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iridescentoracle · 1 year ago

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Hello! I am here to ask about your Dior headcanons re: the political cohesion of Doriath. 👀

Oh man, I didn't expect anyone to actually take me up on that!

(Okay so I got partway into writing this and then realized I should probably note up front that I tend to stick to the Silm (& LOTR/the Hobbit where applicable, but they... aren't, here) as the most authoritative version of canon, and I can get into why and where the nuances/exceptions are there (I do say tend to stick, it's not hard and fast!), but that's mostly a side note here: the point is simply that I don't really factor other drafts or the poetic Leithian into my take on Doriath, Thingol, Dior, etc, just what we're told in the actual Silm. I also read the Silm as an in-universe history text compiled by in-universe scholars, who, being people, are going to have their own biases and blind spots, even when they're doing their best to be accurate!)

So, this is a two-part thing: #1, there's the political cohesion of Doriath before & at the time of Thingol's death, which i talked about in the tags of the post that prompted this ask but is kind of necessary as context for the Dior part to make sense, and #2, there's the actual Dior headcanons. Both of these parts are very long because I've never really seen anyone else suggest any of this stuff and I want to explain where I'm coming from thoroughly enough that it actually makes sense to people who aren't me, but the TL;DRs:

TL;DR 1: I think Doriath was probably a hot mess politically after Thingol died, with tensions between various groups of Sindar and Laiquendi in the leadup to Thingol's death & Melian's departure, and more political tensions afterwards between those who wanted Beren & Lúthien to come be the new rulers, and those who thought they should stay gone, with someone still in Doriath taking over.

TL;DR 2: I think Dior became Eluchil, potentially at the request of some portion of the Iathrim, hoping to help prevent Doriath from devolving into civil war, and saw dealing with the Silmaril-Fëanorioni situation as a lower priority than stabilizing Doriath's internal political situation until it was too late.

1. The political cohesion (or rather, lack thereof) in Doriath prior to Thingol's death

So, okay, the thing about Doriath is that we don't actually have any real idea of like... how much the Iathrim liked being the Iathrim? We're never told about any intra-Iathrim conflict, but a) the Silm was probably compiled mostly by surviving Gondolindrim or their descendants, so they wouldn't know about anything liike that unless surviving Iathrim told them, and after the Second Kinslaying I don't imagine many Iathrim would've been eager to talk about how things had actually been tense/messy/etc when they could remember everything as having been perfect until it was ruined by the Fëanorionrim, and doubly so after the Third Kinslaying, so why would anything like that make it into the Silm?

and b) what we do know about Doriath is that it wasn't really Doriath as we know it until Morgoth came back to Middle-earth, and everything went to hell.

At the start of the first age, you suddenly get Doriath (the fenced land!) being the one protected area of a continent that used to be totally free and open. How many Sindar actually didn't particularly care for Thingol's style of leadership, or simply preferred to live nomadic lives, going basically wherever they pleased, until suddenly that wasn't safe anymore, and you were only guaranteed survival if you were close enough to Menegroth to be within the Girdle when it went up? ditto how many Laiquendi had no interest in swearing loyalty to Thingol right after their own king had just been killed, but again, made it to safety and stayed there over taking their chances on their own in the outside world? (None of this is meant as any insult to Thingol himself, by the way; he can have been a good king who did his best for his people and still rubbed some of his new subjects-by-necessity the wrong way, through no fault of his own or theirs.)

I think it's entirely possible that there were always potential political tensions under the surface in Doriath that just... never got written about, because they never boiled over into actual political conflict, and so it was never the sort of tension that had any bearing on the historical record.

Except then Beren & Lúthien happen to the world, and a few years later the Narn, and in the blink of an eye suddenly the only king Doriath has ever had is dead, and the only queen Doriath has ever had is gone and the Girdle with her—and more than that, the only rulers the Sindar had ever had for three thousand years before Doriath existed.

And where a few years earlier I think the Iathrim would probably have turned pretty universally to Lúthien, now she's abandoned them for her human husband—and while she's my favorite character in the entire legendarium hands-down and I don't blame her, I think that's another place there might have actually been some very mixed feelings among the Iathrim that nobody wanted to admit to later because how could anyone have been upset with Lúthien—and on top of her abandoning them for him, I think it's extremely probable most of Doriath did not actually get over their xenophobia about humans in general or Beren in specific when Thingol did (we know for sure at least some of Doriath didn't, cf. Saeros insulting Túrin's mother & sister to his face), but again, who's going to admit to having had a grudge against the holy couple of Middle-earth after the fact, you know?

Conversely, there could've been a sizeable faction of Sindar who had been totally loyal to Thingol until everything happened with Beren & Lúthien, but who found his actions towards them and/or Finrod to be where they drew the line, and while (unlike B&L themselves) that faction stayed in Doriath, there could've been a new, additional tension on that front.

Finally, for all we know there were multiple factions within the Laiquendi of Doriath, with political tensions stretching back to before their king died, rooted in who-even-knows!

2. Dior

All of that, of course, sets up a very, very messy political situation for Dior to walk into.

The Doriath stuff is arguably more speculation than actual headcanon, but here's where the unambiguous headcanons come in: I don't think "Dior Eluchil set himself to raise anew the glory of the kingdom of Doriath." Obviously that's how it got written down, but bluntly, I can't see Beren and Lúthien having a kid that stupid or, like, power-hungry and arrogant?

What I can see is a situation where the messenger that brought word of Thingol's death and Melian's departure asked Beren & Lúthien to come take over as the new king and queen, we promise we're not mad about you leaving and we won't be xenophobic to your husband anymore we swear it's fine now pretty please, Beren & Lúthien said no, and the messenger either asked Dior as a second choice, or said "okay fine none of that was actually true but Doriath is falling apart and we need a leader ASAP and there's about eight different contenders* (mostly kinsmen of Thingol or Laiquendi) being backed by various factions and it's going to devolve into civil war any minute so if you care at all—" and Dior said "would I do?"

(* Ask me about my Galadriel headcanon)

I don't think Dior necessarily wanted to be king of Doriath, and I don't think he saw the throne as his birthright or anything like that; I don't think anyone involved, from Thingol to Lúthien to Dior himself, ever considered the possibility of Thingol dying and needing an heir! I think it's possible he was asked, or at most that he offered, and either way, I think he saw becoming king as taking on a responsibility for the sake of others.

(Which, like, "well here's a potentially impossible task that I'm going to take up even though probably no one thinks I'm actually capable of it, but it's my duty to help others as best I can" sure does sound to me like an attitude one might develop when raised by Lúthien "I kicked Sauron's ass cast a sleep spell on Morgoth and persuaded the Valar to find a loophole in the fabric of reality" Tinuviel and Beren "I stayed by my father's side as an outlaw to give my mother time to lead the rest of our people away hopefully to safety knowing I would never see her or any of them again (and then spent several years being a giant thorn in Morgoth's side for good measure)" Barahirion, where "apparently my grandpa I may or may not have ever met died, guess that makes me the king of a place i may or may not have ever been" does... not.)

I also think he either took on the epithet Eluchil, or was given it by whichever factions of the Iathrim accepted him as king, when he actually became king. Obviously he's going to be referred to as Dior Eluchil even before that in retrospect because that's how he's thought of later, but that doesn't mean it was actually a name he always had, you know?

The final thing is, I think if Dior essentially walked into a political situation five seconds from devolving into civil war, it makes his inaction regarding the Silmaril prior to the Second Kinslaying make more sense: the Fëanorioni have been sitting around doing nothing about the Silmaril in Doriath / with Beren & Lúthien this whole time, the letter saying "hey that's our Silmaril give it back now" is probably just a formality, and Dior's only been ruling for a couple years, there's still plenty of people dubious about whether he should be king at all, he might well be subject to at least some of whatever xenophobia remains about humans in Doriath, and in general all the work he's done on stabilizing the kingdom will absolutely come undone again if he screws up; he's trying to keep a kingdom from falling apart, the Silmaril thing can wait.

Of course, it wasn't a formality, and it couldn't wait, but why would Dior have known that?

#shrikeseams #replies #doriath #the silmarillion #dior eluchil #lotr #lotr meta #i guess?#character: dior #jesus christ this is so much longer than i meant it to be i'm so sorry #also my lunch break was supposed to end twenty minutes ago WHOOPS please forgive any typos i have no time to fix #also there wasn't a good place to stick this in #but i also think everyone in doriath probably has PTSD about thingol's death #(many of them may also have had PTSD already esp the laiquendi or those of the sindar who had to return to menegroth in a hurry #when the first waves of orcs showed up #but anyone who didn't already almost definitely does by the time dior gets there #because holy shit our king is dead the girdle is gone none of us are safe now and he was murdered before the girdle even fell #so have we even been as safe as we thought all this time or were the last couple centuries a lie?)#but yeah those are my dior headcanons!! idk if that picture of doriath or dior in particular are to anyone's taste but mine #but if nothing else i like the idea of dior getting to be... an actual person? and someone i can see having been raised by beren & lúthien #and he doesn't really get to be either of those in the silm and i rarely see him in fanworks getting fleshed out like other characters do #and i think that's kind of a shame #you know?#also yes i am completely ignoring that dior's name theoretically means ''successor'' bc like. why would they name him that #that is from an early draft and there is no way to know if ''dior'' would even have stayed his name #if tolkien had gotten around to updating all the names in B&L/CoH etc into modern Sindarin #never mind if it would have meant anything remotely similar #this is mostly a first-draft post written in one sitting in the space of 45 minutes partially while late for work #i have Definitely left many points out and i am sorry if anyone has questions about things i probably have answers / can elaborate further?

