it looked. Whether or not it was the alcohol kicking in or not, I felt bolder, finally able to let go.

(Y/N) pov.

As we danced it felt like the rest of the world melted away, leaving just the two of us. The music was loud, but not as loud as my heart beat thumping in my ear. It only seemed to get faster as time went on, the bass on the speakers making the floor shake. The ghost of his touch left me with goosebumps and a feeling I couldn’t quite shake. I closed my eyes and put my hands up, letting my body move on it's own. In hindsight, that might not have been the best idea, but we were both comfortable enough at this point. When I opened my eyes we were noticeably closer, hardly any space between us as we moved in sync. I smiled at him, his eyes shining back in what little light reached us.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was music, or maybe it was how I wanted to know what he felt like against me. I dunno how it happened, but there we were, skin to skin in the middle of the dance floor with his lips on mine.

I looped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer as I felt his hands drift lower on my waist. Our lips moved in sync as our bodies swayed, keeping with the tempo of the music that's just now starting to fade back in. Everything suddenly came to focus once I felt a cold slick down my back. I pulled away instantly, suddenly sober. I turned around, coming face to face with Atsumu while a disheveled Hinata stood behind me.

"You asshat, what was that for?!" The asshat in question laughed, swirling a clear glass filled with ice and what I had assumed was alcohol.

"Ya two were maken' a scene, if yer gonna kiss, do it in a bathroom or at least not in the middle of my floor!" Atsumu disclosed, smiling smugly and strutting off into the crowd. I turned back to the small ginger and smiled upon seeing his eyes quickly look up from where they were.

"You up for round two?" I ventured carefully. He grinned and grabbed my hand, nimbly leading me as we bobbed and weaved our way back through the dance floor, headed toward what I could only guess was one of the bathrooms.

I stared at myself in the mirror, smoothing out my clothes as if I wasn't just on my knees. Hinata watched as I fixed myself, slightly dizzy. I grinned, eyeing him as he sat, legs still spread from where I had been not five minutes ago. I hesitated before asking him a question as he fixed his hair.

"You got a pen?" He looked at me quizzically before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a green ink joy pen. "Hand please~" I took his wrist and turned it over, writing my number on it in thick green ink. He took it back and read the numbers, mumbling them under his breath.

"What's this for…?" He asked, tilting his head. I couldn't help but giggle at his stupidity.

"It's my number idiot, call me if you're ever back in Brazil. That way we can do this again sometime…" I ruffled his hair before unlocking the door and stepping through. "Maybe then you'll get a real welcome~"

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (14/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: This may be the most fanfiction-y chapter of Bloom & Bone yet... and I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. If you'd like to get an early peek at chapter 11 and all future chapters, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane. Thank you for reading! ❤️

When Tamlin awakes at the sound of a rip in the fabric of the world, his first thought is that this must be a strange continuation of his dream. There, too, Elain Archeron had been in his bedroom.

His second thought, as she walks toward him, eyes wide in her moonlit face, glowing from more than the light and redolent with a new aura of power, is that she can surely smell his arousal. As soon as she speaks, there will surely be an awkward question about what caused this.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, pulling his blanket around himself in case she looks too closely. In the dream, she had not kept her distance, but Tamlin is never quite sure what the real Elain will do.

“I needed to leave the Night Court,” she says, her teeth chattering around the words. Shock. Exhaustion. “But they will come looking for me here. They think I betrayed them but I was only--”

Her voice hitches and Tamlin expects Elain to cry, but instead her hands ball into fists and she takes a deep, shuddering breath. Her teeth continue to chatter for a moment longer, then fall still.

“Lucien and I are working on a plan to rescue Vassa,” she says, her voice low and calm and yet ringing in his ears. The proximity of her body, her scent wafting around him. He needs to collect himself. If Elain is right, Rhysand will be here in minutes.

“What brought you here, then?”

“I asked -- I wanted to be someplace safe. Isn’t it true that mates can’t harm each other?”

“I will do my best to never hurt you,” he tells her. The words are ragged with meaning. “Which means we cannot stay here.”

“There are places I can go. I think I can take you. When I held the bone, you followed me. I think we will need weapons, though. And gold. And perhaps as much water as we can carry.” Her laugh is a little frantic and Tamlin wants to pull her towards him, this little female who comes up to his shoulder and still has grasped some magic he’s never before detected, but there is no time.

“Turn around,” he tells her, already reaching for his clothes and his armor as her skirts swish on the floor. Within seconds, he’s dressed and lacing his boots, filling a bag with gold and heaving his broadsword into its sheath on his back. In another minute, a dozen knives and daggers are variously strapped and concealed, ready for battle.

Then Tamlin sweeps Elain up in his arms and runs to the kitchens, waiting for the moment when she insists on being put down, but instead she looks around anxiously, as if she’s certain Rhysand will appear.

She does not speak until there is a stone jug in the crook of each of her arms, filled to the brim with water and sealed hastily with leather, and then she says only, “I hope this works,” takes a step, and wraps her hands around Tamlin’s wrists.

Around them is a sound like the ripping of some great tapestry, and his kitchens become a passageway with intricately tiled floors and giant doors filled with elaborate carvings. This place smells like no court or country he has ever known, unknown spices and flowers lightly scenting the air.

Before him, Elain is glowing golden, a sun on the horizon. She turns away from him to look down the passageway as if she knows this landscape and already has a direction in mind.

“You’ve been training,” he says, scanning each side of the passageway for threats. The walls curve off in the distance but all is still except for the low hum of this place, the vibration of Elain’s power in front of him.

“They can still find us here, if they decide to use the bone,” she says, as if he did not speak, then starts walking. Tamlin can’t help but follow, watching door after door pass by them. Finally, she stops and places her hand on a wooden door, closes her eyes, and nods. When she opens her eyes, she turns toward him, holds out her hand, and asks, “Are you ready to see another world?”

Tamlin takes her hands and follows her through the open door and into the dawn of a new world.

Elain has taken them to a marketplace, and though her eyes are alight with recognition, he doubts she knows the language, which is unlike any he’s heard on his short trips to the continent. Despite the early hour, the air is already hot and sticky and scented with the ocean, spices, roasting meat. Around them, people are laughing and arguing. They’re clothed in loose linen, their skin ruddy and golden and brown, and no one seems to be bothered by the fact that two pale strangers have appeared from some strange place they could hardly imagine.

“This world is at peace,” she says, shifting her shoulders to better accommodate the water she’s carrying. He takes a jug from her and holds it at his side, hoping she won’t let go of his other hand. He hopes she’s right about the peace in this world, because he’ll lose precious seconds if he needs his sword. The alley around them seems deserted, but that could change in an instant, especially as the day breaks.

“Tell me about your power,” he says, because of the thousand questions that whirl in his mind, this seems the most pressing, to learn what’s bloomed in her.

“I’m still learning. But I have an awareness of the character of the world. And at first I needed to navigate by going through the passageways, but now, if I concentrate and I know where I’m going, it seems I can move around on my own.”

“You’ve never been in my bedroom before.”

She flushes like a ripe strawberry, so that the pink of her dress looks almost pale.

“I tried to go someplace where I was safe. I’ve never tried to move places in our world before, only between worlds and the passageway. And I’ve communicated with the door, somehow. But I thought, if it were going to work, that the mating bond might act as a tether between us. That it might also let you travel with me.”

“You wanted me to come with you?”

He watches her swallow, the delicate working of her throat. When she looks up at him, the force of her gaze makes his breath hitch. The power concealed inside of her astounds him.

“I could tell you that the Night Court will go to your estate first, though it’s possible they will try to track Lucien instead.” She pauses, hitching the jug of water against her hip, liquid sloshing against her sleeve. Tamlin hardly breathes, worried the moment will be broken, that someone will notice them, that all hell will break loose, the way it always does.

Finally, Elain says, the words barely a whisper on her plump and rosy lips: “But if I am being very honest, I missed you.”

It’s all he can do to keep himself from kissing her. Instead, he feels himself beaming.

“I am very glad you could find me in our world.”

“Even if I interrupted your dream?” In a second, all that shyness has vanished, and she arches an eyebrow, almost flirtatious.

“The reality is better,” he says, taking the invitation in her tone, and is gratified to see her cheeks going pink again. “Would you like to tour the market?”

She nods, striding ahead of him, and Tamlin follows her mutely, not sure if someone overhearing their language would denounce them as strangers. Instead, he watches Elain’s delight at the bolts of embroidered fabrics in rich colors, the cheap jewelry that nonetheless sparkles brightly in the rising sun, the fragrant spices tucked away in glass jars. Tamlin doesn’t think she’s slept, but all signs of tiredness have vanished, as if this world has refreshed her just by its existence.

A group of young boys approaches her, with a platter of pastries, the scents of cooked fruit heavy in the air. When she stops, as generous with them as she always has been with the small and tender beauties she comes across, they begin, all in a rush, to declaim the virtues of pastries. Even if Elain understood their language, he doubts she would understand the force of the five voices that all tangle up in each other. And sure enough, she glances at him ruefully, until he hands the nearest boy a gold mark and they begin to shout and shove the platter toward Tamlin and Elain.

“This is too much for us,” she murmurs, and hands them each a pastry and gives each boy a little smile before the group scampers off, rowdy and joyous.

They manage to navigate the platter through the market without incident, making their way to another quiet alley, shaded by the overhang of the buildings on either side.

Elain settles herself on the ground, her skirt fanning out on either side of her, and holds out a pastry.

The taste of the flaky crust and the apricot and cinnamon inside, blended with spices he’s never tasted and has no name for, washes across Tamlin’s tongue. His stomach growls and Elain actually snorts mid-bite.

“I knew you were hungry,” she says, and he laughs, because he’d never have guessed when she’d arrived in his court that he’d one day be sitting in a universe completely outside of his own, squatting at the edge of a strange marketplace and watching Elain Archeron talk with her mouth full of food.

He wolfs down the remainder of the pastry in his hand and eats three more, pausing to guess at the fruits and spices, and when he looks at her, Elain is contemplating the last pastry on the platter, eyebrows raised.

“You should eat it,” he says, all gallantry.

“It’s my rightful pastry! I’d only eaten two.” Her tongue pokes out from between her teeth, a deep fuschia that makes Tamlin feel his heartbeat in every corner of his body. “I’m just not sure if I have room in my stomach.”

She continues to look at the pastry until he realizes she’s stopped really contemplating the platter and has moved on to thinking about other, more pressing topics.

“Will you tell me why your sister thinks you betrayed her court?” He’s not sure if she wants to talk, but surely this is the safest place to have this conversation, where nobody can understand what they’re saying.

“Lucien and I were working with Helion in secret, by night. Lucien was trying to determine the properties of the spell on Vassa, and Helion was helping to train me.”

“I thought Amren could train you.”

Elain’s lips press into a thin line, all the color draining from them. “Can you imagine what Amren would’ve done, if she’d had these powers? I think that’s all she thought of. I couldn’t get anywhere until Helion helped me, and then I pretended Amren had had some magical solution. Only of course I was too confident and Lucien and I were caught returning from the Day Court.”

“Where is Lucien?”

“I hope he went to Helion.” She pauses, shifting her eyes as if she’s worried about being overheard, though Tamlin could tell her that everyone outside is out of earshot, and the people in their buildings are still fumbling for their breakfast and smell close enough to human to hear their conversation clearly. “I assume you know the stories about Lucien’s parentage.”

“It’s an open secret, one Lucien’s friends do not discuss out of respect for his wishes.”

He hates the way she stiffens at these words and he reaches for her, letting his fingers hang into the air near her skin. He will give her the choice to draw near, in part because he already knows the pain of her rejection will be impossible and also that he will have to find the strength to bear it.

Finally, she leans into his knuckles, so that she can feel the warmth of her shoulder through the fabric of her gown.

“I think that Lucien and I are friends now,” she says. “But I am worried for him. Do you think I should have tried to bring him with me?”

“Helion will protect him. And Lucien is more powerful than he lets most people think.”

“Is there any part of him that isn’t hidden away?”

The question is earnest, and Tamlin’s mind goes to that moment in Hybern, previously unremarkable to him, when Lucien had beheld Elain and called her his mate. The quickness of Lucien’s mind, intent on avoiding disaster even when it meant carrying the burden of that lie for years.

“When he looks at Vassa,” Tamlin says, forcing himself to think of those dinners, which had gone from awkward silence to actual conversations, Vassa laughing and Elain going rosy over double entendres, and Lucien between them, relaxed and delighted as Tamlin had never seen him.

“Do you think they’re mates?” He can tell from the way eyes dart that there are implications to this question, potentially beyond his ability to handle. He reaches for the lone pastry on the platter, worrying the edges with his thumb.

“I don’t know if it’s possible for the High Fae to feel a mating bond with humans or lesser faeries. I have never heard of such a story, though of course among our kind, it is possible that such a bond would be an embarrassment and thought best hidden.”

“In a way, wouldn’t it be romantic if they weren’t?” There’s a harsh note in her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“They have the opportunity to choose each other.”

“A mating bond can be rejected,” Tamlin says, careful to keep his voice even. I hope you will not treat me as you did my sister, she’d said. He cannot force her, even though all of him, body and the ragged remains of his soul, thrills at Elain’s proximity, the softness of her skin and her wide, dark eyes, bright even after a sleepless night. A strand of wavy hair rests on the curve of her cheek, and he catalogues this moment in his mind, so that if she does reject him, he’ll be able to call her image to mind in an instant. He heaves a sigh. “You can reject our bond, if you wish.”

She turns toward him, the early morning light giving her heart-shaped face a glow. He’s not sure if it’s this world or her magic that makes Elain’s beauty almost unbearable.

“What would happen to you, if I rejected it?”

“I have heard that the pain is unbearable for the rejected male,” he says, doing his best to sound at ease, “but it could be that this is just a tale to push reluctant females toward their destiny.”

“And you would never risk the anger of the Night Court by forcing me.”

He extends his hand toward her, looks straight into those eyes that look like the heart of the earth, warm brown shot through with green and gold.

“I would never risk your happiness, Elain. I have ruined every good thing in my life, but Cauldron boil me if I destroy you over this bond between us.”

He’s about to lower his hand, to show her that he means it, when she reaches out for him, threads her fingers around his, and when she smiles, he could swear that nothing in any world could match her brilliance.

&

&

&

They pass the remainder of the day exploring the city, which is walled in by a great desert on every side. They do not speak of the mating bond. They hardly speak at all, worried that their language will mark them as targets to any careful observer, communicating instead through gestures and shared glances, the quirk of Elain’s pink lips that shows she’s amused, the bright flash in her eyes that demonstrates her delight.

As the afternoon stretches toward evening, Tamlin realizes that Elain’s dress is damp where it touches her body, that her face has gone blotchy with the heat. He stops them in the shade of what appears to be a university, if the amount of books in the hands of passerby is to be trusted, and tilts the water jug toward her until she’s drunk her fill.

“We need to find a place to stay the night,” he says, looking around to see if there’s an inn. “Or however long we need to remain here.”

“In three days, I’ll be able to reason with Rhys. We could try the Day Court but I don’t think Helion would form an alliance with your court so quickly, no matter what Lucien says. Especially if Rhys is breathing down his neck.” She lays out all these considerations matter-of-factly, no hesitation in her voice, and he wonders how often Elain has been watching the people around her while they’ve assumed she was only thinking of the garden. “There’s a risk, but we could sleep in the passageway. I think there are cooler places in this world.”

“We have enough gold to find a bed,” he says, feels his face heat when he realizes he didn’t use the plural. The brief fantasy he allows -- Elain in bed next to him, her silky skin against his own -- is exquisite.

He tells himself it is the heat of the day that makes her cheeks even rosier. He can only extend the dream so far.

Within an hour, they have found a shabby yet comfortable inn near the students’ quarters, and between them, they’ve gestured and sketched out what they’re looking for, a room and meals for the next three days. The proprietor mutters Terrasen under his breath as he turns away to fetch a key, and moments later, Tamlin and Elain are alone in the room.

Of course, there’s only one bed.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, and Elain holds up her hand.

“You’ll take the bed or I’ll sleep on the floor alongside you. Or we could both sleep in the bed. I’m the one who endangered you.”

When he looks at her, Tamlin allows a fraction of what he feels, the heat beneath his skin, to enter into his gaze. Her eyes widen, deep and sparkling even in the fading light, and her long lashes do not so much as flutter with hesitation. There’s desire in her eyes also, the scent of her own arousal in the room.

“It feels like a spell sometimes,” she’s saying, the words almost lost in the heady thrum of his blood, “the way I think of you. The way your touch feels. More than love or desire. As if you’ve occupied my body.”

“Then you feel what I do,” he says, and his boots scrape loud against the tiled floor as he backs away from her. Any closer, and he will reach for Elain Archeron, hold her, claim her. He does not trust himself to do otherwise, alone with her, in a world where nobody knows them or how impossible it is for them to be together.

She presses her face into her hands, her exhale rushing from between her fingers. He swears he can feel it on his skin.

“I keep forgetting about Vassa. I should go back. Maybe I could go to Koschei and--”

He crosses the room without commanding his feet to move, intent on getting his hand on her. Not to hold or caress her, only to follow her wherever she goes, no matter the folly of her plan. His thumb lands on the crook of her elbow, the thrum of her pulse against the skin made rough by battle and the forests of his court.

“I think you need a plan to vanquish Koschei,” he says, “but I will go with you, even if it’s to our death.”

“The stories say that mates cannot allow each other to be harmed,” she says, her face still hidden by her fingers.

“I do not care about the stories. I only care that you are safe.”

He watches as her fingers press into her face, forming pink splotches around each nail. From here, he can see the little band of dirt under each nail, the way the garden has marked her, even a world away.

“All I want is to stay here with you, and let you claim me as your mate. But I am afraid that I would disappear, that I would only be the pretty girl in your gardens. All my life, I was supposed to be that person, and now, I think--”

She moves her hands away, and when Elain meets his gaze, her eyes are so wide and lovely, her face so completely beautiful, even mussed, that Tamlin knows he would give her anything she wanted, so long as she had breath to form the plea. It feels like a spell, she said, and he feels bewitched by her, the world completely shifted by her proximity.

“I do not trust myself,” he forces himself to say, the words raw against his throat, nearly growled, “I do not trust what I’ll become if I allow myself--” He wants to say to love you, but he does not trust those words either. They’ve proved treacherous before.

“I haven’t allowed myself to think of that,” she says, but her scent gives her away, the sweet musk.

“You’re lying.”

Her breath hitches, and his gaze sweeps down her body, the swell of her breasts under the close-fit bodice of her gown, they fall to the dip at her waist, the flare of her hips only partially concealed by the sweep of her skirts. The suggestion of her form enough to drive him wild, to make his cock strain against his pants, so hard it’s nearly painful.

“What would happen if I kissed you?” she asks. “Would that activate the mating bond? Or is it only food?”

“If you kissed me I would try to control myself,” he says, meaning it, even as desire rages in him. He forces himself to think, what was all that playing at war for if not a means of developing his control? He tells her, “I will never take more than you will willingly give. I will not force you to be my mate, whatever happens.”

“I will not force you either.”

He hooks his fingers at the back of her neck, under her hair. It’s damp and dusty from their day of walking, and this only makes him want to pull her closer.

“Why do you imagine you would need to force me?”

“I know you love my sister.” Elain says the words with the clarity of an oracle, and Tamlin wonders for a moment if she’s having a vision, learning some truth he cannot currently detect within his own heart.

“I loved your sister and it nearly split our world in half,” he says, trying to emphasize the past tense. He runs his fingers down the bony knobs of her spine, thrills at her small involuntary shiver even in spite of what he’s confessing. “I do not know if my love will ever be worth seeking. I do not know if you are right to trust me.”

“You abolished the tithe,” she says, and the spark of hope in her words makes him wish he’d always been a better male.

“I only canceled the next one. It takes funds to raise an army. There has to be a way to secure the Spring Court borders, and to compensate those who risk their lives.”

“You are listening to your people.”

“It is not such a grand thing, not to speak.”

“In all the stories I have heard, you’ve never listened to anyone. Not even Feyre.” She pulls away from his hand, replaces her neck with her fingers, which squeeze him in a stronger grip than she ever imagined he possessed. “Maybe we can be new people, Tamlin. But I think I do not want to be your reward for changing for the better. I don’t think either of us deserves it.”

When she lets him go and turns to the washbasin, he tries not to feel stung. Of course she deserves the right to turn away from him and anything he could offer. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, it’s the sensible option.

Still, through dinner and a night spent curled on the floor, he finds himself dreaming of that kiss, the feel of Elain against his body, wholly unique and lovely, the scent of her, the feel of her skin and the dust of another world.

&

&

&

The next day, they sleep late by unspoken agreement, Elain eventually agreeing to the bed. Tamlin had lain awake long into the night, the possibility of danger and the proximity of Elain leaving him alert to every sound.

Their breakfast is simple and delicious, a fragrant porridge thick with dried fruit and honey, and the little sighs Elain makes while eating it affect Tamlin bodily, though the proprietress only grins at them, says something they cannot understand but which approximates happiness at seeing good work recognized. Elain’s bright grin and his sheepish glance only illicit a knowing nod.

“She thinks we’re lovers, doesn’t she?” Elain murmurs as they walk out the door, laden with everything they held when they walked through the door.