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labellefleur-sauvage · 1 year ago

Text

The Highland Fox and the English Rose

Read on AO3. Masterlist (with fic summary)

NOTE: Depiction of violence and injury in this chapter.

XXX

Chapter 5: The stars are the map I unfurl

Elain winced, each step utter agony. Her backside ached, the muscles in her thighs she’d never used tense, and her back screamed at her with each forward movement.

“What’s the matter, Elain? Feeling a wee bit sore from yer first day ever riding a horse?”

“Of course I am!” Elain snapped irritably at Lucien, atop Ajax next to her with a supremely smug smile on his tanned face. Even that damned horse gave Elain an imperious sideways glance, like it too found Elain’s discomfort entertaining. “And it’s rude of you to gloat!”

Lucien snorted. “Yer the one who blackmailed me so I’d bring ye along. I believe I’m due to remind ye just how unprepared ye are to spend the next month roughing it on the road with me.”

Elain clenched her fists, perhaps the only part of her body that wasn’t sore and aching. They were only one day out from the castle, and already Elain worried, not for the first time, that she had severely overestimated her abilities and gotten herself mixed up with something she had no business being involved in.

She wanted to adapt to living in Scotland and wanted to spend time with her admittedly insufferable yet handsome husband, but perhaps she should have eased herself into it, rather than dive headfirst like she had done, Elain thought. This sort of reckless behavior—tagging along on a daring rescue mission across the wild Scottish Highlands—was something Feyre would do. At the very least, her backside would be thankful if Elain had demonstrated a bit more restraint.

After a hard day of riding yesterday, Lucien had unceremoniously dumped a thin collection of blankets and padding he called a bedroll at her feet, tossed some crackers and jam at her, and told her to have a good dinner and wash up as best she could with their meager water before going to bed. He hadn’t spoken another word to her last night, and only spoke to her this morning to tell her to pack up so they could get back on the road. Elain had pitifully limped around camp and struggled to climb atop Ajax, lasting all of ten minutes before she begged Lucien to let her walk besides them.

And now, Lucien decided to grace Elain with his taunting words.

“If only someone had tried to warn ye that this would be a hard journey,” Lucien said wistfully. “If only a handsome, clever, resourceful—“

“Yes, yes, alright, I get it!”

“Do ye though?” Lucien was looking at her from the corner of his eye, frowning. “This is no ‘little adventure,’ as ye called it back at the castle. For my mother, this is life or death, depending on when we’re able to get to Sangravah and get her out.”

Elain’s face felt hot. Truthfully, she hadn’t been thinking of Lucien’s mother at all when she demanded to accompany him on this quest, too focused on her own bleeding emotions. For this unknown woman, she was depending on her son’s arrival to save her from a depressing and lonely existence, and Elain had not spared one ounce of sympathy for her mother in law. In a twisted way, she and Lucien’s mother were more alike than not: two women coerced by their male relatives into adopting futures they didn’t want. At least Elain got to experience the wind and sun on her face.

But even now, Elain couldn’t stand to admit to Lucien how selfish she’d been in demanding she join him, especially when he was being so damned arrogant.

“Well, perhaps you’ll find that I’m more clever than you think,” Elain said loftily. “Apparently Eris thinks I’m smart, based on what he told you.”

“Eris is a conniving bastard who tells people what they want to hear so they’ll agree to his schemes, then stabs them in the back with his dirk when he’s done with them,” Lucien said darkly, mouth tight. “Don’t assume he meant to flatter ye.”

“And that’s worse than neglecting your wife for weeks on end then attempting to leave her for months on end while you embark on a dangerous journey with absolutely no warning?”

Lucien glared at her. “Do not compare me to Eris.”

Elain shrugged nonchalantly, burying her hands in the pockets of her dress as she walked. “You’re both brutal red headed Scotsmen with ulterior motives and foul mouths. Don’t assume you’re the hero here.”

Lucien swore to himself. “Ye think yer so witty, don't ye?”

She glared at Lucien. “Oh, and you think you’re any better? You thought you were so clever with your plans until I figured out what you were up to.”

“Do ye know what people call me?” Lucien replied, turning to look at Elain. “The Highland Fox, on account of my reputation for outsmarting everyone around me and always walking away unscathed. I think ye had a bit of help a few nights ago—Vassa told ye to wait in the garden, didn’t she?” Elain couldn’t help the flash of guilt that crossed her face before she looked away. “Aye, I thought so,�� Lucien said grimly. “Vassa and I will have to have a chat the next time I see her.”

“She just wanted us to spend some time together—“

“But this is no’ the place to do it!” Lucien grimaced and pushed his hair away from his face. “She knew how dangerous this mission could be, and she still moved ye into a position to put ye directly in my path, where now I have to deal with keeping ye safe while trying to rescue my mother!”

“I can take care of myself!”

“Ye can’t even handle riding a horse for one day! Don’t lie and say ye can somehow take care of yourself when it’s clear you’ve never had to worry about your wellbeing or anyone else for that matter!”

Anger boiled inside her, like a scalding kettle screaming to be released. Lucien read her like an open book, leisurely flipping through her pages and gleening her truths like scribbles in the margins. Elain had never had to worry about her future or anyone else for that matter—as a woman, there were so few independent activities she could do, the majority of which still kept her confined to the house. That was a normal part of life for any moderately wealthy Englishwoman—so why did Lucien ripping her open and tearing away her pages from her spine affect her so much?

Because an Englishman would never point out these awful truths to me, Elain thought bitterly. Lucien was an absent husband and an arsehole on top of that—Elain could never imagine Greyson saying the things Lucien was saying to her now. Lucien was just a wild and savage Scotsman, and she never felt more at odds with him.

But if Lucien wanted a fight, Elain could prove she could fight back.

“I’m surprised that’s clear to you—I’m shocked you’re able to see anything with your arrogance and one eye continuously blinding you!”

As soon as Elain closed her mouth, she regretted what she said. There was rude, and then there was downright nasty; Elain had firmly crossed into the latter with her little remark.

Instead, Lucien chuckled lowly. “And the supposedly sweet English Rose shows her thorns.”

“Says the man who admits to being called ‘The Highland Fox.’” Elain scoffed. “What a silly nickname, honestly. I haven’t seen anything particularly clever from you since I’ve met you.”

Lucien’s cheeks turned a bit pink, and Elain smirked, triumphant. “Did your sisters prep ye with insults before ye arrived in Scotland, or did ye manage to think of that yourself?”

“I thought of this one all on my own, and I have plenty more ready for the next time you act like an utter idiot!”

“And here I thought I’d be getting a quiet, meek English wife, and instead I marry a selfish, foul-mouthed blackmailer!” Lucien snapped. Below him, Ajax let out a snicker, like it was laughing at Elain.

Elain glared at the meddlesome horse before she turned her attention back to Lucien. “Well that’s your issue. You had assumptions about me before you ever met me. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no expectations for the savage Scotsman I knew I was marrying, and yet I’m still disappointed in you!”

“Likewise, dear.” Lucien glared at her. “Yer father didno’ warn me what an absolute terror ye are! Ye keep your screeching up and you’ll develop a reputation as a harpy with the locals!”

Elain gasped. “Well, you’re a… a… jerk!”

“And yer a brat!”

Elain huffed a breath. She was stomping now, and her feet and ankles soon began aching, along with the rest of her poor body.

They continued on down the empty, dusty road in silence for several minutes. The only thing Elain could hear was the furious beating of her pulse in her ears. Finally Lucien sighed deeply. “All that trampling yer doing must be tiring ye out. Would ye like to join me on Ajax?”

“That’s alright,” Elain replied cooly. “I don’t believe there’s enough room up there for me, between you and your massive ego. I’ll walk by the donkey for company.”

Lucien sighed loudly but didn’t argue as Elain drifted back a few paces to walk next to the sturdy donkey carrying most of their supplies. She distractedly pat its head as she walked, then groaned as she felt the familiar dampness of a summer rain fall on her head. Of course it would rain now. Elain drew the hood of her traveling cloak over her head and glowered at her husband ahead of her.

Elain wasn’t sure why she thought everything would suddenly be fine between her and Lucien now that it was just the two of them. They were frustrated and near hostile with each other when they were at Castle Macpherson; take away the few comforts and stability they each had, and Elain realized, once again, she hadn’t completely thought out her sudden demand to join Lucien.