“She’s probably never seen a faerie before.”

“There are fae here somewhere. I saw them on the door of this world.”

“How many years did you go without seeing one?”

Instead of answering, Elain bites her lip, considering the street before them, bustling with morning activity. Already, the air around them shimmers with heat.

“There’s something I should try today,” she says. “I need to know the organizational principles of the passageways.”

“How are you going to learn that?” He has a feeling that she’s trying to conceal her plan with the formality of her language, the serenity of her tone. As if he could not wholly pay attention to her at every moment.

“Promise you won’t try and stop me.”

He’s tempted to cross his arms and loom over her, force her to stay in this hot, safe world until they can return to his court. But the thought of fear on her face makes his stomach heave. He tried to contain an Archeron sister, once.

Instead he tells the truth: “I’m worried you’d slip off without me.”

She turns toward him, her hand extended.

“I will never leave you in a strange world,” she says, solemn, clasping his fingers before he even realized he’d reached for her.

His exhale sighs out of him, a weight released, before he realizes that the market is disappearing around them, a sound like the ripping of a tapestry is enveloping them, that they stand in the passageway once again.

Around them everything is the same as before: the carvings on the doors, the design on the tiles beneath their feet, the great arched ceilings lit with candelabras far above. They are the only thing that have changed about this place, more rumpled than they were yesterday, Elain’s dress dusty from a day’s walking and wrinkled from a night of sleep.

“You could have given me a bit of warning,” Tamlin says, when he’s satisfied they are alone in this passageway. His voice echoes enough, though, that anybody tracking them would hear.

“I’m looking for Koschei.” Already she is looking around, reaching out her hands as if to sense the air.

“I know a lake where you can find him,” he says, already frantic in spite of himself, in spite of the mettle he’s seen Elain display, the powers which shine out in her when she’s in this place.

“If I can find the world he came from, Lucien and Helion will be able to learn about his magic. They were beginning to work on a tethering spell before we were caught.”

“You realize that any world that birthed a death-lord is likely full of death-lords, don’t you?”

“Lucky for me, then, that I have a male with a sword at my side.” She bats her eyelashes and widens her smile so that it’s almost a grimace, before relaxing into a more serious expression. “I’m going to try and see if I can locate the world from here, without changing my location in the passageway. Hold on to me if you want to come.”

He grabs her wrist and watches Elain’s face. He wants to see her work the incantation. Instead, her eyelids flutter shut and he watches her eyes dart around below that thing rosy skin, as if Elain is dreaming, seeing the world she seeks. He can feel the effervescence of her magic, the brightness of it like a star inside her. As he wonders how she ever kept this power hidden, he realizes that the passageways have changed, that the carvings on the doors are different, less familiar, with larger figures who look more menacing, with teeth and claws and wings that make his beast form look like a puppy in comparison. His free hand is already halfway to his sword.

Elain walks directly to the door and places her hand on it. He follows her, ready to dive in front of her. But Elain only studies the carvings, presses her fingers into the wood and closes her eyes, then reaches for his free hand and presses it against the wood.

“This feels like Koschei’s power,” she says, “doesn’t it?”

He’s about to say that he feels nothing, only the grain of the wood, when the power of this world pricks at his fingers like tiny flashes of lightning. He did not touch Koschei, couldn’t even get close, but his power caused a similar sensation, a frisson in the air.

“This does not seem to me like a world at peace,” he says, trying to keep the pleading out of his tone. If she will only keep herself safe, he will give her whatever she wants. Including an eternity apart from him.

“Then maybe Koschei was right to escape. I think we should get a better look.”

“And if we’re killed in the attempt?”

“Then we died trying to save Vassa,” she says, and reaches for the doorknob, twists it before he can think of a worthy objection.

The world is flattened of all color, the sky and the hard grass-studded earth blending on the horizon. The clouds are thick and near, blocking the light and clotting the redolent air. But even through the thickness, power sparks. Tamlin cannot detect its origin. As if the world itself is powerful, the air a magical current.

“This reminds you of Koschei, doesn’t it?” Elain says. Her voice is a bell in the barren landscape. He scans the sky for any indication that they’ve been discovered.

“I understand why he would want to leave this place.”

There is no cover in the scrub, only endless wasteland, but Elain begins to walk and so Tamlin follows her. At every step, his instincts tell him to leave, to force her to take them out of this world, but he thinks of the desolate look on Lucien’s face when he stared at the spot where Vassa disappeared, screaming. The lilt in the queen’s voice, her teasing laughter, the recollection of those dinners that were almost comfortable drive him onward, keep him scanning this harsh world for any threat.

After hours of walking, stopping only for quick gulps of their water, Elain stops in her tracks, turns to him.

“What if this world is deserted?” The bleakness in the question matches the landscape.

“Didn’t you say that Helion and Lucien needed to know how Koschei’s magic worked in his home world? I think they could detect it from the atmosphere.”

“I thought if I could--” she says, but there’s a hiss behind her, and Tamlin has his sword in one hand and the other around Elain, pressed close against him as he whirls on the source of the sound.

Only the centuries of warrior’s training keep him steady as he stares at the bared fangs of the scaly creature, which extend above and below its jaw. Borne on wings, the beast is like some giant snake, its bulk writhing in the air. As it descends towards them, the hissing grows louder, becomes a rattle. Tamlin raises his sword and, not knowing whether it will help or harm them, flings out his magic, heaving the creature to another corner of this desolate world.

“Can you let it get a little closer to us?” Elain asks from his side. He realizes that instead of tucking herself into a little package of fright, her hands are out, her fingers working. Magic thrums in the air around her, the only lovely and familiar thing, except for Elain herself.

“Why?”

“I need to get a better sense of its magic,” she snaps at him, the tone unfamiliar and instantly endearing, even now.

Tamlin drops the shield of his magic, and the creature swoops toward them, gives a shriek. A globule of spittle falls from its tongue and lands on the grass with a hiss. He raises his sword higher, readies himself to strike, inhales to fill his lungs. The power emanating from the creature is like and unlike Koschei’s, brute force instead of the cunning precision that makes the death-lord impossible to overcome. But this magic, the breadth and scope of it, will be difficult to fight. Still, Tamlin keeps his sword held high. He will give Elain whatever she needs.

In the face of the talons, the fangs, the bulk and writhing length of the creature, he does not falter, he does not fear. He is a warrior and he will defend his mate, make it possible for her to save her friend.

He watches the slitted eyes of the creature and swears it is calculating. Perhaps there is a strategy in place, veiled by the depths of magic. Perhaps, like Koschei, his world-kin has been waiting for centuries to wreak vengeance on the High Fae.

Tamlin has no cunning plan. The only means of escape is through Elain, and she does not so much as blink as she studies the creature, one hand outstretched, one hand on Tamlin’s shoulder. As if she beckons it, death and danger and whatever answers they might provide.

He will not fail her. He knows this in his bones. He will go on long enough to let her disappear into the passageway, into her own world. There, she will free herself.

The creature swoops, ready for the attack, and the world disappears, reforms to the tiles of the passageway.

And then Elain’s hands are on him, around his neck. She presses her lips to his. Distantly, he hears his sword clatter to the ground.

She is soft against him, impossibly sweet against his mouth, her fingers tangled in his hair as he pulls her closer, his fingers cupping her shoulders, running down her spine to settle on her waist. He does not think she could ever be close enough to him. Something blooms in him with this kiss, green and growing under his skin, entirely new.

“You were ready to save me,” she whispers against his mouth.

“Of course I will always save you.” His arms are banded around her waist, moving with the rise and fall of her breath. He loves the feel of her, safe and alive, the thrum of her pulse below his fingers.

“It was stupid of me to let that thing get so close to you. The second you dropped your shield, I was so afraid you would be killed.”

“I only wanted to give you time,” he says, tucking her head against his shoulder. He wants to keep kissing her, but doesn’t want to startle her. It’s enough to hold her, after the weeks when he thought he’d never even see her again. “Did you learn what you needed to know?”

“That creature had more power than Koschei.” Her voice is terrified and also a little admiring. Part of him wants to shake her. Part of him understands the feeling, the terror that’s almost equal parts wonder. “But does that mean Koschei left because he was weak? Or does it mean that his power diminishes in other worlds?”

“Does your power fluctuate?” he asks.

“I’m more powerful here than anywhere. Even in our world. Sometimes it feels as if I could make a world from nothing, the sense of possibility is so complete.”

Tamlin runs his hand down her back, up and down against the soft fabric of her dress, warm from her skin. Only the slight scrape of her eyelashes against his tunic gives away the fact that her mind is working, the kind of tell that only a dedicated observer would note.

After a few minutes, in which Tamlin has lulled himself into a stupor, Elain springs from his arms, her eyes wide.

“We have to keep the bone from Koschei,” she says. “Can you imagine what he’d do if he could access its power?”

“You have to stay away from him,” he says, and it is an effort to keep his voice level. “All you will be to him is a weapon, Elain.”

“You were willing to defend me so that I could learn how to defeat him. You cannot mean to lock me up now.”

Already, he feels her straining in his arms, calculating the effort required for freedom. He loosens his grip.

“What would you have me promise?”

She looks up at him then, biting her lip, serious and rumpled and lovely, and it takes every ounce of control in Tamlin not to pull her toward him, not to lock his arms around her.

“I want you to promise that you’ll show me you’re worth trusting.”

He sucks in a breath and contemplates the whole of what she implies. That he will control himself, master the rage and the doubt and the self-pity that roar inside of him. That he will rule his court. That he will treat her with respect for her full self, her power and her wrath, her sweetness and beauty and poise and those moments of uncertainty. That he will free her from all that binds, even when doing so will tear at him. That she might leave him anyway, with every good reason.

“I promise,” he says, the words loud enough to echo in the halls.

Then she relaxes in his arms, rests her head against his chest, and Tamlin holds her until her breathing steadies and then slows. How strange it is, to find his mate after half a century, to know he could lose her at any moment, and to find himself somehow contented with that knowledge, to savor the way the light gilds her hair, the way, when her face relaxes in sleep, she looks almost stern, her brows drawn down and her cheekbones more prominent. He tucks her closer against him, savoring the weight, the softness of Elain’s body. At least, he tells himself, there is this moment with her, and then the next one. Put like that, each breath feels miraculous.

&

&

&

He wakes with a start sometime later, slumped on the floor, Elain curled up against his shoulder. She lets out a little moan at the movement, which forces him to slide her off his lap before she can detect the effect of that sound.

“Do you think we can go back to our world?” he asks. Rhysand could be waiting, but he feels ready for that fight.

“As long as there’s a real bed waiting for me,” she murmurs, scrubbing at her eyes. She reaches for him, and then they’re in his bedroom, the bed now perfectly made, sunlight streaming through the windows. Through the window, the garden is beautiful as ever, lush with the intermingling scents of blossoms.

Elain’s command over her power is growing, he thinks. There was hardly a sound at the transport, even fresh from slumber.

Now she’s boneless against him.

“Let me take you to your room,” he says, but she shakes her head.

“Melis tried to cut my throat there. Let me stay with you?”

“I’ll be on the floor.” He’s experienced far worse, in the war bands, then two nights on the floor, making sure Elain’s sleep is undisturbed.

But she reaches for his hand.

“Stay with me,” she says.

“You’re half-asleep. And if we are found--”

“Stay with me.”

Still, she does not open her eyes. He promised to be worthy of her trust, and so, when he lays her gently on his bed and pulls the quilts around her, he does not follow her. He pulls the curtains shut against the light, finds a blanket to pillow his head, and listens for the sound of her soft breathing.

“I will be here in this room with you, Elain,” he says, and lets himself relax.

&

&

&

Once they’re awake, the day passes in an idyll. No one from the Night Court has appeared, and so Elain goes to the garden for the afternoon and Tamlin decides to monitor the woods, with strict instructions to the servants to watch over their honored visitor. He will visit the village tomorrow, complete his rounds of the further towns over the next week. But today, he stretches his legs in his own world, the court he rules. He transforms into the beast and savors the heady forest air as it fills his lungs.

After an hour, he hears footsteps moving through the underbrush. He stops behind a tree and counts the sounds of striding feet, half-climbs the tree to get a better view and spots a familiar livery.

When Tamlin registers the sight before him, only the thought of Elain keeps him from lunging toward those footsteps, snarling and vicious and bent on death and destruction.

An army from the Autumn Court is marching through his lands. A thousand fae soldiers working their way through the trees.

If he rushes them, even with the High Lord’s power inside him, they will rip him to shreds. And so Tamlin slinks through the forest. Where the future should be, there is only a howling blank.

[itsarttome]

Armenian Women in Visual Arts

I took a class on Armenian culture and history in university that exposed me to this beautiful country and people and opened my eyes to the undeniable tragedy of the Armenian Genocide of 1915.

 I’m not Armenian, but I’m Greek on my dad’s side which I found out is very similar. We both love our dolma’s and hate the Turks. But in all seriousness, we share a lot of similarities with Armenian culture, including its political history, which has helped me to further empathize with the current struggles they are facing as a country. It's heartbreaking to see that, just five years after the 100 year anniversary of the Armenian Genocide, Armenians appear to be facing a second genocide. Armenia’s neighboring country Azerbaijan has been ensuing deadly attacks against them for some time now with the aid of Turkey  and the issue continues to be mostly ignored by the international community. Protests have been raging on both in the nation and diaspora. In no way do I consider myself to be an expert on this subject, but I feel responsible at least to educate myself and do my part as a citizen of the world. 

There is no civilization in the world that, given it possess the resources and will, doesn’t have artists, doctors, lawyers, chefs, musicians, poets, farmers, accountants, etc... The meaning of this to me is that it is proof we are all valuable people, no matter where we come from or what we look like. Just think about how sand is made from millions of tiny parts but looks like one uniform blanket on the beach. If you were to put a handful of sand into a jar, and another handful into another jar, you’d find that each jar is made up of entirely different rocks. But somehow, both have all the elements needed to still look like a handful of sand. That’s how I view culture. Every culture is a handful of sand; they all have necessarily found their own way to explain the universe (religion), their own way to communicate (language), their own way to nourish themselves (diet), and so on... and each way is original and different. But somehow, all of the elements add up to create a civilization, a culture, and a people with a shared identity. The only thing that makes us different is that we’re arbitrarily placed into one jar and not another, but when you look at the big picture, we’re all the same. 

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I think by human nature it’s much easier to care about someone else’s journey in life when they have something in common with you. What I love about art is that when you meet another artist, no matter who, you feel a sort of magical connection to that person and are bonded over your mutual appreciation of it. I am a woman and I am an artist, and because of that, I feel lucky and unworthy in saying I have something in common with these incredibly talented Armenian women that I’m about to share with you. 

I. Zabelle Boyajian (1872-1957)  

Zabelle C. Boyajian was a poet, painter and playwright of the Ottoman Empire, born in 1872 in Diyarbakir, one of the ancient Armenian capitals, ‘Tigranakert’. After the murder of her father during the Hamidian Massacres of 1895, she, her mother and her brother immigrated to London. She travelled extensively throughout her lifetime and learned to speak eight languages fluently, including Armenian, English, German, Italian, Greek, Turkish and Russian. Being skilled in so many languages, apart from the arts, she was a great contributor to the translation of many great Armenian works. For example, in 1948, she translated Avetik Isahakian’s epic poem “Abu Lala Mahari” and published it for the world to read. In 1938, thanks to her wide travels, she published several illustrations from her visit to Greece, entitled “In Greece with Pen and Palette”. Exhibitions of her art were held in London, Egypt, France, Italy, Belgium and Germany. She was close friends with Anna Raffi, the wife of the well-known Armenian novelist, Raffi. One of the leading female trailblazers of art, literature and translation, she published her first novel in 1901, entitled “Esther”. She is well known today for her gorgeous storybook illustrations. 

II. Miriam Aslamazian (1907-2006) 

Miriam Aslamazian, sometimes called the Armenian Frida Kahlo, was born on October 20th, 1907 in Alexandropol in the village of Bash-shirak. She was was a Soviet painter of Armenian descent recognized for her exquisite ceramic plates. In 1929, she graduated from the Yerevan Art-Industrial Technicum and later in 1933, from the Leningrad Academy of Art. In 1946, she became a member of the CPSU (the Communist Party of the Soviet Union). Her work is often described as decorative, flat still-life pieces as well as possessing dramatic, colorful themes. Many pieces of her artwork can be found today in the Aslamazian Sisters’ Museum in Gyumri. She was honored as People’s Artist of the Armenian SSR 1965 and People’s Artist of the Soviet Union in 1990. 

III. Gayane Khachaturian (1942-2009) 

Gayane Khachaturian, born May 9th, 1942 in Tbilisi, Georgia, was a Georgian-Armenian graphic artist and painter. She studied at the Nikoladze Art School and the Secondary School of Working Youth, where she graduated in 1960. Sergei Parajanov, who she was close friends with, was a major inspiration for her. Some of her works are permanently displayed and can be seen at the National Gallery of Armenia, the Yerevan Museum of Modern Art as well as the Sergei Parajanov Museum in Yerevan. Her works have also been purchased and are included in several private art collections. Her first informal solo exhibition was at Skvoznyachok Café in Yerevan in 1967.

IV. Sonia Balassanian 

Sonia Balassanian is a mixed media artist, art curator, founder and Artistic Director of the Armenian Center for Contemporary Experimental Art in Yerevan, Armenia. Born in Iran of Armenian descent on April 8th of 1942, Balassanian uses her artwork to advocate for human rights and women's emancipation issues. In 1970, she obtained a BFA from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts and the following year worked on an independent study program at the Whitney Museum of American Art. In 1978, she completed her MFA from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York. The following year, however, the 1979 events in Iran caused her to turn to “political art” as self expression. She is also a skilled writer, publishing several works, including, “There Might Have Been An Insane Heart” (1982), composed of selected poems written in the Armenian language, “Portraits” published in New York in 1983 and “Two Books” (2006), a publication of two books of poems in one combined. 

V. Nora Chavashian

Nora Chavashian is an award-winning production designer, art director and set decorator, recognized for her sculptural stage sets, born in Philadelphia, PA on October 25th, 1953. OMG we have the same birthday, no wonder I like her! There, she studied sculpture at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. In 1974, Chayashian graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute (SFAI). In 1984, she married Joe Morton, an American actor, director, writer, singer and songwriter, with whom she has three children, Hopi, Seta and Ara, and one grandson, Moses. In 1988, she and her family relocated to the East Coast. Her sculptures often have organic shapes and are reminiscent of nature. 

VI. Anush Yeghiazaryan

Anush Yeghiazaryan is a painter, weaver and professor born on June 15th, 1965 in Yerevan, Armenia, known for her stunning tapestry creations. Hailing from the family of Karapet Yeghizaryan, patriarch of the Armenian school of art weaving, she has held up the traditional weaving techniques of her ancestors. From 1984 to 1990, she studied graphic design at the Yerevan State Fine Arts Academy. From 1991 to 1994, she worked on obtaining her PhD from the State Armenian Pedagogical University. In 1996, she became a member of the Armenian Union of Artists. In 2010, Yeghiazaryan joined the Pan-Armenian Painting Association. She has had her work presented in exhibitions around the world, from Yerevan to Paris, Moscow, Sankt Petersburg, Bouve, Plovdil, Tehran, Italy and Praha. Quoted for saying, “I have not chosen art, it’s in my blood. It’s my lifestyle and I love it up to sublimation degree”. Some of her pieces displaying masterful weaving techniques include,“If you live, create” (1998), “Once Upon a Time in Paris” (2003), and “Urbanization” (2006). 

VII. Taleen Berberian

Taleen Berberian is a modern Armenian visual artist, specializing in mixed mediums, crafted fabric, clay sculptures, drawing and the use of the traditional Armenian sewing, embroidery and crochet techniques in unconventional ways. She is especially recognized for her famous sculptures of shoes. Berberian has been on the forefront of women’s issues, a theme that can be seen through her artwork. She is an active participant in both Los Angeles and New York’s art communities. In 1995, she obtained a BFA in Sculpture from the California College of the Arts in Oakland, California and in 1998 she continued on to achieve a MFA in Studio Art and Art Education from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York. In 2009, she received her Initial Teachers’ Certification in Visual Art for grades K-12 and currently serves as a quilting and ceramics instructor.

VIII. Joanne Julian 

Found out artist Joanne Julian and I are both CSUN alum and native Angelenos!  Julian, who is of Armenian ancestry, says she has been highly influenced by her travels to Asia and thus became skilled in certain Asian techniques, such as mono printing and the “flung ink” or “Haboku” style. Her pieces possess a “Zen quality” to them, as portrayed in her “Zen Circle” series, illuminating the Yin and Yang of Taoist painting. She received her Bachelor’s of Arts and her Masters in sculpture and printmaking from California State University, Northridge. She later received her MFA from the Otis Art Institute of Parsons School of Design. She has participated in over sixty group exhibitions and twenty solo exhibitions nation-wide. Since 1973, Julian has served as the Chair of the Fine Arts Department and Gallery Director at the College of Canyons in Valencia, California. In 2008, from January 25th to February 23rd, she held an exhibition at CSUN’s Art Gallery entitled, “Counterpoints”. 

All of the female artists I mentioned have given people a better look into what it means to be Armenian and how the community and its diaspora are trying to solidify the Armenian identity to enable its rich heritage and traditions to live on. And they are just a few of the proud Armenians who have helped raise awareness of the issues Armenians face, as well as give Armenians their due respect in the realm of International Art. And to go one step further, my deepest hope is that one day, art will overcome the war. 

[darlingrutherford]

Happy (almost) Halloween, everyone! 👻

What better way to celebrate the spooky holiday than with a little vampire!au spicy time? 👀 I know it's been some time since I put out some writing, hopefully this will help~ I'm definitely feeling a lot about this au so who knows, maybe there will be more to come down the road! ❤️ In the meantime, if you're 18+, enjoy! (Otherwise, keep scrolling.)

Compulsory Diversions | Cross-posted on Ao3 | Alistair Theirin/Lana Surana | DA Vampire!AU | Explicit - sex, biting, blood | 18+ only, please!

Redcliffe castle was dark and dreary, even during the day. Though the entrance and most front facing areas were bright and welcoming, Lana had quickly learned it was mainly for appearance's sake. The vast majority of the castle had curtains drawn during the daytime, blocking out most of the sun save for the bits that broke through the cracks of heavy fabric defenses like fire glowing from outside.

The sun didn't hurt them, at least not in the ways stories of old described it. Alistair hadn't burst into flames, he hadn't faded into a pile of dust the first time he walked into the library in the early afternoon and hadn't been able to avoid the bright, warm beams of sunlight Lana had let in upon drawing the curtains before she knew he was behind her.

‘Serves me right for trying to sneak up on you,’ he had chuckled at the time. Weakness that increased the longer exposed, headaches, nausea. Not bad when compared to what Lana had expected when she had yelled and shoved him away from the light, even though by all means it should have been too late to avoid becoming an ashy mess. Still, after watching Alistair nurse a grueling headache after one afternoon of following Lana around in the gardens, she understood why they kept the curtains closed.

Lana's bare feet made no sound as she walked the stone halls. Bronze chamberstick in hand, she kept the lit candle close to her to light the way. It was early evening. Dusk had begun to fall outside and the bits of sunlight that seeped through the cracks in the curtains had begun to turn into a blue haze, all but fading away.

Her legs came to stop as Lana looked around the hall. Old paintings covered the walls, tapestries with the Guerrin family crest that she could have sworn she had passed earlier. The castle was like a maze; it wasn't the first time she had taken a wrong turn in all the time she had been living there. She grasped the side of her robe, pulling it tight around her and the layered light, cream colored fabric of her dressing gown. ‘I'll just walk around for a few minutes, then get dressed,’ she had originally thought. Easier said than done, she supposed, sighing quietly at how easily she had gotten lost. Lana perked up as her ear was drawn towards the sound of something shuffling in the dark. The candles on the walls had yet to be lit for the night, and she strained to see anything other than what her candle allowed. Then, suddenly, there was a light gust of wind, and a hand muffling her startled yell as she was pulled into an empty alcove.

“You're straying too close to Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde’s wing.” Alistair's voice murmured against Lana's ear. She let out a breath of relief against his hand before he slipped it from her lips. “Sorry to grab you like that, only… You're a bit jumpy. I figured you'd yell either way, sooo…”

“No, no, you're probably right.” Lana could barely see Alistair in the dark. She had dropped the candle when he had first grabbed her. Its light extinguished and the sun fading more quickly than ever had left the hall nearly pitch black.

“Are you okay?” Lana shivered as she felt Alistair place his hand on her shoulder, sliding it slowly down her arm over the fabric of her robe. “Your heart is beating fast.”

‘Of course it's beating quickly - I live with vampires, it's your feeding day, and you have me pinned against the wall in my negligee,’ she thought to herself. Her voice when she spoke aloud, however, was not as confident.

“Oh, um. I'm - I'm fine, Alistair. Thank you.”

“You sure?” He trailed the tips of his fingers down the side of her cheek, feeling the heat flush from her skin. Her breath quickened as his fingers trailed down her neck, all too aware of how he seemed focused on a particular vein as if he were testing it for ripeness. “When I woke and found you missing, I worried.”

“Difficult when your meal has legs, isn't it?” Alistair chuckled at her quip. Lana smiled and settled into his touch, pressing her neck comfortably against his palm. “I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit.”

“If you needed to stretch your legs out, all you have to do is ask.”

Lana let out a surprised breath as her feet left the cold floor. Her legs instinctively wrapped around Alistair's middle as his lips pressed to hers. Her back thudded against the stone wall, blood already pumping with the feel of his hands slowly pushing her nightgown up. Lana always felt tiny in Alistair's arms. She was unsure if it had anything to do with his condition, but, Maker, he did indeed stretch her legs when she had them wrapped around him. Lana slipped her hands under his linen shirt, feeling the magnificent way he inhaled when she skated her fingers up his muscled abdomen. She loved how his build was still soft to the touch on the surface, yet also strong and steady not far beneath, just like him.

Alistair's hand had settled firmly on one of her smooth lower cheeks, gripping it with glee as his other slipped from her dressing gown to pull at the lacing that kept the top more modest. He deftly unknotted it, an easy task for sure as she hadn't expected to be in her sleepwear for so long when first she left their room. Alistair dipped his head down to kiss the top of her breasts that then poked out from the soft fabric, fully intending on giving them much needed care when his attention was suddenly pulled to her hands that were somewhat frantically pulling at the lacing of his trousers.

“Bit impatient, are we, my dear?” Alistair's grin went slack, his mouth hanging open as Lana plunged her hand into the front of his trousers and took his cock in hand. It grew quickly in her grasp, almost painfully pressing against her belly at an angle as the two of them all but melded their skin together. Their kisses became wet and desperate, breath hot as Alistair panted from her steady touch as her hand gripped and stroked him. His hand slipped back beneath her nightgown and rough callused fingers began coaxing wetness from her heat one, then two, at a time. Lana's hips began to follow a rhythm with Alistair's hand, rocking against his thrusting fingers while her hand seemed to follow a dance of its own. When he could feel the moisture dripping to his palm, Alistair pulled his fingers from her despite her begging whimpers. His kisses slowed, becoming more purposeful, yet the heaviness of them remained. His hand replaced Lana's, transferring the slick from his hand to his cock before shifting her up higher against the wall and sliding into her.

Alistair all but covered her mouth with his own when it happened. He had been with Lana enough times by then to know there was no quieting her - not usually something he worried about, but, being in the hallway, empty as it was, well… He supposed swallowing her initial loud, wailing moan she was always apt to upon them joining would be easier than explaining to Eamon why here, why her.

Here could never be explained well. He had seen her, smelled her, wanted her. Of course he had thought about going back to their room, but then her pulse had quickened beneath his fingers, and she had pressed her neck right into his hand, fully aware of everything he had in store for her, and he couldn't find himself willing to wait another moment. So, here it was - up against a wall, in a dark alcove, before everyone else was up for the night.

As for why her... why shouldn't it be her? Maker, but the way she moaned when he was in her. Even when she did her best to time it with their kisses, trying to drown the sound of them in his mouth, against his tongue, even the vibrations of it made Alistair weak in the knees. She was perfect, from the way she spoke, the way she loved, how she made love to him, even up against a wall. Her hands balled into fists at his shoulders, gripping the linen of his shirt so tight even though she knew well he would never drop her. Still, she held to him for dear life as he thrust into her, rolling her hips against the length of him as he filled and stretched her and she kept begging for more.

“Do it now,” she whimpered against his lips. Something deep within Alistair stirred awake when she said it. Like an animal deep within, waiting for that permission, with eyes flying wide open once it was given, ready to pounce and devour.

“Right now?” He wanted to be sure, always, even as he began salivating at the very thought. Normally they waited until later, until she had time to ready and do whatever she wanted to do with her night before it was done. She had been awake for less than an hour, he was certain. Still, that slinking, dark animal inside of him glared and growled at Alistair from within when he asked, “You don't want to wait?”

Lana shook her head fervently. She was biting her lip hard, trying to keep quiet but only succeeding at lessening them to high pitch whimpers in the back of her throat.

“I want all of you, and I want you to have all of me, now.”

Twice was plenty confirmation for him. Alistair brushed Lana's long, copper braid to the other side of her neck. His hips slowed to still for the moment, taking his time as he ran his fingers again down that vein on her neck he had been focusing on earlier. Lana's head tilted to the side as if by learned habit, the back of her head resting against the cold stone of the wall. Alistair leaned forward, running the tip of his nose affectionately along the soft skin of her neck. He could feel her neck contract as she swallowed, the way her hips wiggled impatiently. It was hardly fair to tease one's food, he supposed, so he turned his mouth parallel with her neck, extended his fangs, and bit.

There was never any yell that accompanied it, never was, never had been. A pain that strangely felt good, was how she had described it to him - drastically different from the pain of being changed, he was extremely thankful for that. Just a bit of lovely pain, and then… There it was: the venom, as he had called it in the past. Lana could feel it seeping into her the moment he pierced her skin, and it was intoxicating. It was no wonder one rarely heard tale of the victims of vampires fighting back. The venom insisted, compelled her to stay, to enjoy - and, oh, sweet Maker, did she enjoy it. The world around her slipped away, leaving behind everything but the feel of pleasure. The initial pain of the bite - enjoyable as it had been - remained hardly as a memory, overshadowed and overwhelmed as it turned to absolute bliss below her jaw. She could still feel him in her, the way his cock more than filled her generously, any whimpers from her from the stretch of him turning into mewls and moans that begged for more as his hips began thrusting again.

Alistair wouldn't even have to touch her to get her to come while the venom ran rampant through her blood, a fact he knew well by then. He pressed Lana fully against the stone wall, thrusting his cock repeatedly into her as he slowly and carefully focused on draining just enough from her - enough to sustain him, but little enough that she would feel fine in the morning. Oh, but she tasted divine, she always did. A small trickle of blood escaped his lips as he failed to suppress a smile when he realized what she had been eating that week - pears, and lots of them, by the sultry taste of her blood. She had listened to him, when he had mused to her how her blood was shaped by what she ate, how her eating pears here and there had made him hum salaciously the last time he had dined at her flesh. He quickly forced himself to stifle his grin, refusing to waste one single drop of the gift she gave him every other week.

Pulling at the shoulder of her smooth nightgown Alistair tugged it down, chasing the blood as it dropped down to her breast. He ran his tongue down her skin, nipping gently at her nipple as he reached it before quickly licking his way back up to her neck. Lana gasped as he sucked at her. Her hands slipped into his hair, gripping at the back of his head as the rocking of her hips became heavy and erratic. She retracted a hand to her mouth, shoving her palm over her lips to stifle her loud cries as she began twitching and shaking in his arms as waves of pleasure washed over her while he thrusted through her orgasm. And then his came rushing in just behind hers, coaxed on by the spasming and tightening of her delightful heat around him. His hand replaced his mouth on her neck, stopping the bleeding as he grit his teeth and groaned heavily in his throat as his cock throbbed and emptied inside of her warmth.

Alistair pressed his temple to Lana's while his mouth slowly slid open to pant. He wanted to kiss her, to show her love and appreciation after all she had given him. Knowing that the taste of copper and all that was hers was all she would taste on him, though, he settled on a long kiss at the side of her cheek - he'd make up for it later.

Lana's legs would be too weak to walk after all that; she had tried once after a feeding, and although Alistair did find her wobbling to be endearing, there were much easier ways to get her back to bed. He set her on her feet for only a moment, just long enough to slip everything back where it belonged and to tie up everything so it would stay that way. Then he whisked her off of her feet, and Lana instantly curled against his broad chest as he carried her back to their room.

Cleanup was easy - Alistair never went overboard when it came to feeding, not like he had seen some vampires get with their prey, especially ones they had no intention of caring for afterwards. A warm, wet washcloth took care of any drying blood, including the bit he had left behind on her cheek from his kiss. Salve was placed on the bite at her neck, to help keep them from reopening and to keep them clean while she slept.

Lana was asleep before he started any of this, of course. The loss of blood on its own was enough to make one want to get a few hours of sleep at least, and she was always out like a light by the time he placed her head on a pillow. Alistair was unsure if she knew everything he did for her after each feeding, but it didn't matter. It was the least he could do for the woman who willingly gave her everything to him. Maker, but he knew how lucky he was. He crawled into bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, intent on holding her and savoring the taste of her until she awoke.

[98prilla]

Abductions, Past and Present

Next

Previous 

AO3

...

The two days passes quickly. Remus takes to following Logan around, constantly asking questions, about everything and anything, from how to use the star maps to navigate, to the engineering of the ship itself, to anything that pops into his mind. Logan is all too willing to answer his questions, happy to lecture to someone who is excited to listen and learn, though Remus often interrupts in the middle of an explanation to ask another question, much to Logan’s annoyance. Still, he was simply happy Remus seemed to be adjusting well. He flinched less at sudden movements, occasionally initiated touch, occasionally quietly asked for some, which everyone was all too happy to give, no matter whom Remus asked. Usually, it was Janus, much to everyone’s surprise, and Patton’s slight disappointment. Though he was simply happy that Janus seemed to be reaching back, finally starting to let himself get attached and heal in a way he hadn’t seen from the naga.

 Roman, when not following Remus, liked to sit in the living area, reading, endlessly reading. Patton had dug into his art supplies, and found an unused sketchbook and pack of colored pencils, Roman literally bursting into tears when he gave them to him. Roman had hugged them to his chest as if they were the most precious things in the world, letting Patton wrap him in a hug, cooing softly as the kid cried himself out. He hadn’t let the sketchbook out of his sight since, carrying it everywhere like a child with their teddy bear, an almost desperate, breaking joy in simply owning something, having something private to call his. It broke his heart a little, how something so small that he took for granted could shatter Roman’s world so entirely.

 They were still skittish and quiet. They both still had moments of fear, moments of panic, they both still weren’t getting enough sleep, nightmares waking them, they both still clung to each other every moment they could, terrified to let each other out of their sights, afraid if they did, they would vanish. It was slow, and it wasn’t much, but it was progress, and it was there. They at least believed fully now in their own safety, knew that no one on board would ever hurt them, and were starting to reach out, just a bit, for help when it was all too much. It was amazing, really, how far just a little kindness went in earning trust.

 …

“Are you ready?” Roman asks, softly, a bit breathless, squeezing Remus’s hand tightly, nervousness pounding in his chest, clogging his throat.

 “No. Not even a little bit. Like, not at all.” He replies, trying to take a deep breath as he felt the ship shudder, touching down on land. Solid land. Actual land. Like, a planet.

 “Kiddos? You ok?” Patton asks, coming into the room from the hall, a small satchel slung over his shoulders, instantly taking in the tenseness of the two boys. “Logan’ll be out any moment, then we can head out!”

 “what if something goes wrong? What… what if we get separated? There’s crowds and people and-“

 “And I meant it when I said I would sink my fangs into anyone who wants to try something. I’ll be your chaperone for the day, pleasure to be at your service.” Janus interrupted, giving a flourishing bow and a small smirk, not missing how Remus’s shoulders untensed.

 “Indeed. Everything is locked down, and we may disembark whenever we like.” Logan states, coming down the hall from the control room, glancing over everyone once.

 “ok. Ok let’s do this.” Remus breaths, pulling Roman to his feet, following the others to the airlock. Logan types something into a panel on the side of the room, and it whirs to life, bay doors opening, a ramp descending to the ground, and Remus has to shield his eyes with his hand, because it’s so bright.

 He can feel Janus behind him, ready to reach out a hand to steady him, if he asks, not saying anything, patient, and he appreciates it. After a moment, his eyes adjust, and he feels the barest of breezes, and it takes everything in him not to sprint for the door and run as far and fast as he can. Instead, he slowly walks forward, down the ramp, Roman beside him, trembling, and he squeezes his brother’s hand tighter as they see the outside world.

 It’s a landing strip, but a small one, their ship seems to be one of only four others docked. There’s a building behind them, some kind of communication building for incoming ships, no doubt, and beyond that are houses that look to be made of some kind of stone. They can hear the shouts and sounds of the town, of a market, of life.

 But before them stretches an endless plain of knee high grass, that waves in the wind, a sweet, soft scent to it, no doubt blooming wildflowers or plants of some kind, and a sun is shining down, warm and soft and light, and Remus can’t help it as his legs give out from under him and he curls into the grass, feeling it tickle against his skin, breathing in the scent of wet earth, feeling it between his fingers, unable to stop the tremors that tear through him as a gasping sob escapes his lips.

 For the first time since they were stolen, he believes in his freedom. He feels Roman beside him, and pulls him close, clinging to him just as tight as Roman is now clinging to him, because they can’t believe this, their minds can’t process this, they have lost the capacity to understand this vast open space, this soft summer wind, this swaying of prairie grasses, they can’t do anything other than try and breathe, try and take it all in, try and imprint this in their minds forever, because some part of Remus still fears this is some absurd trap, and he will be ripped out of this absolute paradise any moment. He can’t go back to it, now, he can’t go back to a cell, after this.

 “You won’t. I won’t ever let that happen, I will fight anything that tries to put you in another cage.” Janus murmurs, and without hesitation, Remus reaches out, taking his hand without looking, just needing something, anything, to keep him tethered to this moment, otherwise he’ll slip back into a different one.

 It feels like hours later, when they finally untangle from each other, getting to their feet, though Remus is unable to tear his eyes away from the horizon, can barely stop himself from looking straight into the sun, just to prove to himself it’s really there, closing his eyes and letting his senses be overrun by the normalcy of it all.

 With his eyes closed, he could be anywhere. He could be home, chasing butterflies with Roman. They could be tussling in the field behind their house. They could be on one of their camping trips, they could be playing kickball during recess, they could be searching for fireflies and scouring the sky for shooting stars, crickets chirping softly in the distance as they made their own constellations and tales.

 It’s insane. The feeling of that gentle warmth against his skin, wind in his hair, against his face, grass against his legs, it’s utterly insane, and he can’t stop the tears from dripping down his face as he takes another shuddering breath in, and opens his eyes. Janus is standing two steps away, watching them carefully, though he’s giving them space, and something a bit sad is in his eyes.

 He remembers abruptly that Janus has been through this. He knows exactly what they’re going through, he must remember the day he stepped off that ship for the first time, must remember the overwhelming urge to just run as fast and far as he could, he must be lost in his own thoughts and memories.

 “you ok?” He asks softly, breaking Janus out of his reverie. The naga gives him a small, exasperated smile, tilting his head.

 “Last I checked, I was supposed to be asking you that question.” He narrows his eyes, about to point out that Janus had deflected instead of actually answering, but stops himself. If he doesn’t want to talk about, he won’t pry. Not about this. “We can go catch up with the others, if you like. It’s a fairly small settlement, but it is a bit of a stop over for out of the way travelers, so the market is fairly robust. I understand if that many people would be too overwhelming.”

 “No. I wanna… I would like to go. Just for a bit, anyway, I want…” I want to see that this is real, that it’s not just a dream, I want to touch things and hear languages and see other beings, is what Roman was going to say, he knows. Because he’s thinking it too, he’s endlessly curious, he wants to make the most of this time off the ship, he just wants to sit in the middle of ordinary, every day, hustle and bustle.

 “Alright. Stick close, and if you feel overwhelmed, tell me and I’ll find us somewhere quiet.” They both nod, following Janus past the building and into the town, into the market.

…

“Do you think they’d like this?” Patton asks, holding up a woven wall hanging, depicting a dragon sitting atop a shining castle. Logan sighs, looking at it.

 “I don’t know, Patton. You should simply ask them.” He’s slightly exasperated, this is about the twentieth thing Patton has asked him about, instead of asking the people he’s actually trying to buy for. Patton frowns, his gaze flicking farther down the market, where he can just pick out Janus’s shining scales as the siblings meander at their own pace, eyes wide, Janus making sure that everyone gives them space.

 “I would, Lo, but…” Patton sighs, refolding the tapestry and placing it back on the table. “But I think if I just ask them they’ll say no, because they don’t want to be a bother and spend our money. They don’t think they deserve things, Logan, and I don’t want to stress them out more by pressing them into making choices.”

 “You’re probably right, Patton. But if that is the case, you should start small. Too many gifts at once will be overwhelming. And no matter how you approach it, they are going to feel the need to somehow repay you. Perhaps we’ll pick up the essential supplies now, reconvene for lunch, and ask Janus what they seemed interested in, or kept returning to. That way they would have some input on what you did end up buying for them.” Patton’s wings fluff up as he smiles, gently bumping Logan.

 “You’re a genius. That may be the smartest idea I have ever heard!” He’s about to respond when he feels a draft, and suddenly Virgil materializes beside them, pulling them into an alley between two stalls.

 “Virgil. Is everything ok?” Logan asks, the wraith looking towards the mouth of the alley with a frown.

 “I don’t know. There’s someone following them. I haven’t been able to get a good look, they’re covered in a cloak and face mask, but whoever it is picked up on them once they entered the market.” Virgil’s form wavers, before he takes a deep breath and solidifies.  

 “Have they shown any signs of aggression?” Logan asks, dark eyes narrowed.

 “No. Not yet, but I don’t like them, Lo, they’re not good, I can feel it.”

 “Ok. We’ll-“ Patton was cut off by the sound of shouting, and with a curse, Virgil lost form, swirling shifting shadow, zooming out of the alley, Logan and Patton barely two steps behind.  