Elain huffed. “At least you’re a better traveling companion than him ,” she muttered to the donkey next to her. “You don’t say such rude things and yell at me.”

One of the donkey’s ears twitched but otherwise it paid her no attention.

“Typical,” Elain muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Do ye just like the sound of yer own voice, or are ye losing yer mind that ye feel the need to talk to an ass?” Lucien called from Ajax, not turning to look at her.

Elain pursed her lips. “Well, I got tired of talking to you, so I thought I might as well see how the other ass compares!” she shrieked over the rain.

Yes, perhaps Elain has been a bit naive when it came to her husband.

By the time they stopped for the evening, what felt like hours later, Elain was about ready to cry with pain from her aching legs and feet. She couldn’t recall ever walking more than the distance it took to get from her childhood home in the English countryside to the nearby village; everything longer than that fifteen minute walk required the carriage.

Elain refused to speak to or even look at Lucien, but he still seemed to read her current mood. “Come sit down on your bedroll and I’ll take care of dinner,” he said gruffly.

She wasn’t going to complain. Elain watched listlessly as Lucien set up their meager camp then prepared a downright luxurious meal of salted pork, brown bread and butter, then finished with some berries he found near the stream where he had filled up their water pouches.

Lucien stood over her after dinner, a frown on his plush lips. “Ye look fookin’ miserable.”

Elain didn’t respond, still annoyed with him and slightly embarrassed over her childish outburst.

He gave a long suffering sigh. “Take yer boots off and lay down.”

She awkwardly peeled her boots off and nearly sobbed at the instant relief she felt, which was nearly dashed away when Lucien plunked down next to her and pulled one of her legs into his lap.

“What are you-!”

“I was going to work yer muscles over since yer so sore.”

Elain sneered. “Out of the goodness of your heart, or because you’re so desperate to touch me?”

A muscle clenched in Lucien’s jaw. “No, because ye throwing your little tantrum and walking today cost us valuable time. If ye can stand to ride on Ajax, then it’s better for the both of us.”

Chastised, Elain silently let Lucien massage the muscles in her aching legs. It felt heavenly: he applied just enough force for her muscles to relax, but not hard enough that it was painful. He carried on over her calves and ventured up to her legs. Lucien reached the back of her thigh and Elain couldn’t stop the small gasp of relief she let out as he dug his fingers into her flesh and massaged her muscles. Being this close to certain other parts of her made Elain remember that night in the garden when they almost kissed. She was so tempted to open her legs, drag those strong hands exactly where she wanted them…

If Lucien was affected like Elain, he hid it much better than her. He moved away from her thighs, and Elain gave a quiet disappointed sigh. His hands skimmed her ankles before moving to her feet. Elain giggled and jerked her leg when he brushed the sensitive bottom of her foot.

The corner of Lucien’s mouth ticked up. “Wee bit ticklish, are ye?”

“I’ll trust you not to use my greatest weakness to your advantage, I hope.”

“No promises,” he replied, still grinning slightly and brushing another finger over her foot.

Elain barked a laugh and pulled away. “If you’re just going to torment me—“

“Oh, I plan on doing far more to ye than just torment ye,” Lucien said, and there it was: the all-consuming desire that made Elain lose all sense around her husband came back to life. They were so close; all Elain had to do was reach out for him, take his hand—

Lucien withdrew suddenly, the small grin on his face gone. “Er, I think it’s time we went to sleep. We’ll have a long journey tomorrow.”

A sudden snowstorm couldn't make Elain feel as cold as she did then. Nodding numbly, Elain settled on her bedroll while Lucien stood up and made his way towards his own makeshift bed on the other side of camp.

“Goodnight,” Elain called softly. Lucien didn’t respond, and Elain tried not to let her embarrassment and disappointment ruin her sleep.

The next day Elain accepted Lucien’s invitation to ride with him atop Ajax. He didn’t say anything about their immature argument the day before, but Elain noticed his woolen sleeping blanket over the saddle where she would sit. It was a peace offering, the only one Lucien could give that Elain would accept. She settled in, feeling Lucien’s comforting warmth seep into her back.

XXX

Lucien had to hand it to Elain: she was handling this entire situation far better than he had thought she would.

True, her first day or two hadn’t been smooth for either of them, for different reasons. He still winced whenever he recalled her stubbornly limping beside Ajax when she could physically no longer bear to ride him. Once he had massaged her legs—Lucien, the brute that he was, wanted to do so much more, but knew she’d reject him—Elain recovered quickly and since then, she had been riding atop the horse, her small and soft body snug between his thighs.

“Are we almost done for the day?”

Speak of the devil. “Nope,” Lucien replied cheerfully, keeping his grip on the reins in front of them both relaxed. “We’re still a few miles from Drumnadrochit, on the shores of Loch Ness. There’s a wee forest outside of town we can camp in, it’ll be grand.”

She mumbled something under her breath that sounded incredibly vulgar and Lucien chuckled. Elain was doing far better than Lucien had anticipated, but that didn’t mean he could let her off the hook so easily.

“Why can’t we stay in an inn? Surely we don’t have to resort to sleeping outside every night?”

“Because I didna’ bring much coin—it’s risky having a lot of coin on ye with only two people to defend it. What I did bring is for food so until ye find an ancient lost treasure, we'll be sleeping outside.”

Elain grumbled again but kept quiet. Nothing had changed in their marriage now that they were together constantly on the road: they still barely spoke or looked at each other, and slept as far away from each other as they could stand. Still, it was an improvement from their screaming match a few days ago.

That was embarrassing—he had said quite a few things he didn’t mean and didn’t have a clue how to resolve. Lucien was convinced that if he had tried to apologize, Elain would take his words for weakness or a lie, and they’d get into another argument.

No, better to keep silent and keep the peace, than risk talking to his wife and getting to know her.

Truly, the only difference between their time at the castle and now was that Lucien spent every day with Elain’s plush backside against his front, where only his inconvenient kilt separated his aching length from her body.

Perhaps Lucien wasn’t handling this situation as well as he thought.

“When we camp tonight, I’ll bring out the oat cake I nabbed from the kitchen, and we can have tattie scones in the morning.”

“Joy,” Elain deadpanned. “Oats for dinner and potato bread in the morning.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Yer the one who insisted on accompanying me and wouldn’t let me leave without ye. Ye don’t get to complain about anything, aye? That includes the food, sleeping arrangements, and travel companion.”

Elain turned and scrunched her face up at Lucien before turning back around in a huff. “Well, the donkey has been very a gracious and patient companion, and dutifully listens to everything I say,” she said in a mockingly innocent tone.

“The donkey shits where it walks and has nary a thought betwixt its ears, so I’m not sure I trust yer judgment when it comes to those around ye.”

“Hm, seems you and your animals have far more in common than you realized.”

Ajax snickered underneath them, and Lucien flexed his thighs against the horse and Elain’s soft legs, keeping his mouth shut. It was going to be a long few months.

They set up camp later that night in silence and ate their dinner—crusty bread, cheese and the last of their cured meat. Lucien frowned—they were eating their food faster than he had rationed, and would have to stop in Drumnadrochit to replenish their rations.

The last beams of sunlight shone through the trees above him and Lucien sighed, settling against his bedroll. Maybe he’d try to find the stream he knew from maps was somewhere nearby for an evening swim. Maybe, if he were nice and offered to massage her legs again, he could convince Elain to come with. She’d gone so pliant and agreeable the last time he did it, Lucien liked his chances.

Lucien was just about to open his mouth when Elain stood and began making her way through the trees, her pack over her shoulder.

“Where do ye think you’re going?”

“I’m not leaving,” she said. “I just need to take care of some womanly business.”

“Ah,” Luien said delicately, his face heating slightly. “With yer entire pack? Do ye need me to go with ye?”

“I don’t need you everywhere with me.”

Lucien rose a single eyebrow. “I thought the whole reason ye forced yourself along on this trip was because ye felt I wasno’ giving ye enough attention.”

Elain flushed even more. “Yes, well, sometimes women say one thing but mean another, and this is one of those instances.”

“What does that even mean?!”

“It means give me ten minutes to be myself for the first time in days! I’ll be back before it gets dark.”

Lucien groaned, covering his eyes with an arm. Elain was so contradictory: she complained that he ignored her and didn’t spend any time with her—true—then complained when they were forced to spend time with each due to her own actions.

Lucien sighed and ran his thumb over the ring on his left hand. He’d give her a few more moments then go out and find her. He closed his eye—

And awoke to near darkness and a rustling beside him. His dirk was in his hand before he was fully awake.

“It’s just me,” Elain whispered somewhere to his side. “Do you always wake up and immediately grab a weapon?”

“I’m Scottish, I was born with a knife in hand,” Lucien mumbled, sitting up and looking around. He could just make out Elain’s figure on her lumpy sleeping mat a few feet from him, a wool blanket over her. She hadn’t brought any warm sleeping clothes, and Lucien had been secretly delighted to give her one of his old tunics to sleep in.

“Did ye go far?”

“I found a stream nearby, though I must have taken a different path back because I got a bit lost.”

“‘A bit lost’?” Lucien exclaimed, his heart hammering in his chest. “Who kens what could have happened to ye if ye didn’t find yer way back! There are wild animals about, or ye could have fallen and gotten hurt!”

He saw the outline of Elain’s body stiffen. “Well, I’m fine and I came back, alright?”

Lucien dragged his hand over his face. God, his wife was stubborn—a trait that wasn’t unique to just her, he realized. How could Lucien make Elain understand that he needed her to be safe, and for the time, that meant staying close to him? He wanted, needed , Elain to always be safe, not just because she was his wife, but because the thought of anything bad happening to her made him sick to his stomach and had caused him to sleep poorly every night they’d been on the road.

Lucien took a deep breath. “I ken ye came back, but it’s dangerous out there. What if ye fell and twisted yer ankle? It gets cold in the evening, and when the wind is roaring, ye can’t hear anything betwixt the trees. Ye could be crying out for help, cold and in pain, and I wouldna’ be able to hear ye.”

Elain paused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

That was promising—Elain wasn’t fighting back, so Lucien pressed on. “We havana’ exactly had the best start, but it’s just us two out here. We need to be able to trust each other, and that means talking with each other. Something we both need to work on,” Lucien admitted.

Elain was silent for a few moments. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “for making you worry. I didn’t think how my actions would affect you.”

“Not for the first time,” Lucien muttered, and he was surprised to hear Elain let out a rather self-deprecating chuckle.

“You don’t need to say any more about that. Though, I’ll admit, I’d be helpless if we got truly separated.”

The thought made Lucien’s stomach clench. “I brought some maps of the Highlands. I’ll get them out tomorrow for ye to look over while we’re riding.”

“That would be nice.” Lucien thought he could hear something like a smile in her voice. She was silent, and he thought she might have gone to sleep. “And I’m sorry for being difficult earlier. I perhaps… didn’t think this entire situation through and…”

Lucien didn’t need Elain to say anymore. “That's alright. Maybe we wouldna’ be here if I was honest with ye from the start.”

Elain snorted. “Oh, we most certainly would have still ended up here—I’d have used any means necessary to go with you, if it meant I got to see more of the world.”

He hummed. The more Lucien learned about Elain, the more he realized how utterly wrong his initial opinions of her had been. Far from the frigid Englishwoman he’d assumed he had married, Elain was warm and teaming with life and desires so near to his own. She was clever and stubborn and wanted more from life than what she was currently living, traits he recognized in himself.

“Is it too late for that oat cake you mentioned earlier?” Elain asked quietly.

“Aye, I can’t see anything to know where it's in my bag.”

Elain sighed with disappointment, and Lucien’s chest ached at the sound. “That’s alright, maybe in the morning.”

“I was planning on stopping by Drumnadrochit tomorrow morn for some extra provisions. How about we stop by the inn for a hot meal, see if we can find ye some proper night clothes?”

Stupid. Why was he offering to waste more precious time and resources they didn’t have to wile away a morning in a simple village that most likely didn’t even have more than a basic goods store?

Lucien knew why. He’d only heard a whiff of disappointment in Elain’s voice and he had folded like a wet kilt, desperate to see and hear her happy instead.

He got his wish instantly. “Really?” she asked. “That would be wonderful!”

“This isno’ one of those womanly times where you say one thing and mean another, is it?” Lucien teased.

Elain chuckled. “Most definitely not. A proper Scottish village, how exciting.”

“Don’t get yer hopes up,” Lucien warned. “There will probably be more pigs than people.”

“That’s alright,” Elain replied happily. “Just seeing something new would be wonderful. Goodnight Lucien.”

“Goodnight Elain,” he said softly, listening to her soft breathing eventually evening out.

Elain was a mystery, and frustrating, and temperamental, and obviously keeping secrets about something. Just like he had been earlier, Lucien realized. This must be how Elain felt when she was holed up in the castle after the wedding, he thought wryly.

Vassa was right—he really had been an ass to Elain. Maybe his friend had a better idea of his wife’s true character than he did.

Lucien hoped Elain wouldn’t hold his past actions against him for long.

She certainly didn’t seem to mind him the next morning, rushing to dress and pack up her gear before Lucien had brushed the sleep from his eye.

“I dinnae realize how motivated ye’d be for a hot meal,” Lucien remarked dryly as they made their way towards Drumnadrochit. “I’ll have to tempt ye more often with good food if yer this springy in the mornings.”

“Well, it’s not just the food,” Elain answered, turning her head and arching an eyebrow. “I’m excited to see this town, Dromna–Drumma–”

“Drumnadrochit,” Lucien said slowly and clearly, enunciating each syllable so Elain could understand him. “Are ye that excited to see this little fishing village?” Lucien asked skeptically. “It’s nothing like Edinburgh, or even Inverness.”

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Elain said, bouncing in the saddle like she could will Ajax to trot along even faster. “And you said the village is next to Loch Ness. We didn’t have many reading materials about Scotland back in England and the ones I did read, er…”

“Only mentioned what bloodthirsty savages us Scots are?”

“Well, perhaps,” Elain admitted, the morning sun warming her flushed cheeks. “But none of them mentioned how breathtaking the scenery is. The sights I’ve seen in the past few days alone...”

“Aye, Scotland is verra beautiful, especially the farther north we go. Great peaks and forests, waterfalls, fields of heather as far as the eye can see—“

“And we’ll get to see it all?”

“Aye, we’ll get to see it all.”

Elain turned around in the saddle and smiled at him. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

“It seems we’re finally in agreement on something,” Lucien chuckled. “Before we get into town, it may be better if ye speak quietly, or no’ at all. I’m no’ sure how the folks up here would take to a bonnie English lass like ye.”

“You mean they wouldn’t instantly be charmed by my lovely accent and quick wit and wouldn’t run me out of town?” Elain asked sarcastically.

“Let’s no’ find out.”

Lucien had never been to Drumnadrochit, having gone around the other side of the loch when traveling to Inverness, but he’d been to enough small Highland villages to know what to expect. On the outskirts of town were several stone and sod houses huddled together, their rough roofs covered with tree branches and a single flume of smoke wafting upwards. Women sat outside their huts spinning wool or churning butter while gossiping with one another, and small children ran around barefoot. Lucien felt dozens of pairs of eyes sweeping over scarred his face before settling on the dirks, sword and crossbow strapped to his body, their wary judgment leaching into his already tense body.

Elain didn’t notice anything amiss. She looked around wildly as they passed more houses until they turned onto the town’s main street, its beaten dirt road soggy from a previous rain.

Ajax’s hooves splattered mud as they made their way further into town. From here, Lucien saw the town had a blacksmith and provisioners shop, and even a large church, its bell announcing the morning hour to the townspeople. Looking down the street gave Elain and Lucien a view of the great stone fortress of Castle Urquhart, home to Clan Grant, and beyond that—

“Oh,” Elain gasped softly, her eyes wide as she gazed at Loch Ness. Its water was murky, but it still managed to faintly glimmer in the morning light, offset by the lush green hills surrounding it.

“You’re verra lucky,” Lucien remarked casually as they made their way to the inn. “This particular loch has never looked so nice when I’ve seen it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Elain said, craning her neck for another view. “I could stare at it all day.”

“There’s plenty of other peaty lakes to stare at this far north,” Lucien snorted. “Besides, we’ve already attracted enough attention from the villagers, we don’t need ye gawking at the loch like a silly goose to let everyone know you’re no’ from around here.”

The inn, which seemed to also serve as the town’s drinking establishment, was sparsely populated. A few people sat around low tables conversing and drinking, while one man was slumped in the corner, a brown flat cap pulled over his face.

“I’ll get us breakfast. Doona talk to anyone,” Lucien reminded Elain. She rolled her eyes but listened, opting to look around at her surroundings.

“Is tha’ one alreeght?” the old bar maid asked Lucien as he stood against the bar after ordering some breakfast, gesturing towards Elain who was looking around the drab inn in wonder. The wrinkles around the bar maid’s eyes crinkled as she narrowed her eyes at her. “She seems a wee bit shocked at sumthing.”

“Er, she doesnae’ get out much,” Lucien winced, taking two bowls of warm oats drizzled with local honey and berries from her and handing over several coins.

The lady hummed. “Take these, on the hoose,” she said, sliding two small glasses of whisky towards him. “She looks like she needs it.”

“Taing,” Lucien replied, balancing everything back to the table.

Elain raised a questioning glance at the bowls and glasses.

“Oats,” Lucien said, handing her a bowl, “and a dram of local whisky, courtesy of the woman at the bar.” He didn’t feel like mentioning the whisky only came because the barmaid felt a shock of alcohol would do Elain good.