…

It happened so fast.

 One moment, they were lounging by the fountain, simply taking everything in, listening to the chatter of unknown languages, different species and races and cultures clashing in a symphony.

 The next Remus is growling, shoving Janus backwards, pouncing atop a stranger, a syringe flying from the being’s grasp, who has the air knocked out of him for a moment, before another arm emerges from under the cloak and stabs him in the leg with something. He can feel his vision hazing, his pulse racing, but he’s a human, and this alien clearly doesn’t understand what that means, because he expects him to go down easy.

 That’s a good joke.

 Instead he fights back, pins him down, bares his teeth, ready to rip out his throat, but he hears a noise behind him. He leaps to his feet, lunging back, shoving Roman and Janus behind him as another attacker appears out of the now fleeing, panicked, crowd, hissing as a dart finds its mark. He charges, tripping over his feet to do so, but it seems enough to scare off the second cloaked figure, who’s eyes widen behind his face covering, fleeing. He spins and sees the one he’d tackled scrambling away, vanishing into the crowd, and he hisses, lashing out at a touch of his shoulder.

 He’s in the cell.

 They’ve come for Roman, for the first time in weeks, they’ve come for Roman, and that isn’t good, isn’t right, and he won’t let it happen.

 He ignores the sedatives they stab into his him, ignores the stun batons spasaming his muscles, he screams and claws and punches and bites, becoming the feral beast they’ve always thought him to be, but eventually they manage to twist his arm back and pin it behind him, his legs finally going weak from the drugs, as they drag Roman away, his little brother still managing to smile at him, and he knows, knows, he is saying goodbye.  

 He won’t let them. He won’t let them take him.

…

“Remus.” Janus staggers back as Remus hisses, lashes out, sends him reeling backwards, cheek pounding in pain where Remus had hit him. Roman catches him, steadying him.

 “Jan!” Patton is at his side suddenly, gently removing his hand from his face, inhaling sharply at the bruise no doubt swelling his face.

 “I’m fine, Pat. It’ll heal.” He looks past Patton, to Remus, who’s eyes are clouded, body tensed and stiff, ready to fight, teeth bared in a feral grimace, chest rapidly rising and falling. “they were going after me. He shoved me out of the way.” Janus murmurs, trying to take a step towards Remus, but Patton stops him.

…

“Remus.” He hisses at that voice, it sounds like the scientist, it triggers his fight reflex, and he snarls, his vision flickering. One moment it’s dirt paths, blue sky, the next it’s harsh white, cold metal. It’s too much, it’s too muddled, and he can’t see, can’t think, he only knows it isn’t safe, and the world is lurching, spinning, and he won’t stop, because they will not take Roman. “Remus. Listen to me. None of us are going to hurt you. Do you recognize me?”

 His vision flickers. Dark eyes, crystal skin, tall and thin, familiar. Then it’s a full body suit, a mask, empty, biting voice, and he stumbles back, tripping against something, and he sinks to the ground, unable to stay upright anymore.

 He flinches back at touch, his vision coming in strobing flashes of moments. Logan, kneeling before him, saying something, eyes dilated and worried. The Scientist, grabbing his arms, pinning him down. Janus, face bruised and red, a pang of guilt because he knows he caused that, somehow. The guards, dragging him away. The campsite, a dart in his neck, crawling to Roman. That same dizzying feeling filling him now, and his panic spikes.

 He cries out, unintellegable, fear stricken, as his vision goes dark, then there’s a cold hand in his, and the fear vanishes, leaving him silent and content and empty, as he passes out.

…

Virgil inhales sharply through his teeth, struggling to keep his form intact, with the strong wash of fear and pain and panic and negativity filling him, that he’d taken from Remus, who was now peaceably passed out in Logan’s arms.

 Patton’s hand on his shoulder helps ground him, and with several deep breaths, he manages to push the tide back, exhale it out with every breath, until he’s solid once more.

 “-probably fine. We just need to get back to the ship and see what exactly they injected him with. It most likely was simply meant to incapacitate him, and should be able to be slept off.” He catches, Roman nearly in tears himself, feeling him on the edge of a panic attack.

 “Hey. He’ll be ok.” He manages, and Roman nods shakily.

 “ok. I… I trust you.” Roman replies shakily, letting Patton pull him into a hug, as Janus and Virgil take lookout, escorting them back to the ship.

[inactiive-shit]

The Bones of a Miracle

The Bones of a Miracle Masterlist || AO3 [[Next Chapter]]

Chapter 1: Just Doing What We’re Told

Summary: Roman Pyre is called upon to retrieve the missing Crown Prince by the rulers of Aerewadal, one of the strongest kindgoms in the world. He takes the job with the promise of more money than he could ever hope to spend and finally, at long last, peace. How hard could it be to find one Prince? Turns out, not that hard. But bringing him back and getting paid? That's another problem entirely.

Words: 5,250

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Roman had been resting after his latest mission, allowing his tailors to fix his clothes and his beauticians to work their magic on his wrecked hair and nails, and giving his body the much needed time to heal the bruises and cuts he’d gotten for his efforts.

All in all, Roman had very much been looking forward to having some down time. He’d had grand plans of gorging himself on whatever exotic fruits happened to coming in to the ports and attending lavish plays. Roman had even managed to secure enough time off to attend a masked ball at the end of the month, something that he rarely ever got the time to do.

But when the Queen requests your presence at the castle immediately, and instructs that you be ready for hard travel? You don’t delay.

Roman’s pack is filled with his clothes and food, money and the tools necessitated by the less...respected side of his profession. He has no idea what the monarchs might want with him or his skill set, but it’s best to come prepared, and they wanted whatever this was about dealt with quickly, so it would undoubtedly be better if he doesn’t have to come back home for his supplies.

Resisting the urge to curse under his breath from the pace they are traveling at, Roman leans forward in the carriage and gets the attention of the courier sent to retrieve him. The kid is young, barely more than fourteen if Roman were to hazard a guess. They have a nervous air about them, and Roman is sure this is their first assignment on their own, no mentor to give them a nudge in the right direction.

“You know,” he says, “the Queen’s message seemed pretty urgent. I could get to the castle quicker on my own.”

The kid, Ellie or El or Leo, looks down at their frantically tapping fingers and shrugs. Their gray shirt hangs loose on their body, billowing out around the much more snug black vest. “Their Majesties insisted that I escort you there, sir. The task they have for you is of the highest importance and they wish to ensure that you arrive safely as well as swiftly.”

“What is this task meant to be?” Roman asks, deciding against mentioning that he is more than capable of taking care of himself and he’s not sure what help in that regard this kid could give him, besides. The kid darts a look at him but looks away just as quickly; they know something, and they’re not allowed to say.

“Their Majesties did not deign to inform me, sir.”

“Say what you will,” Roman mutters. He leans his chin on his fist. “I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.”

The carriage is hot and even though the windows are open, barely any wind makes its way inside to air out the space. While he dislikes the heat, uncomfortable as it, Roman is just thankful that it’s not humid. Humidity makes his already kinky hair unbearably frizzy and he’s not sure he’d be able to handle another stint on the job while fighting to keep his hair out of the way, too.

Roman wonders, on the hours long journey, why the Queen and Monarch would have sent someone as young and untried as the courier before him. He’s high priority from the wording of the message alone, and he’s one of the best at what he does—perhaps the best, if one is looking only for human options, which the monarchs seem to be doing. But this kid is skinny as a skeleton and has the courage of a skittish street cat. Perhaps they make up for it in wit, but Roman is hard pressed to believe that they alone could make the difference in an ambush or duel.

Still, who is Roman to question royalty? They have enough information on him to put him to death without a trial and people would party in the streets for it. It’s a wonder, really, that they haven’t sent for him before now to take care of him and the threat he poses. It’s stranger still that they would want him for such an important and sensitive mission that he’s not even allowed to know what it is until they reach the castle. Then, a secret ‘mission’ would be the perfect excuse to send for him and have him walk willingly into his own execution.

Roman discreetly checks his bag for all of his things. It’s best to be prepared; he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“Any siblings?” the courier suddenly asks, dragging Roman from his thoughts. His eyes flick over them.

“No,” he says. “I was the sole ruler of my kingdom, as a child. Rather liked it that way.” They snort indelicately.

“I imagine that would have been exciting,” they say. “I had twelve siblings growing up and I was younger than most of them. I never got to be the ruler of anything.”

Roman whistles appreciatively. “That must have been tough.”

“Nah. Not much more than anything else.” Their voice is soft and unobtrusive. They settle back onto the bench and adjust their skirt. It flares slightly and goes nearly to the tops of their boots, much sturdier and more well-worn than any other article of clothing they’re wearing. Being a servant trusted by the Queen herself should be a position well-paid enough that they’d be able to afford decent boots. This pair is scratched and scuffed, mud caking the soles. Roman has rarely had shoes in such bad condition, even when he spent months tracking down an on-the-run noble and had to do his own repairs.

The courier doesn’t seem much inclined to continue the conversation, and Roman is more than happy to rest. He stretches across his bench and shuts his eyes. It’s going to be a long trip in this heat.

It takes two days that feels more like four to get to the castle. They were forced to stay the night at an inn that Roman wouldn’t have slept at even before he made a name for himself here. It didn’t even have a toilet. There was a hole behind some bushes they were expected to use.

It is an experience that Roman is not looking to repeat.

The courier leads Roman in through the back. There’s no one around to see them except for mice and spiders. There’s not even a guard placed here. He hadn’t been expecting to enter the castle to the sound of raucous applause and a path of rose petals, but this is so far removed from even the other weirdness that Roman encounters on a daily basis that he’s almost taken aback.

His interest is piqued. Whatever the Queen wants him for, she doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Or to know that Roman is involved.

This is going to pay well. Roman can feel it.

“We wait here.” The courier comes to a stop near the doors. The room they’re in is big and has golden fixtures on the walls that contain brightly burning candles. There are other, floating lights and a few sconces emanating shades of blue and purple that Roman assumes are magically imbued. It doesn’t take the most skilled hand to form colored light, but it does take a regular upkeep. An easy way to infiltrate the castle, Roman notes. Give the right person food poisoning and show up in their place. Of course, you’d have to know the layout of the castle to do anything, but as long as he could find the throne room, he’d be able to orient himself. It’s just a matter of finding the-

All the colored lights flicker to searing white for a moment, and the courier moves forward and yanks open the door. Roman has to stoop slightly to follow them in. Though the kid is short enough to go through without trouble, the door can only be five and a half feet tall, if that, and while Roman isn't extraordinarily tall, he is taller than that. That means it’s probably a hidden servants’ entrance. And if they’re willing to show someone as dangerous as Roman a weakness like that...

“Your Majesties,” the courier says, bowing low. Roman does a quick survey of the room while the attention isn’t on him. Doors, curtains, tapestries, pillars, chairs. But something’s off. There’s something missing. Roman’s just not quite sure what it is.

Then it hits him: there are no guards.

“Elliott,” says the Queen. “Thank you for bringing him in one piece.” Roman schools his face so that it doesn’t show his shock; the kid is on a first-name basis with the Queen. They’re important here.

The Queen and her spouse swivel to look at Roman. He steps forward and bows gallantly.

“Roman Pyre. At your services, Majesties.”

“Mr. Pyre,” the Monarch says. They glance over his clothes. Roman doesn’t glower, though it’s a close thing. He had worn the best suit he had left after his last job, a dark red one with gold highlights and a dramatically flared cape. It wasn’t much, but they were lucky Roman hadn’t simply come in his night clothes with the way he was rushed from his own home.

“That is a fine suit, Mr. Pyre,” the Queen murmurs. She doesn’t look at his clothes, instead staring him in the face. Well. Two can play at that game.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” He casts an obvious, critical eye over her own wardrobe: a golden gown with purple beading and lace. There’s the sheath of a dagger hidden within the purple lacing that goes up the front. “I would be more than happy to recommend the tailor to you.” The Queen stiffens in her seat. Behind her, in the place a guard would usually stand, Elliott’s eyes go wide with shock at the slight. Roman refuses to lower his head or wipe the pleasant smile off his face.

“Perhaps you should,” she says, but the words aren’t genuine. She stares at Roman. On either side, her courier and spouse do too. Roman stares back, weathering the silence patiently. He knows the power of forcing someone to talk first, and after all he’s been through, he’s not going to allow anyone that.

The minutes tick by, each slower than the last, as everyone silently demands someone else talk first. And then, blessedly, there is a knock at the main entrance, a pair of grand, gleaming doors that reach to twelve feet high. Elliott slips around the Queen’s chair without a word and goes to the doors. They look heavy enough that it would take a team to open them, but the slip of a child does it with ease. Enchanted, Roman thinks. While it’s not unusual for castles to be filled to the brim with charms and enchantments, it is certainly interesting to see who is permitted through them.

Roman doubts there’s a place in the castle that Elliott can’t go.

There’s a muffled conversation at the door and Elliott sticks an arm out, quickly receiving something from whoever is on the other side. They shut the door and rush back to the thrones, offering the Queen a scroll. Roman watches with interest as she reads it, her eyebrows drawing together just slightly.

She releases a sigh through her nose and passes the scroll to her spouse. They read it quickly. Unlike the Queen, they seem energized by its contents, leaning toward her once they finish and whispering. She hums at their words, and finally resigns herself to losing.

“Mr. Pyre,” she says. Roman bows his head. “As you may have gathered, this is not a social call. To be candid with you, I would rather have you thrown in the dungeon right this second to await your trial and, once you are found guilty of your innumerable crimes, both against this crown and foreign empires, sentence you to death than be forced to deal with you now. There have been many times, over the years, that I considered doing just that, to rid myself and my bloodline of your vexing behaviors. However.” The Queen pauses here. Roman stands tall, arms loose and knees ready. His posture is as relaxed as he can feasibly force it, and he takes stock of all of his supplies and exits. Of course, it isn’t the least bit surprising to hear that the Queen has considered killing him before. That is only to be expected. It is worrying that she is openly admitting it. That isn’t the kind of thing citizens like to hear about their rulers. That she is saying it means something.

“How-ev-er,” the Queen says again. She smiles at him. Roman fights the urge to shiver and bares his teeth back at her, “we haven’t had you arrested yet, despite all the evidence piling up. Do you know why that is?”

“I’m just too handsome for the chopping block?” Roman suggests.

The Queen ignores him. “We always knew we might have a need for you. And so we do. Of course, there are people in this world more skilled than you at your...profession. However, most of them are much less reputable than even you and tend to bring back their quarries in poor condition. So, as much as I would like to have you thrown in the dungeon to never again see the light of day...you’re the best option. Even if you are so Fae.” His cheeks flame as he clenches his hands into fists. He can feel it all the way to the points of his ears, knows that his eyes have taken on a red tinge, as they always do when someone feels the need to point out Roman’s past. He debates the merits, just for a moment, of pulling her own dagger on her and slitting her throat with it. There are no guards in the room to stop him.

Unfortunately, Roman has more self control than that.

“It’s almost like you’re trying to make me not assist you,” he says, carefully modulating his voice. The Queen smirks like she wants him to say no, to test her.

“We have compensation for your successful efforts,” cuts in the Monarch. They grab the Queen’s hand with theirs and lean toward Roman. “Enough that you’ll be living the rest of your days in comfort. Along with the reassurance that all of your crimes and misdeeds in the past will be forgiven with a royal pardon.”

“How much money?” Roman asks, down to business now because this is what he’s here for. Roman lives for the money that makes his life that much easier. The pardon is nice too, don’t get things misconstrued, but it won’t matter for long. He’ll go right back to his unsavory profession and begin racking up disdain and wanted posters again.

The sum they name is astronomical. Roman will never have to take another job again. His mouth dries at the thought. Maybe he won’t be on anymore wanted posters.

“What would you have me do?”

“Find our son,” the Monarch says, and when they say it, both rulers look like they’re begging.

Roman sits at a table in a separate room. It looks like some sort of private dining room—the kind that maybe only the Queen and Monarch dine in. Despite the Queen’s obvious distaste for him, much of the castle has been exposed to him. That’s a dangerous thing. Roman knows that they must be serious about this.

The Queen sits across from him, a file in her hands. The courier stands at her elbow, a few more documents held in their arms. Roman glances over the papers, curious. It’s not as much as it could be, but to find someone like the Prince, Roman is going to need all the help he can get.

The Prince is notorious for getting away from his guards to traipse through the kingdom without protection and has a bad habit of disappearing even within the castle, where no one can find him. He’s good at disappearing, and at not being found.

“Here.” The Monarch drops another stack of paper before Roman. He begins leafing through them as the Monarch takes their seat.

“Four days ago,” the Queen begins. Roman drops the papers back to look at her, “our son disappeared.”

“Disappeared how?” Roman asks. The Queen shares a look with the Monarch. There’s a moment of silence before the Queen answers.

“He left in the night, and we believe he was looking for something. We’ve not heard from him since.”

“You mean to tell me that your adult son voluntarily left for a reason you know and you want me to drag him back?” The glare the Queen shoots him is absolutely vicious. If Roman were any less accustomed to violence and hatred, he would quiver under that look.

“There are many kingdoms that would take great interest in knowing the Heir to Aerewadal is currently somewhere in the country, unprotected,” the Monarch says. They motion to the papers sitting on the table. The Queen passes the folder over. It’s filled with descriptions of countries, leaders, and independent parties that have a bone to pick with the Wedian family. Roman raises his eyebrows, impressed. He’s never seen that level of hatred, all laid out.

“Where is this quest meant to take him?”

“Through Wudour Forest,” the Queen says. “And should that not yield the results he wants, all the way to the Fae Lands in the east.” She pauses, as though waiting for some input from Roman. He stays quiet. “He doesn’t have the training to defend himself from such...attacks as he is likely to face there. He does not have magic, nor does he have appropriate training to deal with people as particular as the Fae.

“We believe he is going after this.” Another page falls in front of Roman. There’s a chest depicted, with swirling filigree and delicate latches. “It is said to contain the Book of Cuilezia, the most powerful spellbook in the world.”

“It’s a myth,” Roman says. He drags his eyes away from the drawing to examine the monarchs. “He does know that nothing like that exists, doesn’t he?”

“He’s going after it,” the Monarch says. They look over Roman. “Do you understand the gravity of this situation?” Roman nods once. “We believe that he’s heading straight for Wudour Forest. We’ve sent guards after him, but he’s talented at escaping detection.” They rub a hand down the side of their face. Roman can see the stress that this has caused them, and he winces. “These papers contain everything we know about the path there, how we think he’s likely to travel, and any other information we thought would be helpful. There’s a room set up for you here for tonight, so you can review the information, eat, and rest.”

“You’ll tomorrow morning,“ the Queen orders. “Get our son back.”

“You have my word, your Majesty.” Roman stands and bows deeply to them. The Queen waves a hand and Elliot steps forward to gather up the files.

They escort Roman to a distant room in the castle. The hall it’s in is vacant and dusty, like it hasn’t seen a good cleaning in years, but the room itself is in good condition. There’s a soft, squishy comforter on the most luxurious mattress Roman has ever felt. There’s a plethora of candelabras and sconces around the room that Elliott lights by hand. It leaves the room glowing brightly, in perfectly natural light. Roman feels almost at home.

“Breakfast will be sent for you in the morning,” they say. “You are expected to be off as soon as possible. The quicker you get back with the Prince, the better.” They turn to leave.

“How old are you?” Roman asks. Well, he blurts it. He’s curious about their station here. About what could get them in so close with the Queen.

Elliott turns to eye him. They must not think he has any unfavorable motivations because they eventually softly say, “Nineteen.” Roman chokes on air. Nineteen! They look like a child!

“You must have lived here a long time, then. To be so young and so trusted.”

“I know my way around,” Elliott says with a smile, which isn’t an answer. Roman sighs. “Sleep, sir. You’ll need it to find the Prince. He’s fast on his feet and knows a thing or two about covering up his trail.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roman mutters. He hesitates, but Elliott is still waiting in his room so he figures asking a few more questions won’t be too out of line. “You wouldn’t be able to give me any other pointers about the Prince, would you? The more I know, the quicker I can find him.”

“He’s determined,” Elliott says. They pause, seeming to struggle for the words before continuing. “He has a goal, and not getting caught before he completes his task is likely part of it.”

“What’s his goal?” Roman prods.

“The chest containing the Book of Cuilezia,” Elliott says. Their eyes are sharp despite their voice remaining quiet and hesitant. “The Queen showed you a picture of it.”

“Of course,” Roman says, “and a noble goal it is. But there isn’t anything else he may be looking for? Something that, perhaps, he recently discovered and decided he wanted?”

“No,” Elliott says, voice dropping ever so slightly. There’s a silence. “Not that I’m aware of, sir. I’m not privy to all the goings-on of the castle.”

“I’m sure,” Roman mutters under his breath. “Do you know what led him to believe the chest is located in Wudour?”

“He believes the Fae have it,” Elliott says. “A merchant recently came through, bearing weapons of Fae and Elvish make. She swore that she saw the chest with some of the most advanced Fae Healers there are.”

“She didn’t say what she was doing in the company of such esteemed magic users, did she?”