“How nice,” Elain whispered, staring at the small glass in her hand. “I’ve never had whisky.”

“Well, this stuff may not be of the highest quality,” Lucien admitted quietly so no one would overhear. “I suggest drinking it in one go, to get it over with.”

Elain nodded sagely. “Do you cheers? I’ve seen men do that, when they clink their glasses together.”

“Slainte mhath,” Lucien said, gently knocking his glass against hers. “Slainte mhath.”

“Slange va,” Elain said clumsily, then tossed the entire contents of the glass into her mouth.

Lucien drank and shuddered. Unsurprisingly, the whisky had a strong peat taste, owing to the area’s soil. It also hadn’t been aged long, or well, and all he could taste was pure, burning alcohol as it slipped down his throat.

Not the worst bit of whisky he’d ever had.

Lucien had to bite his lip and cover his mouth when he glanced at Elain’s face. Her normally soft, sweet face was contorted in a grimace, one eye twitching and the other watering as she swallowed the liquid. She coughed loudly before she covered her mouth to contain the rest of her fit.

“I think that was my reaction the first time I tried whisky,” Lucien chuckled, dipping a spoon into his oats.

“Good lord,” Elain whispered brokenly, her voice hoarse. “What the hell is in that?”

“Grain, water, and by the taste, peat straight from the loch and hellfire from Satan’s own arsehole.”

“Never again,” Elain gasped softly, reaching a trembling hand out to grip her spoon. “I’ll stick to wine and maybe ale, but I’m never drinking whisky again.”

“Never say never,” Lucien grinned. “There are much better ones around. I have several good quality whiskys back home we can sample when we get back.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can say or do that would convince me to try any more of that drink in my lifetime.”

“Oh, I can be verra persuasive when I want to be,” Lucien shot back, delighted when he noticed Elain blush.

She ate a mouthful of the oats and groaned softly, then began devouring the rest of the food. Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Are they really that much better than the oats I’ve been making every morning?”

“Yours aren’t as warm and tasty as this,” Elain replied, daintily licking her spoon. Lucien’s cock, which had been in varying states of stiffness the entire morning, roared back to life at seeing her small tongue caress the spoon.

I’ll give you something warm and tasty , the lecherous part of his brain supplied. Lucien gulped. “Maybe we can see if they have honey for sale.”

Drumnadrochit did in fact have honey for sale, as well as all kinds of food for their journey. Stopping by the crowded provisioner store, Lucien stocked up on oats for porridge, hardy and long lasting barley cakes, dried meat, hard cheese, bread, dried beans, and even a few potatoes and stalks of kale for a stew, plus a long woolen dress for Elain.

“Quite the spree yer gon’ on,” the shopkeeper remarked, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Offta somewhere then?”

“None of yer concern,” Lucien snapped, grabbing his purchases. “Nosy geezer,” he mumbled under his breath.

The donkey didn’t appreciate the extra weight, braying loudly as Lucien packed their new foodstuffs to its back. “Here are the maps I mentioned last night,” Lucien said, handing Elain a few creased paper maps before taking his place behind her on Ajax and leading them out of town at a steady pace. He looked up at the increasingly darkening sky and leaned over her. “We’re right here.”

“I see,” Elain said, studying the map intently. She was silent for a time looking at the maps, and soon Drumnadrochit was out of sight. “And we’re going all the way up here, to Sangravah?” she asked, pointing to the small island off the far northern coast.

“Aye. It’ll be a wee bit cold by the time we get up there so I expect ye’ll be wearing that new dress quite a bit.”

“Hm. Where are your trade routes exactly? I see very few roads on any of these maps, especially the farther north you travel.”

“They mainly follow existing wagon and cattle trails, or run next to rivers and other bodies of water. I have some contacts in Inverness who are printing me some updated maps. I’ve set up a few route markers for the roads near the Macpherson clan. After we rescue my mother—“

An arrow whizzed by Lucien’s arm, grazing his sleeve and knicking his bicep. In the time it took for Elain to cry out, Lucien had brought Ajax to halt, taken out his sword and swung off the horse.

“Stay on Ajax!” Lucien called, facing three men who were rapidly approaching them on the road. “If I tell ye to run, ye run, understand?”

Elain’s pale face was stricken, her body frozen on the horse. “Elain!”

“I, I can’t leave you,” she said. “I won’t–“

“Do ye remember what I told ye when I said ye could come with me? Yer to listen to everything I tell ye to do. If that includes running to save yerself and leaving me, ye do that, aye?”

Elain’s eyes were wide and for a split second Lucien thought she was going to argue with him. Instead, she jerked her head up and down.

“Good. Take this,” he said, handing her one of his small dirks, “and aim for the neck or bollocks if you need to.”

Her hand was trembling so hard Lucien thought she might drop the blade but she gripped it tight and held it close to her chest.

“Don’t go stabbing yourself now,” he smirked at her. “You’re far too pretty to have a knife wound on ye. Go!” he shouted, slapping Ajax’s hindquarters so the horse trotted away from Lucien, the donkey trotting after them.

Lucien turned towards the three men who slowed to a stop fifteen feet away, tying his hair back. “Who the fuck are ye and what do ye want?”

“Just a few men who’ve fallen on hard times,” one of the men with a brown cap on his head said. “We couldno’ help but notice that sweet bonnie lass o’ yers when ye stopped for a bit of food this morn’, and mah associate here noticed how much coin ye dropped at the shop later. Perhaps ye could spare a bit of coin, for charity.”

“Charity, my ass, shooting arrows with that shite aim at me.”

Brown cap cocked his head. “I hit exactly where I meant to. Seems ye have plenty of food for ye and that lass of yers. I’ve killed men for less.”

Lucien cursed himself. He recognized the muddy brown cap the man wore, the same hat that was covering his face in the inn. And the provisioner store was so crowded, and he had purchased so much at one time. Lucien should have been more on guard, more sensible. But Elain had been so happy and cheerful that Lucien forgot all about common sense and what he should have done.

“Lucky for me I’ve also killed men for less.” The three men slowly circled Lucien and withdrew their blades. He made a quick mental count of his own weapons–the crossbow strapped to his back would be of no help here, his useless pistol was buried at the bottom of his pack on Ajax, and he’d just given Elain his best dirk.

Unsheathing his sword from his back, Lucien widened his stance and rotated to face each of the three men. “Well, come on then, ye piss soaked rags. I haveno’ got all day.”

Just like he anticipated, the man from his left attacked first, raising a dirk in a fat fist towards Lucien’s chest. It hadn’t been long since he lost his left eye, but Lucien had learned very quickly that opponents viewed his missing eye as a weakness and targeted his left side more heavily than anywhere else.

Spinning to dodge the man, Lucien ducked underneath the man’s flailing arm and ran his sword through his enemy’s stomach. There was a bit of resistance as his sword pushed through the man’s substantial belly before he withdrew and the man crumpled before him.

Lucien roared as an explosion of pain, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since that fateful day back at the Clan Vanserra keep, radiated from his left shoulder as another man dug his dirk into Lucien’s back and grabbed him around his neck from behind, dragging him to the ground. The man tightened his arms around his neck as Lucien flailed his body. Lucien’s hands scrabbled against his choker’s arms, trying to dislodge him from his windpipe.

“I’ll make sure to treat that sweet English lass of yers to a real fine time,” his opponent whispered in his ear. “I’m sure plenty o’ people back in the village will be keen to show what we do to English pigs in Scotland.”

The black that had been invading the edges of Lucien’s eye turned red. Abandoning his opponent’s arms, Lucien cast about on the ground for the dirk that had stabbed him. Wrapping his hand around the short pommel, Lucien didn’t think or look as he thrust the dagger above him.

The arms around his neck slackened instantly and a gush of warm blood fell on Lucien’s head. Gagging, he rolled away and rose to his feet on unsteady legs.

“That’s a wee bit better now, aye?” Lucien croaked, wiping his face as best he could and gathering his sword to face the last man. “One against one, a bit more even.”

“Aye,” the man in the brown cap replied, a vicious smirk on his lips. “Hopefully those two fools tired ye out enough that this’ll be easy for me.”

It was misting around them, the dark clouds above finally releasing its rain. Lucien and his opponent circled each other for a few heartbeats before the man lunged towards Lucien with a one-handed ax held above his head. Throwing his sword up, Lucien grit his teeth as the reverberations from the clashing steel traveled straight to his screaming shoulder. Lucien sighed with relief when the man withdrew.

“That’s far too nice of an ax for a shit stain like you,” Lucien snarled, taking a large sweeping arc with his sword that the man easily parried. “Where’d ye get it from?”

“From the last man who tried to kill me,” his opponent said, slicing the ax towards Lucien. “Maybe I’ll use it to give ye a matching scar on the other side of yer face, ye ugly freak.”

Lucien barely dodged the next attack and nearly slipped in the mud. “The lasses actually find the scars verra charming.”

The man snarled as Lucien’s sword finally connected with his body, shallowly slicing his arm. “What about that bonnie lass yer with? I’m sure she’d prefer a man that isno’ cut up like you. Are ye missing anything else besides an eye? My cock is in one piece. Sure she’d like it more than whatever is dangling between yer legs.”

For the second time, Lucien saw red. “My wife is perfectly fine with my missing eye and fat cock,” he snarled, ignoring the rational part of his brain that said Elain had never seen that part of him. Without thinking, he sent a wide, slicing sweep attack towards the man. Like he was watching in slow motion, Lucien watched as the rain-slicked handle of his sword slipped from his hand and sent the sword flying towards his opponent.

The sword connected fully with the man’s neck, and his head rolled away before his body fell to the ground.

Lucien fell to his knees, gasping with pain and exertion. Now that the fight was over, the mind numbing pain of his shoulder wound was all he could feel. It was raining hard now, and Lucien staggered to his feet and collected his sword.

His opponent’s blood–the one whose neck he had slashed–ran down his face and into his eyes and mouth. Spitting, Lucien began hobbling down the road where he thought he sent Elain and Ajax, using his sword as a makeshift crutch. “Elain!”

No response. Lucien kept staggering forward, fighting the pain and the voice inside his head that told him to just lay down. “Elain!”

Had she left him? Lucien thought they were finally connecting with each other and moving past their rough few weeks of matrimony. Had that all been a foolish dream on his part?

The rain was heavy now, and Lucien could barely see more than a few feet in front of him. “Elain,” he called out weakly and fell to his knees. This was how he was going to die. As long as Elain was safe, it was worth it.

“Lucien!”

He grunted as someone brushed his shoulder wound and collapsed into the mud. Someone was supporting him, and urging him onwards, but Lucien wasn’t aware of anything else, not even the dry ground that greeted him when he collapsed.

#elucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #acotar #elucien fanfiction #elucien fic #my fics #my fic #this chapter is coming in hot at the last minute #trying to get my life sorted for a trip and whoop remembered i said i would post again before i leave

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thetooncrew · 4 months ago

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let's give old grim a break - it was halloween yesterday, after all!

this is the time for OLD NOV-MEN-BER! a list of my FAVORITE old men and their respective shows to draw!

DAY ONE: The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy/Toadblatt's School of Sorcery

#squidarts!#old novmenber #the grim adventures of billy and mandy #tgaobam #tea sauce #the squidhat #get ready for a lot of these to be posted last-minute WHOOPS

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piscesmerc26 · 2 months ago

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Shining a light on “unfavorable” placements. pt.1

Within astrology, I notice a lot of people addressing only the dark sides of dark placements. These placements being considered as unfavorable and or “unfortunate”. However, tougher aspects/placements are generally considered to be gifts, though they are challenges, I see them as direct callings on what allows the individual to reach success. I am not a professional but these are patterns/observations I make from personal experience and life all around me. Now buckle up, this’ll be a long post, I’ll be discussing only planetary/object placements, next part will be aspects however, less descriptive.

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12H & 8H Suns and Moons

12H Suns are considered to be unfavorable however, this placement is actually a gift, though the sun is “shadowed” in this area; individuals with 12H are actually here on a mission, though it is bleak to see, individuals with this placement have power and it’s not even locked potential, it’s just power that they cannot see themselves but naturally exude. 12H suns are directly connected to the subconscious, they have this “one foot in one foot out” approach to reality, they are immensely creative and are gifted with compassion at early ages, though they don’t realize it, they tend to be ahead of the game in the early stages of life

12H Moons; these individuals are given heavy emotions, probably even a transformative connection with their mother, their emotions is where their spiritual knowledge lies, they have strong intuition and are the true empaths of astrology. Those with this placement are driven by their feelings, they know the ins and outs and have all the secrets, this is more hidden/internal knowledge, similar to 12H suns, they can gain a lot of knowledge later in life

Now 8H Suns/Moons are similar to one another. Individuals with these placements have true power in them, and they are gifted with depth and intensity that people are actually afraid of. These are the type of people to get told something toxic about themselves and they hit you with a “I know.” or they will outwardly tell you themselves (If other points in the chart agree). They are masters when it comes to shadow work and they are constantly changing–if you don’t see them for at least a month and they come back, their mindset could have taken a complete 180, for better or for worse. The 8H expands everything it touches, it creates an intense amount of depth to the matter. These individuals also tend to have a lot of people that will outwardly try to put them down, whether it is directly or indirectly, they also tend to have karma on their side. Their Image(Sun) and their emotions(moon)are heavily protected and praying on these individuals' downfall is like asking for a spiritual ass whooping.

Mercury in Pisces & Sagittarius:

Having Mercury in Pisces is an unfavorable placement, these individuals could be seen as forgetful, in a constant cycle of daze, and emotionally detached. However, the thoughts that boil within the brain of this placement is insane. I mean, we have a civil rights activist and a famous genius with this placement, if that doesn’t tell you anything idk what to tell you. These individuals are gifted with a lot of creativity, their thoughts actually run a mile a minute, they are typically well versed in various hobbies, these are the type of people if you ask what they do they might not give you one answer and hang around them long enough, you will see them having a new hobby every week. The ADHD masters, they’ll tell you they never played an instrument and hop on and immediately sound like an intermediate musician. These people have seen and heard it all, they are intelligent and their words hold weight. They say one thing and it’ll last you a lifetime, their advice sits in the back of people’s minds, their words are food for the soul, everything they say is more calculated and meaningful than even they think themselves. Truly underrated.

Next my lovely Sagittarian Mercuries. These individuals could be seen as rude, blunt, obnoxious, and or lacking emotional depth but just like their jupiterian sister pisces; they are much wiser than they put on. These individuals are witty, they are intelligent, they are humorous, their words hold power as well, they tell the truth and they build people up, they’re down to earth and self-assured, they have a way of making people listen, they are captivating in their words and can be lyrically gifted, natural poets in their own way.

Cadent Dominant Placements:

Being Cadent Dominant in my learnings is considered to have most of your placements within the 3H, 6H, 9H, and 12H. In addition, in case you don’t know, cadent houses are the houses further away from the angular houses and after the succedent houses, they tend to be where the most work has to happen are seen as challenging placements to have. Now, these individuals are smart as fuck, for lack of a better term. They are gifted with an inner drive, a drive that not many people will see or understand but themselves, these individuals have the power of moving masses. Though their efforts are indirect, they tend to hit people when it’s least expected–driven, misunderstood and powerful. 3H placements are well versed in communication, 6Hers know how to get shit done, 9Hers and 12Hers are mass movers and the backbone influencers. Having these placements indicate someone important, possibly even beyond a metaphysical sense. They don’t stop until they win and their perseverance is remarkable just as their lives are.

Saturn/Uranus/Pluto Ruled or Dominance (etc.)

Talk about “fuck around and find out”, these indivudals are like the older or even the middle children in astrology, many people with significant Pluto/Saturn/Uranus in their chart, this includes being ruled(MC & ASC), having it as a dominant planet, placed within the 1H, or aspecting Sun/Moon/Asc–tend to be protected like crazy. They tend to go through a lot of inner struggle and tend to constantly have something to work on, it’s like once they’re done with one lesson they’re given another. It’s like being stuck with chores all day and you’re finally done with your last one and once you’re about to step outside or go to your room to lay down, their parents call them and ask them to do something else and the cycle goes on lol. These individuals are resilient and are hardworking, they’re unique and nothing generally gets past them, you fuck with them, you’re fucking with their team as well, and best believe the universe is ready to dish back what you sent in tenfold; this even applies to the individual, but they rarely fuck up cause they know how it can get everytime. Gifted with power, control and drive, these individuals are goal-oriented, they don’t let anything get in their way and if there is even a slight indication of a distraction about to occur, they shut it down real quick. I like this.

Saturn in Angular Houses (1H, 4H, 7H, 10H) and HM: 5H.

Saturn in these houses are hard hitting. Cracking my knuckles because I’m about to go IN. I will state the

To start, Saturn in the 1H, these individuals are constantly met with lessons that have to do with their identity, they will be put in situations where they are physically limited and their identity is limited/restricted, these people will obsess over themselves and hold themselves to a high standard. However, even through this, these individuals not only directly have karma on their side, but they are ultimately gifted with a deep knowing of self, they build their identity and it is a literal weapon to anyone who brings murky intentions into their world, simply because of how resilient they are and how much they worked through restriction in the past.

For Saturn in the 4H, they may have had issues that involved restriction with their family, this is heavy because they sat through that for their entire lives, up to 18 and possibly even further than that. These individuals weren’t able to make a house a home or generally find a proper home. In their older years, they work with this energy to make a place for themselves and others, they have the power of compassion and comfort.