“She neglected to mention that.” Roman snorts and shakes his head. The courier waits a moment. “If that’s all, I’ll leave you to your reading, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s all. You’ve been helpful,” Roman says. “Thank you.” They slip out the door. Roman collapses onto the bed and the stack of carefully clipped together papers bounces up beside him.

“This castle,” Roman says to the papers, “is full of the most gods awful liars I have ever seen.” The papers say nothing back and, groaning, Roman rolls to his stomach, gathers them close, and begins to read.

Roman is completely packed the next morning when his breakfast arrives. The servant says nothing to him, simply sets the tray on the desk and bows out of the room. Roman picks over the food; they’re obviously not too worried about feeding him anything of quality. The gray-ish mush is slimy and the roll is hard enough to make his teeth hurt.

Perhaps they’re trying to run him out of the castle so that he’ll get a quicker start. At least the apple he has is good, fresh and wormless. It’s not the worst food he’s ever been served.

Ten minutes later, a knock sounds at the door. Roman opens it to see the same servant as before.

“Are you ready to leave, sir?”

“But of course,” Roman says, slinging his pack over his shoulder and grinning. “Lead the way.”

Without another word, the servant turns and begins walking. Roman stays a few paces behind, taking in all the halls they passed. It would be good to know the palace’s layout in case he ever got a job that brought him within it.

If he did, he’d have to ransack the kitchen while he was at it and see what kind of delicacies they were withholding from him. He was sure the rulers didn’t eat like that, and he’s curious to see what they do have.

They come out into the misty gray morning. The sun still hasn’t fully risen yet, but the birds are just beginning to sing in the trees. It’s as beautiful as the music played by the Royal Orchestra at the Royals’ and Nobles’ birthdays. The only good thing about the rulers getting another year older is the music accompanying it.

The stables come up before them, and Roman takes a few quick steps to catch up to his guide. “Why are we going to the stables?”

“Their Majesty said to give you one of the fastest horses in the stable, Drukha, to aid you in your travels, sir.”

“How thoughtful,” Roman says. He steps up to the stall door the servant stops at and peers in. The horse staring back at him has a shimmering black-brown coat and stands at least sixteen hands. As soon as she sees him, she whinnies and rears back on her legs to stomp at him. Roman lurches back from the door just as the horse’s hooves make contact. The gates tremble.

“She’s a little skittish,” the servant says. Roman stands far back as the horse is calmed and then let out of the stall. He follows the horse back out of the stable and into the light. She’s already been tacked up.

“Are you sure this isn’t a hellsfoot?” Roman remarks. The horse’s eyes are rolling around her head like she’s been possessed and she stomps her hooves every time Roman gets too close. In the sun, her coat almost looks like liquid more than hair, which is the same texture that the creatures corrupted by magic have.

“There’s not been any dark magic done around the horses, sir.” Roman edges close enough to take the reins, and Drukha screams at him again. “She's likely on edge on account-a the fact you’re Fae.” Roman tightens his grip on the reins and flushes to the tips of his ears, but doesn’t say anything in response. “She’s fast, and strong. She’ll serve you well, sir. Just needs some time to acclimate.”

“Tell their Majesties thank you from me,” Roman says quietly. He manages to tie his pack to the horse without getting a chunk taken out of his leg and then hops on. The horse prances around for a moment, attempting to bite his legs, but Roman eventually gets her somewhat under control. With one last nod to the servant, he turns the horse and sets off.

The streets, once Roman enters them, are crowded. People mill around and carriages trundle through, slow to avoid the citizens walking out into the streets without a care in the world. It would be quicker if he could just walk, but he’d regret leaving Drukha behind once he got to the forest. As much as she may act like a hellsfoot in the meantime and cause more problems than not.