For Saturn in the 7H & 5H, these individuals are known to have tough luck in love, relationships are rare and if they have many relationships, they are often restrictive and unsatisfactory. They may struggle additionally with their sense of worth and bear a false outlook on love. However, in some moments in their younger years and in their older years, they possess deep knowledge on love, they seem to take it seriously and their love is rich, they are gifted with deep compassion and the ability to be long term with other people. They have unforgettable love, and they are typically unforgettable people as a whole.

Lastly for Saturn 10H, these people could feel restricted career wise, they may feel that they’re always being attacked in their reputation and are held from their true potential, however, they actually overextend themselves more than what they were meant, they can influence and hold a lot of power.

These can also be applied to Pluto as well, with more of a transformative foundation, however, Saturn and Pluto tend to be both extremely transformative planets.

Chiron in Succedent Houses (2H, 5H, 8H, 11H)

These placements tend to fit in a similar category, they are often scarred with themes that are prioritized in life; Money, Fun, Transformation and Community. They tend to see others experience joy and balance within these themes however, they find that this is the source of their trauma and unhealthy codependency that they desire to break away from. Ultimately, these individuals are gifted with strength and influence, they are creative, influential and open-minded when conflicts are properly addressed.

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In this post, I went into depth on placements that have more power than what is spoken about them; however, the dark tends to hold more truth about the light than the light does of itself. The placements listed are powerful and resilient, gifted with all sorts of things, and if you believe that something in your chart is insignificant, understand that astrology is a tool to access potential, it can hint at traits but it is not a concrete definition because there are other calculations that exist and have existed even beyond Traditional Western astrology. Next part will be on aspects, thank you for reading.

- J🧡

#astro community #astro notes #astro observations #astrology

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writersdrug · 6 months ago

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Convincing bartender Simon to make one of those overly decorated and sweet cocktails or even add it to the menu because it’s cute and you know it’d do well on the gram and attract the ladies. He’d huff and puff but do it anyway

Like one of these with cotton candy, glitter, and sprinkles etc!: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/825988387943179970/

OMG wait I soooo want to try that-

The video ends, and Simon stares at the picture of the drink with a furrowed brow.

"Looks like somethin' you'd see at a bridal shower." He comments, handing you back your phone.

"Doesn' it?" You say with a smile, shoving your phone into your back pocket. You lean your arms over the bar and poke his side. "Come oooonnnnnn, Simon - imagine how many sales you'd make on something like that! People would love it."

"Imagine the money I'd lose, havin' t' buy bags of candy floss..." he grumbles, hiding his smirk behind his mask when you groan dramatically.

"You could do it as a promotional thing...? Like- ladies' night... in October?"

He snorts. "'Ladies' Night in October', hmm? N' what are ladies celebratin'?"

"Ok, fine- forget Ladies' Night. What about something for Halloween?"

"Like wot?" He grunts, grabbing a glass from the stack and pouring out one of the taps.

"I dunno... something fun, but practical - Oh! You could- like a Moscow Mule, but just serve it in a different glass and use edible glitter!"

Simon quirks his brow as he slides the beer glass to a customer. "Edible glitter?" He asks, wiping his hands on his rag. "Didn't know there was such a thing."

You nod quickly, your eyes full of excitement. "Yeah! God, I could pick up a bunch from the baker's supply down a few blocks. You could call it 'Witches' Brew.'"

He turns it over for a moment - in his opinion, it's ridiculous. He runs a pub, not a college bar. He would have scoffed at the idea of someone else had brought it up - but, it's you bringing it up, and that's a completely different story. You have such a brilliant gleam in your eye that melts his heart. He can't say no to you, especially after making you cry last week. He's still carrying out his penance for that.

"You think it'd sell?"

"Oh, for sure! I can make an insta post about it to get some attention."

He clicks his tongue, turning to the POS and seemingly uninterested by it. "Fine - if you spend anythin' promotin' it, let Price know. He'll reimburse ya."

You let out a triumphant whoop and slide of the barstool. He lets out a huff as you trot back to your tables, a noticeable pep in your step. He chances through the window on the kitchen door to see if his food is ready - what he's met with is Johnny's face, staring through the warming counter as he stands at the stove, a smug grin resting on his lips.

Simon can practically hear the cook's thoughts. Whipped bastard.

You had left without saying goodbye that night. You waited by the counter, rocking eagerly on your toes as Simon grabbed your tips from the night before out of the safe. As soon as he handed them to you, you snatched them and ran out the door. He was a bit irked by that, standing there with a stubborn frown as you pranced out of the restaurant - maybe you're still not back to being cheeky and chipper yet after last week. He can live with that... for now.

However, not twenty minutes later, you come stumbling back in with a paper bag in hand and a smile on your face, panting like you'd just run a marathon. Simon's anxieties quell at the sight of you.

"Got it!" You say breathlessly, walking to the edge of the bar and dropping the bag onto it. Simon folds his arms over his chest as you reach in and pull out a small bottle of glitter. You hand It to him and he takes it, holding it up to the dim light above.

"You can eat this shit?" He asks, brows furrowed.

"Mhmm!" You chirp, settling into a barstool. "Now, bartender - I'll have a Moscow Mule."

He sets the glitter down and grabs a clear glass, working on gathering the ingredients. "Ya only call me that when you want something."

"I'm calling you what you are." You respond, watching as he skillfully mixes everything together, pouring vodka from the jigger between two fingers, tossing in lime juice and topping it off with ginger beer. As shameful as it is to admit, you're kinda attracted to the skill he presents.

"Should be callin' me boss." He says, topping the drink off with a straw.

You slide off your stool and chuckle. "Yeah, you'd be into something kinky like that."

Simon has to bite the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the thought of you - nope. He won't even entertain the idea. He simply steps back a bit as you wedge yourself behind the bar (yes, he actually forces himself to give you enough room - he doesn't need you feeling hiw aroused he is).

You grab a bottle of the glitter and dash some into the drink. After swirling it with the straw, the liquid becomes iridescent with purple shimmer that billows about the glass. You look up at him with a satisfied smile.

"Witches' Brew." You announce, holding the drink out to him.

You look happy - an observation that makes Simon smile, even if he wasn't the one to cause your happiness. He lifts his mask, grabs one of the straws and plugs it, before bringing it to his mouth and sampling the drink.

"Tastes like a mule."

"But it looks like a potion, right?"

"'S this glitter goin' to be in my gut whenever I get autopsied?"

You laugh, grabbing the glass and leaving Simon behind the bar. "That would be a cute party trick." You call over your shoulder.

Simon watches you, arms folded over his chest and his eyes curious. You set the drink on the opposite end of the bar, pulling your phone from your pocket and pointing the camera to the glass. You grimace; your arm reaches over the bar to grab the rag lying over the faucet, and quickly wipe down the bartop. He huffs, grabbing his phone from the register and pulling up his group text with Soap and Price.

Ghost: got ourselves a marketing team.

He looks back up at you - you're hunched over, taking picture after picture of the drink. You twirl the straw in the liquid every few seconds, kicking up the glitter and making it reflect the low lighting of the bar.

Hus phone buzzes.

Price: ??

Ghost: she's making a drink for october and promoting it in social media

Soap: clever girl

Soap: what drink?

Ghost: moscow mule, but in a clear glass and with some edible glitter shit. it's pretty neat.

Soap: picture?

Price: Promoting? Will this cost me anything?

Simon chuckles. He pulls up the camera on his phone and aims it at you-

Except you're in a different position. You're perched so nicely on a barstool, holding your phone at arm's length and your drink in the other hand. You're smiling up at your camera, nose scrunched as you pose for a selfie. Your hair is down, your back is arched, and - did you tug your neckline down? You most certainly did. You're breasts weren't that pronounced before.

Without thinking, Simon takes a photo. The shutter clicks loudly: you look at him, as do the three patrons sitting at the bar.

Fuck. He panicks, clearing his throat and lowering his phone. "Jus' showin' the lads what you're up to." He says, but you can see the tension in his shoulders as he quickly sends the picture to the chat and puts his phone in his pocket.

You smirk - whether it was truly just for Price and Soap, or if it was for himself, you felt a little flattered that you'd caught him in the act. You hoped for the latter.

Simon exhales heavily and rests his palms on the counter. His face burns beneath his mask as he tries to calm his racing heart. Fuck- was that weird? Course it fuckin' was. Goddamn creep.

His phone buzzes again. He sighs and pulls it into his hand.

Price: Cute thing, isn't she?

Simon immediately frowns, any previous shame now replaced with a fire in his chest.

"Fuckin' wot?"

#bartender ghost #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #call of duty #cod x reader

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hederasgarden · 2 months ago

Text

Finis

Summary: Lucius comes for you (this is a follow up to Post tenebras lux and Ab Initio) Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 7.8 K (WHOOPS SORRY) Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Angst with a HEA, sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death/grief and other untagged themes (please message me if you’d like to know what these are). A/N: A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar and @ryebecca for their help with the fic. Becca also made the beautiful banner as well! This is full of historical inaccuracies and I’m using both Roman and Greek mythology interchangeably. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

Anxiety pulses beneath your skin as you lie in the dark, Lucius’s body pressed close against yours. His steady, warm breath brushes the back of your neck, but you know he's just as awake as you are. Neither of you can sleep. It’s a cruel kind of torture, pretending that nothing has changed, and that you’ll still be together when the morning light spills into the cell.