Though, she doesn't seem to be bothered by the crowd or noise of the market. Not easily spooked, then. She'd just have to get used to him and understand who would be calling the shots.

~~~~~

Logan watches passively as the man in the tree curses colorfully. The branch he's balanced precariously on is perhaps thirty feet off the ground and creaking dangerously. A fall from that height could kill him, though it likely won't. He'll undoubtedly be hurt if he doesn't come to his senses and make his way down from the tree, and Logan has a suspicion that the man won't come down if he's told to or not.

But Logan is perfectly content to watch and see where this leads. He has no stakes in the situation, so regardless of what the man does, Logan will be fine.

(Though, he was supposed to have been finished collecting his berries well over an hour ago, now. He's been watching the eclectic, bizarrely dressed man since he'd heard him crashing through the woods. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his actions beyond his apparent inability to keep a singular goal in mind for longer than ten minutes. His current excursion started as an attempt to get a higher vantage to figure out where he was, but he's been chasing a bird up the tree for the better part of fifteen minutes. The bird, for their part, seemed perturbed by the intruder and continually squawked at him to get down.)

Instead of coming down the tree, the man jumps from the branch he's on and barely manages to get his arms around another. With a deafening crack, the previous branch launches off the tree and comes crashing to the ground feet before Logan. The man just keeps dangling from the new branch, legs kicking wildly beneath, laughing. Logan watches him with rapt attention. He's never seen someone so absolutely unworried about death or injury, let alone this far into the woods and alone.

"Oh, shitty fucking dicks," the man says, and the branch he's holding on to lets out an ear-splitting shriek just before it falls off the tree.

And takes the man with it.

He doesn't make any noise upon impact with the ground and Logan wonders if, like with every other part of his appearance and general disposition, he's defied the odds and died.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you are), upon closer inspection Logan can see that he's still very much breathing. His leg, however, should not be bending at the angle that it is, nor in the place that it is.

And while Logan will concede that, to some degree, all life is sacred and that senseless killing is generally a bad thing, he has to almost wish that the man had ended up dead. If he died, there would be nothing Logan could do about his unfortunate state. As it is, he is merely hurt and desperately in need of help. A broken leg in this forest at this time of day will eventually lead to death or at least further injury, and Logan cannot abide by such things in his forest.

Sighing, Logan secures his pack of berries and roots over his back and and drags the man up. He's heavy, someone who probably hasn't done much physical work in his life but has had enough access to food. Not a commoner, and that's especially evident with the way he's dressed. The clothes themselves don't match at all, almost as if someone simply had to wear what was there and couldn't create a cohesive outfit, the they're made out of expensive fabrics (not the most luxurious, like silk imported from a people somewhere to the north, but good quality nonetheless) that aren't manufactured with the wear-and-tear of the forest in mind.

He's likely some spoiled noble's son who ought to know better than to go gallivanting around the forest alone and ill-equipped. Logan has no love for the nobles, no matter their land, but perhaps he can make a copper or two from helping this man and buy something new for his cottage. He's been meaning to buy some new curtains with star patterns on them for some time.

Logan tosses the man over a shoulder and sets off for home. It's not too far of a walk, and the man isn't much of a burden to carry. And the leg, while it will take some time to heal, won't be too much work either. Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe it will work out in Logan's favor.

Anyway, how much work can one person be?

[undecidedpersonality]

Writer’s Month 2020 Day Twenty-Three: Poison

Title: “The Royal Murderer”

By: Nalijah Daniels

Word Count: 1874

Genre: Fiction - Fantasy

CW: murder, death, public execution, sacrifice, 

I might as well have been a lab rat under bright-white observation lights. The beige uniform was baggy on my thinning body and made it uncomfortable to sleep. All it did was twist around my body, yanking me out of my dreamless sleep to struggle with it until it was back in place. Every night was like that. Just like every day was the same.

The blinding lights turn on at exactly 8 a.m. I flip onto my stomach and push my face into the thin pillow, trying to make the space behind my closed eyes as dark as possible. The heavy door on the opposite wall slides open, activated by the fingerprint of my security guard, Manuel. He used to be nice to me until I was caught halfway through my only possible escape plan and put his job on the line. I always smile at him when he forces me to sit up on the bed and hauls me out of the room, gripping around my arm just below the armpit. He hasn’t smiled back in 167 days. I know this because I’ve been counting on the wall with a tiny piece of chalk left here from who knows what. I’ve been here for 378 days in total. I marked the day Manuel stopped smiling with a small ‘x’ at the top. Day 211.

Once we’re through the door of my cell, we turn left, a long curve of concrete walls stretch ahead of us. There’s no other doors until we get to the bathroom. This is the only positive part about my prisoner gig; I’m allowed showers every other day. When I was younger, rumors spread around town that royal prisoners were only allowed to shower once a month. Apparently the hygiene of a criminal doesn’t matter. Don’t even get me started on their rumored food schedules. I imagine they let me shower this often because when they finally get to show off my dead body to the public––they’re gonna want to do that––it would be off-putting to see grime on the beautiful young body and face of a twenty-year-old girl, no matter how dangerous I was.

The water shoots out of the rusted head high on the wall at first with a sputter, then a steady stream, pelting my body with near scalding water. The smooth water beads rolling over my body has been the only positive touch I’ve gotten in over a year. I glance over my shoulder to Manuel standing in the opposite corner of the square room, his eyes trained on the wall across from him, hands clasped behind his back. I put an innocent smile on my face and whistle, trying to catch his attention. I’m never getting out of here alive, and he already hates me, so I might as well have as much fun playing mind games as I can. I begin to ramble about anything that I think might draw his eyes towards me. Why I hate the new Duke. My longing for the touches of my pre-imprisonment lovers. My yearning to step under the night sky and not see it through a small barred window five feet above my head. I even begin to sway my bare hips and sing an old lullaby about marriage. I don’t even get a muscle spasm in response.

I roll my eyes when he continues to ignore me and drop the act to focus my mind on something else. Just like every other dull moment, my mind manages to drift to why I’m here. I sacrificed myself for my younger brother, who was almost imprisoned for keeping my identity a secret. Even though they knew my real name, Izetta Llewellyn, they had called me The Royal Murderer around town. The townies whispered around me in the shopping center when I snuck through in disguise, none of them knowing I was right there.

Once, I was the right hand woman of the Duchess, happily waiting on her hand and foot as soon as I turned fifteen. Despite our ten-year age gap, we were the best of friends, the sister I never had. She made sure that my position as her young lady-in-waiting wasn’t taken too seriously so that I could still have “good ol’ teenage fun.” She trusted me with all of her secrets, including how the Duke berates her while throwing her around in their private residence. I helped undo her dress the evening she told me and saw the lightening bruises across her sides and stomach. He told her that he’s only going to stop abusing her because she’s pregnant, but that he wasn’t afraid to punish her again if she messed up just bad enough. I was eighteen then. I wasn’t going to let that possibility happen.

Being young and trusted meant I had a lot of access to the kingdom. I was  never seen as a threat. The tapestries of rich color and stitching that hung down over the charcoal gray stone walls familiar to me in every hallway but one. The one that I walked down that fatal day had paintings with details of greens, golds, and white. The Duke’s favorite color scheme. They were the colors he adorned himself in to attend his most important events. I rapped on the doorframe to his open study and stood with my hands folded in front of me, waiting for him to look up.

He greeted me kindly, like I truly was the little sister-in-law he never had. He often ruffled my hair when seeing me, telling me just how much the Duchess adored me. As if I didn’t know. I put a small smile on my face to appear to be that same honorable, innocent, young girl. When he invited me into the room, I didn’t let much time pass. I would need as much time as possible to get out from the kingdom walls and off the grounds in order to not be caught. They would know it was me. The cameras caught and kept everything they weren’t told to delete.

When I plunged the dagger into his stomach, a true smile, honest and wide, spread on my face as I stared into his angry and scared eyes. They were hard set on mine, yet darting to figure out how to help himself as I whispered into his ear everything that I knew, telling him how happy I was that he would never be able to do them again. 

I’m still not sorry.

I learned I was immune to poison when they caught me. My older brother had been hiding me for a year when royal guard’s found out he was The Royal Killer’s accomplice. They dragged him into town square, pushing him onto his knees on the bottom step of the dais the royal family sat on for public events, like execution. Knowing what this would do to my mother and father––knowing that would be my fault for my brother’s conviction––I wasted no time revealing myself. I pulled the dark cloak’s hood from my head as I stepped out of a shadowed corner, declaring that they could take my life in exchange for my brother’s safe return home. My brother looked at me with wide eyes––bewilderment, terror, and rage dancing across his face–– because I wouldn’t let them take him. He wanted me to be safe from them, but there was no extra time wasted as I got dragged to his place.

The kingdom was never one for mutilating people, no matter how bad their crime, so they could keep their status to their citizens as classy and not blood hungry. Public murders were cold and emotionless instead, making everyone watch the person’s life disappear behind their eyes after forcing them to swallow a vile of poison. The toxin levels were what made the punishment. Some simply fainted in mere seconds and were gone. Others, like the one intended for me, would seize the person’s body for multiple minutes, leaving them writhing and screaming in agony on the ground, unable to pull themselves up and away from the pain. When I was younger watching these events, I had always imagined the toxins feeling like fires burning your body from the inside out, your bones snapping under the pressure of heat until you were nothing but a sack of flesh laying on the ground. None of that happened to me.

After sitting on my knees, waiting for the pain to seize me––nothing. The crowd murmured and the royal family, sitting at the top of the dais the whole time, began to stir. Before I could attempt to run off, I was hauled up by four guards to be taken to the cell I’ve been in ever since. As they marched me past, I saw the Duchess who was already staring at me. Her knuckles were white as they gripped the arms of her chair but her face was soft, one tear falling down her left cheek before I could no longer see her.

The shower water shuts off. My fifteen minutes of warmth finished. I’m hauled back the same way I came after toweling off and putting on a fresh uniform. Now for my first meal of the day.

They never give me much, just enough to put what they hope is the right dose of this and that chemical mixture to end me once and for all. This time it’s a muffin, banana nut. I hate banana nut muffins, but I have no choice but to consume it. Manuel would force it into my mouth if he had to like the first couple of days that I was here.

I lower my head to the plate to stiff it. I expected to be solely repulsed by the sweet banana smell but a wave of nausea washes over me instead. This other thing, I don’t actually smell, but its toxic makeup sends warning signals to my brain right away. I’ve never experienced this before, this sickness. When I look up at Manuel, his eyes burn into mine and he smiles, cruel and excited, breaking the streak.

Letting out a slow breath, I try to swallow but the tightness in my throat makes it nearly impossible. For the first time in 378 days, I am scared. I lift my hands from resting in my lap and they feel heavy, the muffin making them even heavier as I cup it in my hands. My breathing becomes more ragged as I close my eyes and lift the muffin to my mouth. My lips begin to tingle just from touching the muffin to my lips. I try once to open my mouth to take a bite and can’t bring myself to do it. My final bite. I know it will be. Opening my eyes, the white lights and everything it encompasses is blurry and shakes. I don’t know when I started crying. My mouth is finally able to open wide enough to sink my teeth into just one edge of the buttery pastry. The sweet and salty taste seizes my heart before I’m able to swallow and I gasp for air that isn’t there anymore.

This time they found my kryptonite. This time I die.

[bethestaryouareradio]

Joys of July Gardening

"Gardening is the art that uses flowers and plants as paint, and the soil and sky as canvas." Elizabeth Murray

The verdant hills have turned golden as the peak of summertime splendor arrives in July. The sunsets are sensational while the wonders of nature captivate our senses. A girlfriend gifted me the book, Color In and Out of the Garden by Lorene Edwards Forkner, and I find myself swinging in my hammock under my magnificent magnolia perusing the brushstrokes and hues of the garden as I turn the pages.  

 Finally, my months of intense weeding are complete. My hands and fingers are still numb from the repeated motions, yet I am reaping the glorious joy of natures painted floral magic. My garden is indeed the lens through which I see the world.

 The tapestry of color helps me learn to see with eyes wide open what the landscape produces this month. The compact Cezanne clematis boasts deep purple flowers that cover the vine. (I seem to have numerous famous artists in my garden collection including a rabbit named Monet and a bird named Rembrandt) Fluorescent pink perennial sweet pea has covered parts of my hillside and crept into my carpet roses. Speaking of roses, they are flourishing providing continual bouquets of beauty and fragrance. Pink and purple appear to be my summer theme as purple trumpet vine and potato vine climb together in my rose garden where cerise-colored Angel Face roses reign and pink knotweed blanket the soil. A new succulent growing in a container on my front porch burst into bloom in shades of luminous pink/purple. What a joyous, festive summer surprise!

 Birds of Paradise, both the orange and blue varieties, are showstoppers in gardens. Their flowers do indeed resemble birds. They are easy to grow, easy to maintain, and a wonderful addition to a garden when you are seeking a more tropical feeling. Speaking of birds, hopefully, you have included birdhouses, bird baths, and bird feeders in your garden design. Birds are one of our best pest control options. As a bonus, they serenade us with song and provide entertainment as they flit from limb to limb. Install a porch swing, bench, or hammock (my go-to) and enjoy the performance.

 As an experiment, I planted tomatoes, thyme, peppers, and shallots in a large container outside my kitchen window so that I could grab and go. The plants are happy and thriving. I’ve already harvested shallots, peppers, and thyme, and the cherry tomato vines may eventually cover my window! The garlic I planted last fall had green leaves in June, but this past week I harvested it. My recipe for success is to harvest garlic between July 4th and August 1st. When the leaves are about one-third golden, gently dig up the soil around the bulb to see if the garlic is large enough. If so, use a fork to dig, not pull, the garlic out of the ground, shake off the dirt, and don’t wash. If you let the leaves go completely brown the garlic won’t be tasty. I braid my leaves and hang them in a dark, dry place for at least thirty days before consuming them. A dark garage or shed is a perfect location. As with all home-grown produce, home-grown garlic is more flavorful. Also, a solution with garlic and water sprayed onto plants is a natural pest repellent! I also add a clove of garlic to the soil around my roses to deter bugs. 

 In my last article, (Summer blooms brighter: https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1710/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Summer-blooms-brighter.html)I discussed the importance of composting. I fill five-gallon buckets with compost, then spread it around my roses, and dig it into the soil in my potager. Compost works miracles and it is so easy to make. Save everything but meat and add to a closed container, pile, or bin. Add scraps of soap if you want to keep the unwanted insects at bay. 

 It is time to start considering the bulbs you may want to plant in the fall. Peruse garden catalogs or ask your nursery expert for suggestions. With ample sunshine and warmer temperatures, we can enjoy a dazzling summer of garden parties and floral displays. Going beyond our backyards, check out community gardens throughout our area that unite neighbors and foster a sense of camaraderie. The joys of July gardening include ecologically friendly practices, promoting biodiversity, conserving water, and supporting the artistic heritage of our environment. The Monarch Butterfly Garden created by the Moraga Garden Club at Rancho Laguna Park in Moraga is a favorite. Get inspired by the collective efforts of Lamorinda residents who have beautified each city by creating vibrant and sustainable green spaces.

 Unleash your creativity and indulge in the art of cultivating colorful gardens and explore the wonders of nature in this glowing golden month.

 Happy Gardening. Happy Growing. Happy July!

  Final Days: Shoe Drive for Be the Star You Are!®  ends on July 30th with a goal of 2500 pairs. Shoes may be dropped off at https://5aspace.com/, 455 Moraga Rd. #F, Moraga or www.TeamHoogs.com, 629 Moraga Road (next to 7/11), Moraga. For more information, visit https://www.bethestaryouare.org/shoedrive

 Photos and more: https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1711/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Joys-of-July-gardening.html

 Raised in the vineyards of Napa County, Cynthia Brian is a New York Times best-selling author, actor, radio personality, speaker, media and writing coach as well as the Founder and Executive Director of Be the Star You Are!® 501 c3. Tune into Cynthia’s StarStyle® Radio Broadcast at www.StarStyleRadio.com. Her newest children’s picture book, Family Forever, from the series, Stella Bella’s Barnyard Adventures is available for PRE-ORDERS now at https://www.CynthiaBrian.com/online-store. Hire Cynthia for writing projects, garden consults, and inspirational lectures. Cynthia@GoddessGardener.com  http://www.GoddessGardener.com

[nerdy-bookworm-1998]

The Arranged Marriage part 9 Aftermath

Pairing: (Royal AU) Prince!Steve Rogers x Princess!Reader Words: 1151 Warnings: Implied smut A/N: If you wish to be tagged in future works feel free to send me an ask. Please leave feedback/reblogs. Feel free to check out my Ko-Fi and Patreon accounts, I’m running a promo on Patreon for the first 20 subscribers. Links are available in my bio.

The aftermath of the battle was chaotic, to say the least. Many of our allies were dead or wounded. Bucky had injured his left arm badly. Thor had suffered a cut to his right eye. Tony had suffered a harsh blow to his chest.

Even though there was much loss to grieve, there were also countless feasts across the lands to celebrate our victory. Once we returned to the capital we were greeted by our parents with open arms and joyous smiles.

"We are so glad that you are safe and sound. We were so worried about you!" Sarah exclaims as she embraces us tightly.

"Yes indeed. We have hardly slept since you left. But now that you have returned, there is something we wish to discuss with both of you," George adds seriously.

"Is everything alright?" Steve asks, concern evident in his voice.

"Everything is perfect. Your mother and I have decided that it is time for us to retire. This whole war situation has made us realize that we are really getting too old for this. We will still live in the palace grounds, but we will be in the manor by the lake while you and your lovely wife will stay in the palace," George explains.

"It is time for a new king and queen to take over. And who better than the crown prince and princess Y/N, the Titan Slayer?" Sarah adds, making heat flood my cheeks at the new moniker the people had bestowed upon me after learning the events of the battle. "So? What do you think?" Sarah asks.

Steve and I share a look before turning back to the older couple. "We would be honored," I smile brightly as I lace my fingers with Steve's, giving them a soft squeeze.

The months that followed were some of the busiest in memory. There was much rebuilding to be done after Thanos' army destroyed so many towns and cities. Then there was moving all my belongings and those of the staff accompanying us on our journey to our new home. There were still small cells devoted to Thanos, but they were dealt with as swiftly as they popped up. Before I knew it nearly three months had passed since vanquishing our enemy, life could not be sweeter. Yet I could not help but feel like there was something missing...

On an afternoon stroll through the gardens with Nat and Wanda at my side, I confide this feeling to them.

"Have you talked to Steve about it?" Wanda asks.

"No, you know how he is. He would try to lay all the blame on himself, and that is the last thing I want him to do," I sigh heavily as I feel the beginnings of a headache creep up.

"Pin him to the bed and keep him there until he has no doubt that he is not to blame," Nat suggests which makes Wanda blush scarlet with a hissed "Nat!"

Suddenly a lightbulb has gone off in my head. I turn quickly to my two best friends. "Nat might actually have a point. If you ladies will excuse me, I must go see my husband urgently." And with that, I'm hurrying off into the palace. I search through all the most likely rooms with no luck. Just as I'm about to give up hope I see Bucky walking further up the corridor.

"Bucky!" I call out causing the man in question to turn around and wait for me to catch up to him. "Do you know where Steve is?" I ask, slightly breathless from all the running.

"He's in your chambers, is everything alright?" Bucky asks, worry coloring his tone.

"Everything's great, thank you!" and with that, I'm sprinting off again in the direction of our chambers. Once I reach the door I take a moment to breathe and calm my nerves before slowly entering the room. Our chambers are large with dark wooden flooring, a few tapestries depicting hunts and battle victories, a door on the far side that leads to the bathing chamber, large oak desks and bookshelves are pushed against the wall with the battle map table next to the window, and on a raised platform in the middle of the room and surrounded by heavy dark blue curtains in the largest and most comfortable bed I have ever slept in with feathered pillows and countless warm fur blankets and a large, blazing fireplace opposite it to keep the room warm.

Steve is bent over some documents on his desk when I enter. His brows are furrowed and he is deep in thought. For a moment I consider abandoning my plan and rather going to sit by the fire with a book. But that plan is flung from the window as soon as he looks up and smiles widely when he sees me. "Hello my darling, I was just wondering where you were," Steve says as he rises from his chair and walks across the room to wrap me in a loving embrace.

Even though I return it he can still feel the tensed way that I hold myself. He pulls back enough to see my face. "What's wrong sweetheart? What troubles that beautiful mind of yours?" he asks softly as he leads me closer to the warmth of the fire.

"I know that you love me, just as I love you. But... what you said that evening before we went into battle, about wanting to start a family once the war was over, was that all just talk?" my voice comes out softer and more hesitant than I would have liked.

"Of course I want to start a family with you sweetheart! Why would you think anything else?" Steve sounds perplexed, his brows furrowing as he tries to coax my chin up to meet his stare. "Wait..." he says softly as if a thought had just dawned on him. "I'm such an idiot! Sweetheart, listen, the reason why I haven't touched you in that way is that I didn't want to rush into something that you might not be ready for. I never meant to hurt you." He cups my face between his warm hands, his eyes begging me to understand.

"I know you didn't sweetheart, it's okay. But, I really do want to start a family with you," I reassure him as I bring my hands up to caress his wrists and turn my face to kiss his palm.

Without warning he sweeps me up into his arms, carrying me towards the curtained platform. "Steve! What on earth are you doing?!" I squeak out through the giggles pealing from my mouth.

"Showing my wife just how much I love her," Steve says just before my back hits the mattress. The look in his eyes tells me that we wouldn't be leaving any time soon if he had anything to say about it.

Tags:

@mcdesij @spiderrrling @arrow-guy @interestedbystanderwrites @murdocksmartinis @gwendelerynan @here2have-fun @bvckys-doll @bookscoffeeandracoons @bambamwolf87 @loricameback @rockrchick51 @love-nakamura @baebeepeach @timelordy-fangirl2 @jewelofwinter @caramell0w @jewels2876 @ladysergeantbarnes @notawritergettingtherethough @patzammit @fanfictionjunkie1112 @lumar014 @kirsty-evans-writes @robertdowneyhiddleston @lil-lex1 @dragonrosegardens @bookgirlunicorn @farfromshawn

[damienthepious]

it’s still tuesday here for THREE MORE HOURS i didn’t heckin miss it i made it

Like Whispering

[ao3]

[Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien

Additional Tags:  Fluff without Plot, Literal Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles,  (basically just a deep dive into monster anatomy), (and Rilla's incessant hunger to understand things), (i'll be real with you this one is weird), (but i like the ending and i need something to post for the IMPORTANT DAY), Lizard Kissin' Tuesday, (i hope y'all care to hang with me while i unpack a buncha headcanons about Arum's body!!!!)

Summary:  Rilla examines the fascinating landscape of her monstrous lover while he sleeps.

Notes: I don't even know anymore fam I hope SOMEONE besides me enjoys this at least. There is at least one Lizard Kiss this time, thank the Saints. Rated T for implications of sex in the past. Title take from the song 3 Rounds and a Sound by Blind Pilot. ]

Rilla will never stop being fascinated by Arum.

He sleeps beside her, between she and Damien, and even that is a thousand page treatise on the concept of trust that she wants to memorize front to back. When he sleeps alone he curls into a ball, tail wrapped around himself like a cat, but in the bed they share he is more apt to sprawl, hand and hand and hand and hand reaching out until they can find a soft source of warmth, until he can pull his lovers close against him and curl around them instead.

It’s easier to really learn him, in sleep. He tends to get irritable with her if she stares at him too long in the daylight. Which is fair, Rilla reasons. Analyzing the bone structure of your monster is a process that requires more direct observation than anyone would reasonably call polite… but Rilla can’t help herself.

Arum’s body is like a puzzle in some ways. Like four or five puzzles piled up together, actually. She’s been taking notes about the subject in longhand, in code, because she doesn’t think he’d appreciate her trying to categorize him so thoroughly- but it isn’t even about the science, anymore. The inhumanity of him, the irrationality; it draws her in. Curiosity has always been Rilla’s weakness, and Lord Arum is a curious creature indeed.

She wants to know him. Every part of him.

She can’t decide, yet, how to organize her observations; mostly she tries to take him part by part, layer by riveting layer.

She has pages dedicated to his eyes. The first thing she learned about him, really, was that he could see better in the dark than a human, and his eyes only got more interesting from there. Diamond-shaped pupils blow out wide in the dark or with arousal, or narrow into thin, dangerous slits when he’s focused. Irises, bright violet. Bright like actual violets, saturated and bold with narrow flecks of a darker shade arranged around the pupil in a subtle starburst. She and Damien must be the only creatures alive who have gotten close enough to see those flecks of plum among the violet, the only people he would trust enough to let that close. He lets them close enough to see, and then he allows his eyes to close regardless, a set of nictitating membranes sliding horizontally over the purple before his proper eyelids close as well.

Another fascinating layer, those membranes. They’re translucent but fogged gray, waterproof, protective; she’s noticed them slipping closed without the outer lids when he’s startled, or when he happens to go out in the rain [a note on his clothing in the rain: it is waterproof as well, though whether that is through magic or the skill of monsters’ weave is impossible to determine, and when she asks for clarification Arum dismisses the question in so particular a way that she is unsure which possibility is more likely]. It’s a useful trait, one that Rilla appreciates because it’s another layer of protection for those unique, beautiful eyes.

She can’t take more notes on his eyes in sleep, though. Instead, she ghosts her hands over his scales, over the subtle patterned expanse of his back as he snores gently into Damien’s hair.

The long, elegant curve of his spine is crested with a subtle ridge of raised scales, like spines or horns, nearly an inch long at the base of his skull and down between his shoulders, and barely higher than the bumps of the rest of his scales lower down [the first time Rilla runs her fingertips along the ridge Arum snaps his teeth in the air, hissing through them in surprise and delight, and Rilla smiles, then repeats the gesture]. Aside from some mild sensitivity, they seem primarily cosmetic, and Rilla can’t place what specific creature the trait is stolen from.

The entire expanse of his scales gleams magnificently, even in the low light of the nighttime Keep. He’s mottled in vibrant dark green and in black, with speckles of gold dotting down his front. The scales themselves are small and near as thick as light armor on his back, on the outsides of his arms, along the top of his tail, and in bigger, softer, smoother plates down his neck, his stomach, underneath his arms, between his legs. He is textured, cool, everywhere she can lay her hands [she has made a point to lay her hands nearly everywhere, by now].

The second pair of arms is completely unnatural relative to any nonmagical reptilian, and they should be completely incongruous with the rest of his frame, but his body fits together with infuriating ease. Arum’s torso is slightly longer than it would otherwise be to make room for the second set of pectorals that the extra arms necessitate [when he stretches in the morning his musculature ripples beneath his scales like the billow of steam, and Rilla could easily spend the rest of her life cataloging every configuration of angles at which his arms could be arranged atop the pillows of their shared bed], and his musculature there is lean but shockingly strong.

The pads of his fingers are textured with hair-thin ridges that help him stick to walls and ceilings when he scurries along at his shocking speed, similar to those of a gecko [Her list of creatures that Arum has traits in common with is absurdly long, and longer when she includes her speculations on his internal anatomy], and the same is true of his toes. His claws on all four limbs are dangerously sharp [more recently, he files down the claws on his lower pair of hands enough to dull them, complaining bitterly about the fragility of humans in general, but the first time he can reach out for the two of them, touch them without fear of causing harm, his expression falls to something raw and earnest and tender] [the claws on his upper hands remain sharp, and there is a certain thrill that comes with their careful touch as well].

His legs are powerful, long, a zig-zag of artful curves. He walks on his toes when he’s upright, his heels in the air and adding to his already impressive height, but he can turn his ankles oddly when he drops to all six limbs, slithering viper-quick whether he is crossing the floor or climbing a tree or wall or ceiling.

Arum’s tail is primarily meant for balance, and it’s not quite so deft as to be entirely prehensile, but he has enough control that he can grip a small object with it or curl it around something solid to stabilize himself [he is equally likely to curl it around either of his humans to pull them closer unexpectedly, to add an extra layer to an embrace].

[Rilla has an entirely separate mental space for notes on Arum’s sexual anatomy; that research is currently ongoing]

Arum’s teeth are [she mentally places a line between her more clinical observations and those that belong in the previous category] gorgeous, knife-sharp, terrifying, with long vicious incisors and jagged molars. Insectivore teeth, meant for piercing and crushing exoskeletons, and they flash bright behind his thin lips when when he snarls or speaks or laughs.

There is a crescent of little divots above those lips, the labial pits he uses to sense heat; a snake trait among the more dominant lizard features. In the scatter of her notes she has them sorted into the category of particularly anomalous with his extra arms and his frill.

His frill: infuriatingly out of place [speaking only for the purposes of classification: in the social sense, Rilla is only ever grateful for the fragile, expressive webbing that flares around Arum’s head in surprise and embarrassment and indignation, because it’s one of the easiest ways to tell what he’s feeling, besides his tone of voice]. It bears only passing similarity to the same feature on nonmagical frilled lizards; it drapes along the sides of his head when at rest instead of folding at his neck, it’s smaller relative to the size of his head, and the folds revealed when it flares are colored in bright patches of bluish-green and gold-

“Amaryllis.”

For half a moment she thinks that he’s murmuring in his sleep, which would be an interesting first, but then one of his eyes slits open and fixes her with a violet glare.

“I could feel you staring even in the depths of sleep, Amaryllis,” he mutters, voice thick and growling. “What, precisely, is causing you to think so furiously at this time of night?”

His irises are wide black diamonds in the mellow dark, his long tongue flicks absently to scent the air, his chest rumbles with each breath he takes, and every piecemeal part of him fits together in an impossible harmony, every edge that by rights should be jagged instead slides smooth. Rilla knows she’ll never unravel the entire tapestry of Arum, and that knowledge fills her with the thrill of challenge, with breathless awe, with overflowing love.

“You,” she says after a pause, hoping the enormity of her feelings doesn’t bleed too much into her voice. When he goes startle-still, she leans down to press a kiss to his cheek, where she knows he can feel the tickle of her warm-blooded heat. She doesn’t pull away then, sighing against the texture of his scales and pressing her hand to feel the slow drum of his heart in his chest. “Just thinking how damn stunning you looked all wrapped up with Damien.”

Rilla isn’t Damien, and she can’t make the tangle of science and wonder and connection in her mind sing as prose, or verse. Her coded pages read exactly like her field notes: pointed, unadorned, though admittedly a bit more biased. Arum knows her, though. He knows the deeper context around her flippancy, the way she uses informality as a source of comfort.

He breathes a laugh and it tickles Rilla’s ear, and he nuzzles his face against her own. “I would love to pay your flattery back in kind, Amaryllis, but if we wake the little knight now he’ll be utterly useless in the morning,” he grumbles, letting his eyes slip closed again as he pulls her closer.

“Sweet of you to worry about tiring him out,” she replies in a teasing whisper. He growls at the implication that his worry is unselfish, and Rilla’s mind flies off again. The entirety of Arum’s vocal system is a wild mystery, how he can duplicate human language with such an incompatible tongue and lips, and that isn’t even getting into the mystery of how he makes those rattling noises, those growls, those purrs. As far as Rilla is aware, purring is not a typical trait in a lizard, so she can’t even begin to speculate what animal instrument is hiding in the hollow of his throat.

“You are thinking again,” he hisses through a sigh, smiling with his eyes closed and letting his claws drift gently up and down her bicep. “I can hear your mind churning when you go still like that.”

“Sorry,” she says wryly, pressing another kiss to his neck.

“No apologies, my Amaryllis, but you need your rest as well as he does.”

Arum tends to save his pet names for Damien (Rilla suspects this is because they have a much more profound effect on the knight than they would on herself), but it does send a giddy little thrill through her when he slips enough to call her his. “I know, I know,” she says. “I’ll get to hibernating or whatever.”

He chuckles low again, his fingers tracing soft soothing circles on her arm, on her back, his breath lifting his chest beneath her palm, and the combined rhythms are nearly hypnotic. “Would it-” he pauses, and she can feel the hesitation drift through him and then dissolve like parchment in water. It’s easier for him to let himself be soft like this, in warmth, tangled up together in the dark. He hums above her and asks, “Would it help if I sang for you?”

Rilla will never stop being fascinated by Arum, and she’ll never stop being surprised by him either.

She nods against his shoulder, because she thinks her voice will either crack with laughter or too much feeling if she tries to talk, and Arum presses his mouth in an almost-kiss against her hair before he starts to sing. He sings close and quiet against her skin, his voice rough and low and inhuman, and Rilla smiles against his scales as it works in concert with the movement of his hands. It's soothing, stable, perfect.

There is comfort in a curiosity that cannot be answered, Rilla thinks as she drifts. Stability in a mystery that can unfold and unfold and never reveal a conclusion. Rilla has always preferred answers to questions, but Arum-

Arum is a question she intends to ponder for the rest of her life.

[lokis-lady-death]

The King of Gods Pt 3

Tom Hiddleston/Loki x reader

Lady Death: My desktop version of Tumblr is acting up, so I can’t tag other chapters like I normally do. So for anyone who hasn’t read previous chapters, check out my Master List.

The King of Gods Part 3

The light coming through the windows had begun to fade. Along the walls, sconces with glowing orbs illuminated the palace corridors, adding to the strange ethereal aesthetic of the nordic world of Asgard.

Finally, it was time to meet Odin and learn why he had brought you and Loki to a world that seemed too surreal to exist. You followed Elsa as she spoke with Baldur, oblivious to whatever they were discussing. You were too wrapped up in your own thoughts, trying to reason yourself calm, saying that if the king of gods had meant any harm he wouldn't have bothered inviting you both here. This didn't quite feel like an execution, and you had both been received fairly well since arriving to Asgard. Surely you were safe?

But all you could do was wonder. It was more than likely Odin knew what had truly transpired in the palace when Frigga was killed, which was less than comforting. He had thrown Loki out of his home for simply not using better judgement and allowing Hela to come to the castle, which ultimately resulted in Frigga's death. Everyone had originally believed Hela to be the one to kill the queen but now the truth was out. Though it was by her doing, it was in fact Loki’s blade that had pierced Frigga’s heart. What would the king of gods do to Loki now that he knew the truth the god of mischief had gone to such lengths to hide?

You looked up from your feet, trying your damnedest not to be afraid.

Loki didn't need you afraid. He needed you brave.

After concentrating on your breathing- slowly in, slowly out- you let loose one last calming sigh.

There was nothing to fear.

You were both safe and that’s what mattered. Besides, Thor had spent the last few months in Asgard helping soothe over the news with their father. Perhaps this was all a way of easing the tension between them. Perhaps this is what needed to be done for them to all come to terms with what had happened.  

Looking up, you made yourself believe everything was okay.

Everything was fine.

That's when you realized Baldur and Elsa, in their own conversation, had began whispering. You tried to discreetly listen, but once they noticed you were paying attention, they both flashed you a quick smile.

“How are you enjoying Asgard so far?” the blue eyed man asked, shrugging the white shawl on his shoulder. “I can't imagine what it must look to a Midgardian who wasn't raised here.”

“Its lovely,” you answered mechanically. Not that it wasn't, the elegance of the smooth marble floors, the high ceilings with golden inlay trim, the glow of the strange light fixtures all added to the awe of the palace.

“I'll have to take you shopping,” Elsa beamed while hooking arms with you. “I’m sure Baldur won’t mind buying you some dresses from the market, would you?”

Baldur narrowed his eyes but ultimately laughed and agreed.

Your unconsciously ran a hand very the front of the gown you borrowed from Elsa, still mesmerized by the simple yet extravagant design. The material was a bit thinner than silk but felt just as smooth on your skin. Around your waist the green fabric was paired with black designs that wrapped around your hips and crawled up your ribs where the gown then opened up to a black metal that pinned the gown together on your shoulders and down your forearms.

In a million years you would never have dreamt you would be dressed like this in the world of gods.

You finally came around the side of the throne room, recognizing. this particular set of columns and tapestries from earlier. The beating of your heart sped up as you realized Loki must be just around the corner. While you appreciated Elsa for all her help, you wanted to find Loki. It felt odd not being at his side in his own world, knowing he must be feeling all sorts of mixed emotions from being here for the first time since Frigga’s death.

Before you could step through to the main hall, Baldur put a hand on your shoulder and gave you a stern look.

“Now, lady y/n. It’s very important that I express a few particulars before you meet His Highness.”

You straightened up to face him, uncertain you could handle any more weight on your shoulders.

“You see, it’s best not to speak when he is speaking to you. If he asks you something or you are expected to respond, do so politely, but also keep it short. He tends to be impatient, so make sure to be on point when you answer. Also, when you first come before him, bow. Proper etiquette is to cross one foot over the other, bow your knees and tilt down your head. Elsa?” You looked over and watched as the lovely blonde did as he instructed step by step, managing to lower herself with extreme grace. “Now you try.”

Your brow creased. Being an American reporter, you didn’t really meet royalty often so while the rules seemed a bit excessive, it wasn’t your place to question their culture. You crossed your ankles, bowed your knees and titled your head. There was an uneasy shake in your legs you couldn’t suppress, poor muscle buildup made you curse yourself for not taking the stairs more at work.

Baldur sighed, “It’ll have to do.”

Your eyes cut up at him, but you kept quiet and waited even more anxiously to go in. That’s when you noticed some peculiar sounds: muffled voices, soft paters of footsteps, even a horn out in the distance.

What was going on in that room?

Weren't you just here to speak to Odin?

Your mind was torn away at the feeling of a hand taking hold of yours. Whipping around on the ball of your heels, you were more than happy to see Loki standing there. He was still dressed in his leather garb with the crown of horns resting on his brow, but now he wore a thicker, heavier cape with golden clasps tying it around his shoulders with a thick chestplate. He didn’t look like just a god. He looked like a king.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” he laughed nervously. You closed your mouth, realizing you had been gawking at him. “But you?” He took hold of both hands, holding them out so he could take you all in. “You look absolutely breathtaking, darling.” Leaning in he planted a soft kiss on your forehead. Just like that, all your worries washed away. You closed the distance between you and laid your head on his chest, feeling the waves of doubt leave you.

Together, you could face whatever Odin had in store for you.

“Well, if everyone is ready?” Thor cut in, taking a short huff while he looked over everyone. Elsa shot him a smile as his arm came out to link with hers. “I think we have put this off as long as we can.”

Loki situated you at his side, linking arms with you just like Thor and Elsa. Baldur went before you all, clearing his throat just before stepping through the curtains. You all followed in step, but as the room before you came into focus you froze.

The once simple throne room was now teeming with people, all dressed in different styled robes, extravagant gowns, and brightly shining armor. Servants in plain colored tunics weaved between dignitaries with trays of goblets, stopping only when everyone noticed you and the others come out. All chatter ceased as the eyes landed on your group.

Being here, standing in this grand hall, it was all beginning to weigh down on you as if the palace itself fell upon you.

What was going on?

Loki must have been equally struck because he unlinked from you to instead lace his fingers with yours. You glanced at him but you regretted it, feeling your stomach flip.

The god of mischief looked worried.

You wanted to say something, anything, to set him at ease but you were cut off by a loud, boisterous bellow. ”And here they are! The Odinson brothers!” Tearing through the crowd was a large man, both in stature and existence. He was taller than Thor with long white hair pulled back in a braid that matched the thick beard that hung down his face with golden beads clipped in it. His smile was wide while his eyes scanned over everyone.  

You also couldn't help but notice the thick scar that etched it's way across one eye to the bridge of his nose. Despite the mark or maybe even because of it, the older man's features were overall striking and handsome. He had Loki's high cheekbones, Thor’s square jaw, even favoring Baldur a bit. But despite their similarities, there was something that set him worlds apart from his sons.

Behind that smile, you sound see a slight hint of threat. Like a tiger, calm before an attack.

“Your highness,” Baldur greeted with a head bow. You saw Elsa curtsey but your knees wouldn't cooperate, softly trembling beneath you threatening to buckle at any moment.

Odin practically looked through Baldur to his sons, Thor being the first to tilt his head in acknowledgement. “Hello, father.”

When he looked to Loki, all he received was a dry, “Allfather.”

The king's face was unreadable at that but then he began beaming to them all. “It does an old man's heart good to have his family together.” He winked at Elsa who offered a small smile before he locked onto you. “So. You must be the infamous Lady y/n I have heard so much about.”  

His fierce eyes were a strange golden color with a pale glow underneath.

“I am king Odin of Asgard.” You were taken off guard when Odin offered you his hand, feeling chills just being this close to him. It was as if the air around him gave off a foreboding tension that warned you to stay away. “Come, child,” he spoke, pulling you out of Loki's grasp. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

Odin began steering you through the crowd who gave you both ample room as he brought you towards the massive throne altar at the head of the hall. There was a strange sense of dread inside of you as you kept pace with Odin, not daring to look back to see Loki. You were afraid that if you did, you would lose what little nerve you had left.

“You know, Thor has told me a great deal about you,” the king commented. You hesitated, unsure if this was a moment you needed to answer or stay quiet. “There must be all sorts of questions running through you mind since you’ve arrived to Asgard. Surely there’s something you’d like to say?” You peeked up at him, his smile still there while he waited for you to say something. “Are you afraid I’ll bite, Lady y/n?”

“No,” you lied, feeling yourself tense under his glowing stare, “No, I'm not afraid.”  

“Good, good,” he spoke. “Because I could understand why you would be nervous, my dear.” His keen eyes sharpened as they took you in, looking you up and down as he added, “After all, if I am to understand Thor correctly, you’re the reason my only daughter is dead.” At the mention of Hela, it felt as if your heart had all together stopped beating.

This time he didn’t wait for you to answer, instead, letting go of your hand to leave you at the base of the altar, wide eyed and breathless. He took a few long strides up before turning to address the room.

“And you, Lady y/n, are the reason my son has returned home. So for that, I am grateful.” You felt Loki and the others filing in at your side as Baldur went up to stand with Odin. “So, I’m sure you are both wondering why I have brought you here. You see, after learning about some of the dealings that have happened on Midgard regarding three of my children, and finding out some new revelations about the death of my queen, I thought it was time we all came together. Wouldn’t you agree, Loki?”

Loki stared up at Odin, his silence a sort of answer in itself.

The mass of onlookers somehow seemed to stop existing in that moment. You, Thor and Elsa looked between Loki and Odin, waiting on something to happen, for one of them to say something first.

But it was Baldur that broke the silence. “Prince Loki Odinson of Asgard,” he started, “Your father, King Odin, called our realms together in order to proclaim before the courts that he has decided to forgive all of your past offences.”

At this the crowd cheered, like an orchestrated show they chanted out their praise. Odin raised a hand, silencing them instantly.

“That’s not all,” he claimed, his eyes still set on Loki. “I am also asking for you to forgive me, Loki. In my own sorrow and pain I cast you out without so much as a word or trial. That was wrong, my son, and I see that now.”

There was a spark of hope in the depths of your soul that you couldn’t hide. You looked up to see Loki, expecting the same hope to be lifting his spirits.

But to your surprise, he looked just as stern. “Of course,” he answered solemnly, “You have my forgiveness, Allfather. Is that all?”

You inhaled sharply, stunned at the brashness of his words. Looking back up at Odin you could see a plain aggravation darkening his eyes. But he didn’t speak on it, instead saying, “No. It’s actually not.” Holding out his arms, again addressing the entire room, Odin let his voice carry as he went on, “Prince Loki Odinson, my youngest son, I brought you to this kingdom as an infant. My beloved Frigga looked after you like her own, and together we raised you into what I see is an exemplary example of what a god should be. I see now, despite all your faults, that you are in fact someone who is worthy of all the riches in all the nine realms. That is why I am presenting you with this,” he turned to Baldur who gave Odin a large golden staff that held a large bright red gem on the tip. You could tell Loki's body went rigid at the sight of the scepter though couldn't place why. The king held it out and slowly, and Loki made his way up the steps before kneeling at  his father's feet.

You watched what looked like a rehearsed ceremony, with Odin speaking some type of slavic sounding language you didn't recognize. You heard the crowd repeat a phrase back to the king, just when he handed off the staff to Loki. He took it and rose before turning to face the room, his green eyes searching yours as the masses began to roar.

“What's happening?” you asked, seeing Loki’s obvious strain. His jaw was clenched, his mouth a straight line. “What are they saying, Thor?”

Thor and Elsa remained quiet, their own faces stoic as they looked past Loki to the only smiling face on the altar: Odin.

“Now that all this official business is taken care of, I believe celebrations are in order! Drink and be merry, my kingdom!” He wrapped an arm around his son's shoulder, but Loki's stance and expression stayed the same. “And sleep well tonight knowing your crowned prince has returned!”

Another roar from the crowd erupted, with people behind you moving around and the sound of music being played. The noise didn't die down, even with Odin leaving behind the altar to go somewhere out of view. Loki, in a hurried step went after his father. You had begun to follow when Thor grabbed hold of your wrist.

“Y/n, you need to keep your wits about you,” he warned, “This isn't Midgard.”

You didn't understand or care about the god of thunder’s cryptic message, this was all too confusing, and something wasn't right. You pulled your hand free and followed where you saw Loki pass through the curtains.

Behind the throne, separated by thick curtains, was a small sitting area that you had to imagine was used for the royal family to escape from guests. Just as you stepped inside, you heard Loki's familiar voice carrying above all else.

“How DARE you!”

“How dare I?” Odin responded indignantly, letting out a huff just before lifting a golden chalice to his lips. He took a messy gulp, finishing its contents and wiping the remnants off with the back of his hand. “I offered you the entire nine realms and you accepted. What is there not to understand? You have always been impossible to please, my wayward son. You don't want Thor to have the crown, but you refuse to take it? What have I children for, if not a one will take on my legacy? What has all this been for if no one will uphold my name?”

“I don't want your crown! And if you are so worried about someone carrying on your so-called-legacy, perhaps you should have given your name to the only child who ever wanted it!”

Loki's response had truly struck you. You didn't know what was going on, but evidently something had thrown him into a rage, you had only truly experienced a few times yourself.

As you tried to make sense of it, his words echoed in your mind. Who did he mean?

“You!” A hand roughly grappled onto your shoulder and brought you out through the curtain backwards.

“WHAT THE F-” A hand slapped over your mouth hard enough to sting your skin.

“If you wish me to move my hand,” you heard mumbled in your ear, “Then you are to remain quiet.”

It was Baldur, standing with his body perfectly hiding you between the crowd and the curtain he had pulled you through. You nodded, practically shaking as his hand removed from your face. It took everything in you not to punch him or curse, but you managed to keep quiet behind your icy stare.

“What were they saying?” Thor asked you, ignoring the looks you and Baldur were sharing.

“I didn't really get much before someone yanked me out. Something about Odin leaving the crown and no one wants it?.”

“Thor, what's going on?” Elsa asked, making you more nervous.

“Yeah, I'd like to know, too.”

Loki cut in, his long fingers wrapping around your upper arm to begin to steer you away. “We are retiring for the evening,” You stumbled but then picked yourself up, having to change your gate to match his fast step.

“Loki?” you called out to him, but he kept moving, diving deeper and deeper into the crowd. You barely noticed the scepter in his hand when he pushed other’s aside, one by one, each offering their congratulations.  

One struck you when they cheered, “King Loki!”

At some point he grabbed a goblet from one of the waiters and passed a second one to you. You took it, nearly spilling it all over your dress as you both flowed through the masses.

Finally you were able to take a breath as the people faded out. On the outskirts of the crowd, you snatched your arm out of Loki's grip.

“What the hell is going on!?” you demanded, setting your still full cup on another server's tray. “Why are you so upset? Why is your father giving you a glowing stick?” Your brow furrowed. “And why is everyone talking about crowns, heirs and kings?”

His green eyes locked on you and for the first time all night you realized you had never seen Loki stay in his true self for so long. Usually he was in his midgardian form, as Tom Hiddleston. But here in Asgard he was allowed to be whom he always was. The god of mischief.

And possibly something more.

“Y/n…” he started but stopped. Loki took in a deep gulp of his drink as his eyes scanned around the area, possibly trying to remember his way around the palace after being gone for so long. “I have something I would like you to see.”

You were surprised by his invitation but when his hand came out for yours, you let him lead you, more gently, back through the tapestries hanging between the hall and the side corridors. The further you got away from the throne room, the less people you began to see before finally the paths were clear of anyone all together. After about twenty minutes of solid silence, you noticed the scene around you seem to age. Rather than golden detailed inlays with white marble flooring, the walls began to resemble more ancient palaces. Stone walls, dark wood and boarded up windows eventually began to narrow and lead up stairs.

Loki finally stopped and looked back at you when the two of you came to an old wooden door. As he unveiled a key he seemingly pulled a skeleton key out of thin air, he spoke. “I am so sorry. This must truly be strange to have to deal with and I know I’m not helping. I’m going to tell you what’s going on, I promise, but first.” He pushed the door open. “I wanted to show you something.”

Your eyes were focused on him even as you took your first step into the room. When you turned to see where he had led you, you were speechless.

Though the walls were smoothed stone like the pathway here had been, they were not bare. Instead, they were painted in deep blues and violets, inter changing with black and magenta all swirling around each other. Sprinkled throughout them were orbs like those hanging in the rest of the castle, glittering and glowing in mixed yellow and red hues.

Your head tilted all the way to see the crescent shaped skylight in the ceiling before coming back down to take in the room. It was neatly kept with a large desk, several overfilled bookshelves and a modest bed in the corner. Loki walked past you to the desk. He leaned the staff against the wall then started going through the bottles and papers laid out.

“This was my room,” he told you nonchalantly without looking up from the papers. It struck you because in all these months with him, Loki rarely shared things from his previous life with you outside of small comments here and there. But now, he was showing you his bedroom. You walked over to the bookshelves, running your fingers over the bindings, picking up thick layers of dust. It wasn't hard to imagine no one had been here since Loki's exile.

When he didn't speak again, you made your way to his side to slide an arm around his waist. You gently leaned against him, your head nestling right under his chin.

“Y/n…” he started. But again, he went quiet.

“Loki, this has been a very…. trying day,” you explained while trying to remain calm, “I have had to leave my job, jump across the universe, and get used to being in a completely foreign world. I have heard a lot of things that aren't quite making sense and I really REALLY need you to explain what is going on. Your dad asked us to come here after talking to Thor about Hela and Frigga but somehow it feels like we were just thrown in some sort of ceremony.” You reached up and made him face you, doing everything in your power to soften your nervous  tone. “Please tell me what is going on.”

It surprised you that the god didn't pull back from your hand, or even look at you with some sort of command behind his eye. Loki wasn't the type to be told what to do and you certainly tried not to push anything that could anger him, but something was wrong. Very wrong.

Loki looked worried.

Finally, he broke the silence, “Darling, I love you. I love you so much that I couldn't imagine not having you...” His face lowered to yours, brushing your lips just as his hands took hold of your hips.

He pulled back, just enough to press his forehead against yours.

“Why won't you tell me what's happening, Loki?” Your voice cracked but you didn't look away from him, even as tears stung your eyes. “I need to know, please, I won't be upset, but I can't handle not knowing...”

Taking in a deep breath, Loki closed his eyes while he tried to figure out his next move. Rather than stand still, you backed away, leaving his hands to fall to his side.

“Tell me.”

When his eyes opened you saw the resolve behind his stare. But you also saw something else, something you couldn't quite place.

“Allfather tricked us,” Loki said with a calmness that render you speechless. His hands came up to cradle your face, his stare intensifying. “He didn't bring us here to handle any of our old matters. He had Thor bring us to ask me if I would take the crown, or rather...” He inhaled sharply, speaking quickly, “He named me the crowned prince. As of right now I am to inherit Allfather's namesake.”

You didn't mean to, but your eyes teared up. You just couldn't comprehend what he was telling you, this made nonsense. You had only came to handle the matters about Hela and Frigga. What did this mean for the two of you?

“Loki,” you managed, after biting down on your lip. “What exactly are you telling me?”

There was a moment where your entire relationship with Loki passes before your eyes. From the last time the two of you laid in his hotel bed, to the times he visited you at work, and even the vivid memory of the initial Interview that lead you both to this moment.

Right here.

Right now.

“I love you, y/n...” You could see Loki was seeing the same things, or at least his eyes reflected the pain you were feeling. The incredible sense doom that was coming.  “But I …  I'm not going to be able to return to Midgard…” .

Without physically touching you, his words had punched you in the stomach.

This was it.

This was a goodbye.

You choked, trying to keep the tears from falling down your cheeks. You avoided his eyed, turning away with all the strength you could muster. “You won't be able to return to Midgard,” you echoed, wishing you could go numb. A knot formed in the very out of your stomach, stiffening up to your chest.

There was no way to know how long the silence carried because to you, your mind was loud. Thinking about your life before you had met Loki. Could you go back to life without the god of mischief? Could you be the person you were before you got to wake up every morning to those stunning green eyes?

Some part of you, deep down, had always thought things were too good. You always believed that this was not a permanent sort of life for you, that eventually, the god would leave you behind.

It had just come so abruptly with no warning.

“Y/n,” Loki whispered, his own voice cracking, “Please say something.”

“I don't really know what to say,” you admitted. “Should… should I leave?”

He looked offended you would ask, dreading his brow. “No? No, I don't want you to leave. Quite the contrary…” To stop from blurting it out, Loki bit down on his lip. He took hold of your chin, slightly tilting your face to his. “Darling, I want you to stay. Here. With me.”

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[derieri]

Princess of the Light

A Nanatsu no Taizai and Legend of Zelda crossover

Another piece of the NnT + LoZ blend that has been on a back-burner for upwards of a year. This would/will be the opening prologue of the narrative. As I’ve mentioned before, I fully intend to follow through with this idea... at some point. Feedback very welcome!

Prologue

The Princess’ crystal eyes went wide at the sight of the puppet show before her. Cast in the golden, angled light of a late summer afternoon, the silhouette figures seemed to breathe as they danced before a tapestry of greenery and sky. The narrator stepped up beside the puppets’ “stage” to start the tale, gaily dressed in pink and silver feathers meant to represent the goddesses. She slowly looked over the assembled crowd until they silenced; the anticipation in the atmosphere could have been cut open with a knife.

“This is a story of ancient times before the worlds of man and gods became divided forever,” she began. She sang the story in the ancient style, and the puppets followed the contours of her melody.

“Across the land, the seven races thrived: Giants, working metal in the mountain tops; Zora, who guard the river’s run; Druids and their cousin Sheikah; the Fair Folk in the forest with their mystery and mischief. Living in their center were the Humans, humble and devoted. Above all were the Holy Goddesses, the four mightiest of who had made the world. And below them roamed the Demon Clan in their realm of shadow and horror.

“One day, the demons’ King tired of the careful balance, so he tipped the scales toward the night. A great war ensued for the soul of Britannia, and many were slain.

“In the midst of the violence, our blessed goddess declared: ‘This great evil must be defeated.’ She assembled seven individuals from among the clans to wage a fierce battle against the demon king.” On-stage, the puppets charged at one another, brandishing their weapons. Black and purple smoke spewed from the Demon King’s form, while the sages fired back with sparks. The Princess shouted encouragement to the heroes with the other children, but despite that, their attacks grew fewer and smaller, until they altogether stopped. A bolt of fear struck the Princess’ heart. The sages were going to lose!

“All hope seemed lost,” the narrator continued. “Then, the goddess took her blade and cut a hole in the earth. She told the sages: ‘Push the demons in there.’ One by one, the sages sent the monsters into the abyss, until they came to the demon king once more.”

Again the sages faced the King, this time with the glowing white form of the goddess beside them. They attacked. Bit by bit, they fought the Demon King backward, until he stumbled into the gorge with a furious yell. The Princess cheered with the other children, and the puppets on-stage began to prance about in celebration.

“The people prepared a victory feast, but the goddess was wise. ‘First, we must keep the demons in their prison,’ she said.

“Using magic never seen before or since that time, she put a mark upon her body and became the seal that trapped the demon clan. With the last of her power, she prophesied to the people there: ‘I have set in motion a great plan. Scatter to the wind, my seven, to await the hero’s spirit and the princess of the light. Only then shall the power of the sages defeat our ancient enemy once and for all.’” The narrator paused for dramatic effect, and the audience held their breath in rapt anticipation.

“For now, no one has ever found one of the members of the prophecy. Some believe that they can only be identified by the princess or the hero, while others say the sages have long died. Let us pray it’s not the latter, else we all might be in trouble when the demon king breaks out again.”

An ominous chuckle echoed from behind the puppet stage, reverberating like it came out of the chasm where the demon clan was sealed. Chills raked up and down the Princess’ spine. More colored smoke coated the stage in black ash clouds edged with firelight red. A shadow appeared in the background, obscured by the thickening smoke. It loomed closer and closer in time with the dark laughter and the thumping of her heart. The Princess’ head swam as the specter of the Demon King grew so large he swallowed the entire stage, and with him a farrago of sights and sounds: clashing blades; the groan of the dying; swathes of land soaked in blood; an abyssal eye that burned with dark flames—images of catastrophic war.

Forceful hands snatched both sides of her ribcage. A terrified cry escaped her lips as they tipped her balance backward to suspend her off the ground, breathless and unable to escape the crushing grip. She thrashed against the air. She already knew their hold on her was too strong for her to break, but maybe, maybe she could–

“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”

The stern almost-shout of her nanny splashed over Princess Elizabeth’s panic like a pitcher-full of ice water, stilling her. She realized that she could see again as if she hadn’t before. Suddenly confused and exhausted, she lay still on the ground and let her eyes travel over the scenery around her. Nanny’s face was close to hers, and around her in a ring were the faces of the half-a-dozen children she had watched the puppet show with. More adults looked down on her from up above the children.

“Nanny? Nanny, why am I on the ground?” She could not read the expression on Nanny’s face. Was that gladness, or anger? Or, perhaps—what were those new words she learned in lessons?—Nanny was irritated or relieved.

She didn’t speak or resist as Nanny shooed the villagers away from them, bundled Elizabeth up in her arms, and set off in the direction of the castle. When they passed the inner gate into the courtyard, Nanny set her down on the staircase. She stood back from the Princess by a step and put her hands upon her hips.

“Princess! You know that you are not to run around the village without supervision!” she scolded.

Elizabeth flinched and turned her eyes toward her dirty palms in shame.

“I’m sorry, Nanny. I heard some boys talking about the storyteller that was coming, and I wanted to go see it. I should have asked you to come with me. I’m sorry.”

Nanny huffed. Elizabeth did not look back up at her but blinked away a tear. It crawled along her cheek, down her nose, and then it dropped onto her wrist with a tiny splat. Nanny huffed again, and then the Princess found herself enveloped in her warm, soft arms.

“It’s alright, dear, no need to weep about it. You must keep in mind, though, that you’re a fragile girl. Now, besides the end that spooked you, how did you like the story? You went to all the trouble of getting to it, after all.”

“Oh, I loved it!” She looked up and clasped her hands together, damp cheek forgotten as she relayed the story and the prophecy about the princess of the light. “Sometimes princesses are named after the goddess, aren’t they? That’s where my name comes from.”

Nanny shook her head. “No, that family name just comes from an important great-great-grandmother in your family. The myth is all a lot of nonsense, made up.”

“But Papa tells me stories about the seven Sages all the time! He says they promised they would help the rulers of Liones if we needed them a lot sometime!” Nanny only frowned again.

“I will talk to His Majesty about this. I’m responsible for your education, and filling you with nonsense such as this won’t teach you to separate fact from fiction later on. Now go along, go ahead and play with the elder princesses.

“Yes, Nanny.”

“Take it easy, though, since that story made you so overexcited.”

“Yes, Nanny.”

Elizabeth scampered off to find her big sisters, and she obediently tried to put the goddess and her sages as far from her mind as possible. Her father ceased to tell her stories of the legends. Soon, her lessons increased in length and difficulty, and her childhood free time began to fill with other pursuits. It should have been easy to move on.

Despite all of this, however, she never managed to forget the goddess’ prophecy. It haunted her dreams and sometimes moments of her waking hours. She couldn’t say why, other than to guess that deep within her, in her innermost being, some part of her knew that it was true.

[baskervilleangel]

Nativity, A Lovely Night

“There they stood — against all the great goods, the unholy evils, saints, devils, Fate, and the Gods themselves, they made their own choice and they won. They chose family above all else. They chose love and affection, over hatred and bitterness. With that choice, they also helped those who didn’t have a family or people to love them. Isn’t that really the entire point of life?” — The False Angel of Mercy

The night was cold, long, and exceptionally extreme for the two women. The last few hours of the night were spent getting to know one another in the comfort and safety of Jules’ hideout. In all manner of weird ways Vierabrït continuously changed her hairstyle, varying between quirky and eccentric, she was interested in trying something new.

While Vierabrït played around, Jules took the time to shower and clear her porcelain skin of the blood and dirt that clung to it. They were safe for now and gifted with small pleasantries which alleviated some of the tension of the world, a shower was simply one of those pleasantries. It took her just short of a half hour to tidy herself. When she emerged from the bathroom her appearance was softer, less of a dismayed survivor.

There was a sleek shine to her raven-black hair. It flowed in slight waves and contrasted perfectly with her glowing, ivory reminiscent skin. Her eyes, which were framed perfectly by long lashes, seemed to have been made in Heaven. They were light, silver-green in color, and adorned with the markings that painted her eyes. They moved and locked onto Vierabrït who was continuing her activities in an absent minded daze. The witch could not help but smile — and her smile was full of dynamite.

And while she watched Vierabrït, she started to laugh a hearty laugh at every new hairstyle the Lockwood thought was beautiful or perfect. After the fourth hairstyle, Jules took it upon herself to freshen up the mysterious enigma that had started to call “friend”.

“All right, come here, V.” Jules insisted and motioned for Vierabrït to sit in between her legs.

Vierabrït wasted no time and eagerly complied with her friend. With a balletic skip, Vierabrït moved and sat on the floor right in front of Jules. Unfortunately, she had sat facing Jules and had to be turned around. In a rather delightful way, Vierabrït hummed the tune of “Holy Diver”, it was yet another song on Jules’ mix tape that Vierabrït fell in love with.

“Hey, I think it’d be better if I moved your bangs out of your face. What do you think, V?” Jules questioned.

“Mhm!” Vierabrït looked back and flashed her signature smile, it was apparent that she agreed with the witch.

The witch wasted no time once she obtained the confirmation. She grabbed a tuft of Vierabrït’s silky periwinkle hair and moved it backwards. The light that now shined upon Vierabrït’s face forced her pupils to constrict in a moderate way. The dried dirt and blood that covered her face was now more apparent than ever. It highlighted not just a deceptive savagery, but also her willingness to survive and protect her new friend.

In the midst of her hair styling Vierabrït decided that now may be a good time to read the family bestiary. She rummaged through her satchel for a bit then pulled out her very own bestiary. It had a periwinkle color to it and was adorned with sapphire like gems that sat neatly into the leather like material. Gliding her bloodstained hand across the brittle pages of the book she opened up to a random page and began reading in a quiet whisper. With small patters Vierabrït drummed against the page with her long finger, almost as if she was waiting for something, anything, to happen.

Jules, who had peaked over the girl’s shoulder, observed the pages of the book with great curiosity. The language that was written upon the crumbling pages was entirely foreign, unique in design even. Upon first glance, some of the words and letters were similar to Romanian or Moldavian; with another glance it was similar to Russian or Ukrainian.

“What Language is that?” Jules questioned yet again.

“I… I don’t know,” Vierabrït responded with a hint of sadness in her voice. “It never had a name. For the first few centuries of my life it has been the only language I have ever known.”

Once again, Jules was reminded that Vierabrït had a rather secluded life devoid of contact or any major social interactions outside that of her family, of course. Vierabrït hadn’t even known what Music was until a few hours ago. Nearly immediately, sadness dissipated and was replaced with an intense determination. Vierabrït was filled with this feeling, eagered to close the gap between the two of them.

“Its talking about me if you were curious! Maica wrote it just for me!” Vierabrït erupted in a confident demeanor.

“Its about you? Can you read it out loud? I’ve been wondering what you are…” Jules voice became low, she wanted to understand and learn.

“I ams friend! I can show you what it says too!” Vierabrït exclaimed and pulled off one of the flower petals that were bound to the page by wax. “Since Maica is traveling the otherworld, and the real one, she attached these rose petals to some of the pages of our bestiaries. They’re covered with her blood and her power so that we can hear her read them to us. Don’t worry, friend, she speaks the english. There are lots of nice pictures too!” Vierabrït continued on to say and handed her one of the rose petals.

“So this Maica… who are they?”

“My parent! I haven’t met her, but I am told she is best!”

“You have two mothers? That is pretty cool.” Jules responded, simply enjoying her time learning about Vierabrït.

It took about ten minutes for Jules to finish styling Vierabrït’s hair. Her hair was now swept back and held together by three braids which mingled perfectly with her straight hair. Jules held up a mirror which made Vierabrït smile incredibly wide.

“Thank you!!!” Vierabrït shouted intensely and hugged Jules.

“Its fine, V, really!” Jules spoke trying to separate her face from Vierabrït’s.

Vierabrït had eventually pulled away from the witch and narcissistically stared at her brand new hairstyle. While Vierabrït admired her friend’s handiwork Jules stared intently at the blood stained rose petal that was placed inbetween her two fingers. A violent and malignant energy radiated off of it, much like the feeling that Vierabrït gave off, yet far darker.

Cruelty. Unreasonable sadism. It was a sensation that could only truthfully be described as “evil”. In all honesty, it frightened Jules. She cocked an eyebrow towards Vierabrït and stared from the corner of her painted eyes.

“V,” Jules called out to Vierabrït. The Lockwood’s head snapped to Jules with an exquisite flourish of her periwinkle hair. Round lavender eyes met with Jules’ jade like eyes. “What the hell are you?” Jules continued in a rather grim tone.

Vierabrït quickly shifted her attention to the rose petal then back up to Jules’ eyes. Widely Vierabrït grinned and quickly raised her eyebrows, urging the witch.

“Eat and you will see!” She twirled, once again flourishing her new hair style.

Jules was a woman who had not trusted easily; as such, she was exceptionally hesitant. Especially with this feeling of dread that lingered from both, her new friend, and this bloodstained flower petal. But against that — against all the warning signs and red flags, she felt a sense of trust from Vierabrït. A compulsion to believe and trust her friend, and so she had.

With a sigh, and a quick motion, she ingested the Rose petal. In a single instant, shorter than the blink of an eye, darkness began to fall upon her. It was a temporary blindness that befell her, and with it came a fear that she had never known.

“Three vials of blood, manipulated by self righteous foolishness.” A menacing and feminine lilting voice spoke to Jules. It was an accent that the witch could place, yet it was different from Vierabrït’s. “Seven shillings tossed to the whims of fate. Five beasts born of blood and evil across endless millennia.”

While the voice spoke baleful visages stormed her mind and besieged her sight. She saw three vials of blood that were spilled against the ground. The seven shillings, which were marked by that very same blood, cutting through the air. Then finally, she saw them. Eyes emanating an iridescent glow from the darkness that was just out of her reach. Above those eyes, reaching into the clouds, was a woman dressed in red observing the witch beyond the napalm skies.

All of this faded in the same obscuring darkness that had initially drenched her, and once again her sight was robbed from her. Then, like before, vision returned to her; but it was not her own. She saw a place she had never been and moved about without her say so. This place, this home, was comprised of neglected wooden floors, and filled with glass bottles in odd shapes. Baubles that adorned the walls alongside tapestries and paintings of people she had never known. If she didn’t know better, she would assume them as witches things.

When she had reached the bathroom she realized that she was not in her own body. But someone entirely foreign, much like the dwelling she had been forced to explore. This woman stared at the mirror and back at Jules from the reflection of the mirror.

In attire this woman was highly similar to Jules. She wore a black long-sleeved henley which fit her form perfectly. The sleeves were somewhat long and covered the back of her hands. Jules could even make out the dirtied black Jeans the woman had wore. It wasn’t until the woman spoke that Jules discovered her identity.

“Vierabrït, the gentlest and kindest of my children, I hope you are well, my darling.” The woman crossed her arms and gave a smile without baring her white fangs. “I have a present for you, I’ll put it in your bestiary when I deliver it. I want you and your elder sister to put them on only in the most desperate of situations… I know I can’t be there with you and your mother right now. But, I’m going to answer a few questions; some that may have been plaguing you for quite some time. The first, and most important thing, is that you are what is called a “Tribrid”. Like me, you are part Lycian. Like your mother and I, you are Bloodborne — well, Ţânкомар to be exact. Then finally, when you come of age, you will awaken the third part of you. Maybe that part of you will be a Primera, or maybe a Sabaoth like your mother. Who knows, maybe you’ll even be a Paradigma like me. I want you to know that with your immortal life you can choose to walk the path I treaded upon, or even your mother — or you can make your own. You have so many choices and we’re no longer bound by a twisted fate. I want you to know something else…” She paused for a brief moment, and moved her hand to wipe away the tears that pooled in her eyes.

“I’ll be there soon, I promise you that. And no matter what choice you make — I will always love you. I cannot wait to see the woman you grew up to be.”

Despite the evil Jules has felt from these two, she could not help but feel sad for them. When Vierabrït’s mother, Viola, placed her two fingers upon her lips then the mirror Jules understood then. Vierabrït’s demeanor, her kindness and jubilation, was no act. She had not feigned any of this. In fact, she understood something far more important. The Lockwoods, Vierabrït’s family, were evil by nature, but chose a different path. They chose another way, and that was the most important thing.

The disheartening images dwindled back to the gloom they came from, and the world transitioned back to the one Jules had known — and loathed. Vierabrït hovered over Jules’ face, a bit to close for comfort even. Apparently, Jules had collapsed during her trip into Viola’s memories.

“Oh good! I thought I unalived you!” Vierabrït said cheerfully and lifted Jules off the ground and back onto her.

“I have more questions than answers but I think I understand you more, in some weird magical way.” Jules looked at Vierabrït for a moment, a bit tired from the psychological strain, then she did something incredibly out of character. Without warning, Jules pulled her friend into a hug and held her in a tight embrace.

“Thank you. For being my friend, and saving my life — twice.”

“Its okay, friend! You ams good friend.” Vierabrït wasn’t confused by the sudden change in Jules demeanor. In fact, she hugged the witch back as delicately as she could.

“I could just be tired, but I think I actually understood that.”

Jules yawned a bit and rubbed her eyes before she pulled away from Vierabrït. A moment later, Jules found herself lumbering back to her bass, staggering all the way. It didn’t take long for the witch to find her way back to the couch so she could relax and play her bass. When Jules yawned again five minutes later Vierabrït responded in a rather adorable way.

“You should assault the straw!” Vierabrït’s wide round eyes locked onto Jules’ as she spoke. Just as soon as Jules thought she had a decent understanding of Vierabrït’s vocabulary she quickly found herself confused once again.

“I should what?” Jules asked and glanced up at Vierabrït. The sound that emanated from her bass came to an immediate halt.

“You should assault the straw!” She repeated, believing that Jules hadn’t heard her. In all reality, Jules was asking for clarity instead of the same question. “You know? Sleep. As you mortals often do.” Vierabrït continued. When she had, Jules immediately understood what Vierabrït was trying to say.

“Hay.” Jules responded to correct the young Vierabrït’s vocabulary.

“Oh, hey!” Vierabrït responded excitedly, believing now that Jules was trying to greet her for some odd reason.

“The saying is “Hit the hay” not “Assault the straw”, V.” Jules sighed and chuckled a bit. Spending time with Vierabrït was actually something that she subtly enjoyed.

Before long, and quite unexpected, Jules had fallen asleep, a much needed reprieve from the endless adventure that awaited them just beyond the wooden doors. Vierabrït, who had not needed to sleep, stayed up and listened to Jules’ mixtape.

After an hour or two she began to wonder what sleep was like. She had never done it, but she knew she was capable of it. She had never dreamed, nor had a nightmare. So, she snuggled up next to Jules, who had instinctively embraced the Lockwood, and attempted to fall asleep.

There they laid, bidding farewell to the distorted stars, and waited for the break of dawn with new understanding of one another. For the first time ever, Vierabrït dreamed of something spectacular. A world without monsters, evil nor fear. Only her friend and her family, living their best lives.

[silviasutton1989]

The True Kings Ch. 7 “1985″

A/N: Hey guys...so this chapter is a little different I am not going to go into detail because I need to see how well I actually did at fleshing out this story. SO.....I need your help!!! If you are reading this (and you have read the other stories) please leave a comment on what you think is going on...who is Persephone? what is she doing? what is going on in this chapter? and if it has answered any questions for you from the previous ones. It is ok if you don’t understand what is going on (that will actually help me in being more clear in other chapters) and it’s ok if someone comments your answer (that will help me see how many people are understanding and how many are not. I thank you all for your help I hope it is as fun to read as it was for me to write.

Count:1800

Rating: NSFW (smut-ish not that bad though) Happy Thirsty Thursday!

Catch up: Chapter 1  1.2  2  3  4  5  6

Summary: All I’m going to say is WELCOME to 1985!!!  (click 1985 to get into the decade lol I told y’all I had fun with this one)

Persephone stands before the round table. She shifts her feet as the judgmental eyes of the men seated around her watch her every move. Her clammy hands unknowingly adjust the pins in her rose colored hair. She worked so diligently on it a few hours ago, hoping it would make her seem older, more dignified. She takes a deep breath before she speaks, making sure her tone at lest shows the confidence she lacks.

"Good evening gentlemen. I would like for our first discussion, today, to be the matter of the ever growing protesters. It seems our king feels that--"

"If I may ..." a young equally red headed man stands from his chair. "While we appreciate your drive and ambition as the first woman inductee of the True Kings...well.." he chuckles as Persephone's dark green eyes star daggers into him. "Well, we don't involve ourselves in the king's matters. Our organization is built on the basis of legacy and--"

"Thank you, Oliver, you may have a seat now." Oliver opens his mouth to speak but as her perfectly arched eyebrow rises he obeys and returns to his seat, 

"I am well aware of the importance of legacy and heritage in this organization. I learned it just as you all during my orientation, and I respect the values that I must uphold as a new member. But this room has more than legacy, it has power. Untapped power. We have councilmen, dukes, lords and now your first duchess-with her own independent duchy in all of Cordonia might I add."

She watches as the men murmur in agreement with her words.

"With the amount of clout we have in this very room surely we could be doing more than smoking cigars and drinking 30 year old Conyac.

"Speaking of Conyac I've just required a rare--"

"I'm not finished." Her tone is piercing and the men quietly stir in their chairs. "These protesters want to end the monarchy. And I think--"

"That's exactly why the king is extinguishing them." Another man interjects.

"But what if we change their narrative?" The men stare at her in confusion.

"Listen. If the protesters have their way there will be no king. Meaning no councilmen, no nobles and no true kings. The end of any monarch means the end to this very organization."

The men talk among themselves clearly disturbed by her words. The only one not unmoved is Oliver. He watches the woman before him unable to wipe the smile from his face.

"So I propose we work with the commoners, turn them into a direction that doesn't rid Cordonia of a monarch but just of the one we currently have. We can give them a king...or queen that will have the backing of its citizens and some of the highest of the court."

"So you want us to switch out kings?  You want us to form a coup? To commit treason?"

"I'm saying we give Cordonia the royal it deserves, The True Kings' motto is legacy and heritage yet you all are afraid to admit that some of us in this room have more lineage to that throne than the current king does.! He has lied cheated and murdered to keep the crown. Robbing our country of its true lineage is treason, not reinstating it! I believe it is up to us to give Cordonia the monarch it deserves, we give them their true king!”

"It sounds as if you already have someone in mind." The older man to her left inquires.

Persephone straightens where she stands, "As a matter of fact I--"

"How about we reconvene this meeting to next week. We can have some time to reflect on Persephone's theories and then put to a vote if we would like to proceed."

"But I have more--"

"All agreed?" The men nod. to Oliver. "Good. So we will vote on our decision next week until then you all may go to the study where a brand new bottle of Cuvée Léonie is waiting for you."

The men all raise from their chairs and quickly out the door. Persephone stays behind furiously stuffing the books and papers she had planned to show during the meeting into her bag. Oliver waits till the last man closes he door behind him before handing her one of her books.

"I had them Oliver!" she spats as she snatches the book from his hand. "Why would you cut me off like that? They were eating out of the palm of my hand!"

"Your so impatient Prue, those men, they like what you  have to say but...they are never going to agree with you." Oliver sits on the table as Persephone flops back into her chair. "I mean it's 1985 and we just inducted our first woman! Clearly they are not going to be too inclined in supporting a trade of a king for a queen....no matter how beautiful or brilliant she may be."

Oliver gives her a flirtatious smile. She rolls her eyes in annoyance before jumping to her feet. "They will come around...And I will recruit more women. I can prove my lineage I can prove that I belong on that throne, not him!" 

"That may be true but you will need a king." He takes her hand in his. His thumb rubbing circles over her knuckles. "If you want to do this all you need is time...and a husband."

"Is that some sort of proposal?" She can see the edges of his mouth pulling into a smile she she straightens her spine tossing her heavy bag over her shudder. "Because if it is you will have to be willing to change your last name."

"Woah...what?" Oliver scoffs, the smile on his face stays but he is stunned by her statement.

"My family name is important. So if you are considering marriage you have to be willing to forfeit your last name." She says matter-of- factly as she saunters towards the door.

"Well...how about we go discuss that over coffee?" He stands from the table unable to look away from the way her hips sway as she walk. He's been infatuated with her since the moment he meet her.

"Unfortunately I have another engagement today." She stops in her tracks and turns to see that smile one more time. She hates that damn smile, it's far too tempting. "But I will take a rain check."

She is out the door before he can respond.

Soon she finds her way to the throne room of the palace. She has gone there many times. The room is beautiful, royal blue tapestries, golden painted works of art from floor to ceiling. But it's what sits in the middle of the room that has always had her main focus. The thrones of the monarch, king and queen.

She stands and stares at them, as she has done on many occasions for hours on end. 

"What are you doing in here?" Persephone doesn't turn around to see the tall blonde at the door. He locks the door behind him before taking off his suit jacket and walking over to her.

"Percy, you were supposed to meet me in the library." He says before wrapping his arm around her waist. He lowers his head to graze her porcelain neck breathing in her perfume makes him moan louder than her.

"I made a detour, Connie." She says as as she leans her head back onto his broad shoulder. She pulls on the nape of his blonde locks as he subtly rolls his hips into her. She wants to close her eyes and enjoy where his hands are roaming but they are focused on one thing: the throne.

Connie pulls away, "Guess what? Father has finally approved my social season! Do you know what that means?"

Persephone finally looks at her lover his blue eyes so wide and happy. "It means you will be king soon." She cup his strong chin and tries her best to force a smile. But it doesn't mater, he doesn't notice...he never does.

"Just think in a few short years that throne will be mine. And if I can convince you to participate in the social season you will be my queen." He holds her tighter to his chest with a sigh of relief. "Jeeze... father has been trying for decades to fully merge Lythikos and Cordonia and all I have to do is marry Persephone Nevarkis, the woman I love, and BOOM I claim it!"

She twitches as he says the word "claim". 

Connie works the buttons on her blouse, the sight of her satin black bra almost brings him to his knees. Her eyes stay onto the the throne as she rocks her hips into his stiffening length. She feels his hands bunch up her skirt before her panties fall to her feet.

"Constantine, we need to talk-"

"Shhh...baby. I know you don't want to jump through hoops just so we can marry. But.." Constantine begins to unbutton his own shirt her legs begin to quiver at the sound of his belt buckle hitting the marvel floor. "But maybe I can convince you." 

He walks in front of her. His perfectly sculpted body blocking her view of the throne. 

"Go have a seat Percy, and I will give you everything you want." He licks his lips, knowing how much that thrills her. She pulls him into a searing kiss, her tongue toying with his, he moans inside her mouth as if the kiss was his very first.

She pulls away smiling, going straight for the grander throne, the King's throne.

"Hey where are you going? The queen consort sits here." He motions her to the smaller one. She sits and watches as Connie lowers to his knees. "Percy, I have never felt this way about anyone in my whole life." He begins to kiss one of her breast so softly as if her entire body was the most precious thing he has ever seen. He does the same to he other flicking his tongue over her perky nipples. 

"Connie...." she moans as she watches him kiss even further down. His tongue leaving a cool wet sensation down her belly.

She she makes room for him between her legs as he bites his lips watching her beautiful sex open before him. "Oh Percy, we are going to be so happy. I'm going to show you baby."

His mouth devours her and she cries out. She wants to let go, she wants to love him but..."Claim" and "Consort" blocked those desires. The Nevarkis legacy and land would never be his to claim and being a consort could never be her destiny.

The future king of Cordonia's head is between her thighs lapping up her juices like he was dying of thirst, but even through her moans her eyes stayed focused on one thing: the larger throne that sat so close beside her.

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