You don’t know how much time you have before they come for you. It could be hours. It could be minutes. You wish you could take Lucius inside you just once more, to have him fill every part of you with his love, his devotion. You sigh and he says your name softly, urging you to face him. The ache in your chest only intensifies when you turn and meet his eyes. No words are spoken — how could there be any that would make this easier? What could you say that would make the pain of this goodbye more bearable?

You close your eyes and breathe out. Somewhere a guard’s laughter echoes faintly, while from another cell, the deep, steady snoring of a gladiator fills the silence. Then you hear it. A sound, small but sharp: the faint jingling of keys. The scrape of metal against metal.

It’s time.

Lucius pulls you to your feet with a quiet urgency, his hands steady as he drapes the cloak over your shoulders and fastens the clasp at your throat. His touch lingers there before he dips his head to kiss you, gentle and tender. It carries the weight of something else, something final. You can’t bear the thought of it. With a sudden surge of emotion, you rise onto your toes and throw your arms around his shoulders, kissing him with a desperation that feels like a vow. It’s a promise that no matter what happens, you will find your way back to each other.

"Have faith," he whispers once you pull away, his forehead against yours. "I will see you again soon."

You swallow, the words heavy in your throat. "I have no faith left in the gods," you confess. Your lips tremble with the weight of your blasphemy. It feels like a sin, but it's the truth.

"Then have faith in me," he returns, his voice soft but unwavering. He holds your cheek in his scarred hand and your lashes flutter. "As long as there is breath in my body, I will return to you."

"Lucius…" Your voice cracks, and before you can stop it, tears slip down your cheeks.

He grasps your neck, pulling you close and guiding your cheek until it rests against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a rhythmic comfort, so different from the frantic pounding of your own. He holds you like this moment can somehow protect you from what’s to come, and you stay like that until Ravi says your name in a low, urgent tone.

"Please, we must hurry."

You look up at Lucius one last time, desperate to memorize every line of his face, but time is slipping away, and you know there’s no more time to hold on. You step away, your heart heavy, and take Ravi’s hand.

The cool, solid grip of his fingers anchors you as you move down the dark hallway. Silence stretches out around you like a shroud. Despite your spurning of the gods, your mind drifts to Persephone, trapped in a fate not of her making. The thought lingers, haunting you, as you walk further into the darkness, but you press forward.

Because like Orpheus, if you look back, you will be lost.

–

You ride for days with a small group of men loyal to General Acacius and Lucilla, the landscape unfolding in shades of brown and green while the horizon stretches out endlessly. The dull ache in your thighs has become a constant companion, deepening with every hour spent on a saddle. The smell of horse and sweat clings stubbornly to your clothes, mingling with the dust of the road.

Moments of rest are brief and tense, and the men around you speak little of where you’re headed. You often feel Lucilla’s gaze on you as you ride, though there is little time to converse meaningfully. She looks different from the times you saw her seated beside the emperors in the arena. Her beautiful golden hair is plaited into a simple braid and her face is bare. Yet, even without the fine robes and jewelry, there is nothing common about her appearance. From the sharp cut of her high cheekbones to the elegant line of her jaw, everything about her is unmistakably royal.

She carries herself with a quiet authority that even the soldiers heed. They respect her and to your surprise, they show you the same reverence. It’s disorienting, unnerving even, but something in you is too afraid to push back against the illusion of nobility they’ve woven around you. So, you do what is required, what you learned from your time with Lucius and draw from the life you lived before you were a fisherman’s wife. You slip into the skin of someone else who is meant to be here and is worthy of the respect they offer. But it’s a mask that chafes, a weight far heavier than any shackle.

–

On the sixth day of riding, you crest a ridge, and suddenly the rugged coast unfolds before you with sparkling turquoise waters and lush hills. The soldier you ride with stops, just as stunned by the beauty as you. It’s been nearly two years since you’ve seen the ocean and smelt salt in the air. For a moment it’s as if Kronos himself has softened his grip on time and memories of your life before flood back, overwhelming and painfully beautiful. But the moment is brief, shattered when the soldier speaks.

“This will be your new home, my lady, until we receive word from the General that Rome is safe once again.”

He nudges the horse with a soft kick of his heels and the animal resumes its careful trot, disrupting loose stones as it makes its way down the steep, narrow trail. In the distance, you spot a small villa, nestled among rolling hills, its stone walls partially obscured by lush vineyards.

“Is it safe?” You question.

The young man offers you a smile over his shoulder. “There are many who are loyal to Lady Lucilla and the General. No one will know of your presence here.”

When you arrive you’re helped from the horse by another soldier, and follow behind Lucilla as she moves into the house. A row of servants greets the two of you, and the moment they see her they bow deeply. They don't look at you directly, but you feel their gaze flicker over you, just for a second, before their attention returns solely to her.

“Draw a bath for myself and my guest,” she instructs the gathered servants, handing off her dusty cloak and pushing her braid off her shoulder. “Bring fresh water and food for the men outside. See to it that they are taken care of first.”

You stand behind her, waiting for some instruction or sign of what you’re supposed to do. But as Lucilla turns and sweeps away, a young servant steps forward, offering you a shallow bow.

“Your cloak, my lady,” he says.

His words hit you with an unexpected force and you realize, for the first time in years, that you are no longer a slave.

–

You wake slowly, the dredges of your sleep lingering as you roll to your back and shield your eyes from the morning light. After nearly a week on the road, the bed you sleep in is a welcome relief. It’s more luxurious than anything you’ve ever known and you inhale the clean, citrusy scent on the sheets.

A gentle knock on your door is your only warning before a servant enters with a jug of water that she sets on a low table. She bows to you before moving to open the curtains and let sunlight flood the room. Next, she moves to the hearth, stoking a small fire with practiced movements. While she works another servant appears with fresh robes that she lays over the edge of your bed. The fabric is pale blue and finely made, trimmed in silver, but as your eyes linger on them, you can’t help but remember the last time you wore such finery.

"Domina," the new servant greets, drawing your attention away from the clothes. “May we help you dress?”

The way she addresses you, like the man last night, causes a strange, uncomfortable flutter in your chest. She does not seem to sense your discomfort and waits patiently for a reply, as sure and comfortable in her role as you are uncomfortable in yours. It feels so alien, to have someone serve you like this. Weeks ago, this was your job, your life. The thought twists in your gut.

“N-no.” You finally manage. “That will be all.”

“As you wish,” she replies, accepting your answer with a respectful nod.

You know they are here to serve you, and yet it startles you, the way they defer to you so unquestioningly.

She pauses at the door, her attention on you once again. “Lady Lucilla wishes you to break your fast with her on the terrace.”

Then she turns and quietly retreats from the room. Only once you're alone does the tightness in your throat abate, but there is another deeper discomfort that lingers. It takes you longer to dress than you expect and you’re left feeling unsure if it’s the way the garment fits or the unfamiliarity of the situation that feels so wrong.

By the time you reach the terrace, the morning sun is brighter and warmer. Lucilla is seated at a table laden with food, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine cup, lost in thought. She offers you a quiet greeting as you slip into the empty chair beside her. A plate piled high with fruit is set before you; after so long on the road, your mouth waters at the sight.

You select a peach and drag it through honey. It’s halfway to your lips when the servant’s voice cuts through the stillness of the morning.

“Did you sleep well, my lady?" She asks politely.

"I am not a lady," you correct quietly, the words slipping out before you can fully think them through.

The moment you say it, you freeze. Juice drips down your fingers, a sticky trail running under the sleeve of your robe, but you don’t even notice. The servant glances at Lucilla, brows furrowed in confusion by your denial, but Lucilla simply smiles, seemingly unbothered.

"You may go now," she says to the young woman, a touch of finality in her tone. “We will call you if we have need of you.”

The servant nods and retreats without a word, her footsteps fading into the hall. Lucilla watches her go, waiting to speak until you are alone.

"I suppose you're not a lady," she says, her tone not unkind.

She delicately eats a honey cake, seemingly preoccupied, but there's something sharp and assessing in her eyes that reminds you strongly of Lucius. You chew the peach in silence, but it feels like ash in your mouth now. You’ve misstepped.

"It would be Princess, would it not?" she asks, not waiting for a response before continuing. "You are my son's wife and he is the prince of Rome."

Princess.

Wife.

Your mind doesn’t seem to know which to focus on first. Both are heavy titles, the first unexpected, but it’s the second that gives you pause. It’s a title you never expected to have again, but it’s one you cannot deny you long for.

"My lady,” you begin quietly, “We were never…married. They gave me to him as a concubine.” Though you know she understands, Lucius told her everything before you left, you still rush to clarify. "But I was never truly that. I was only ever a slave."

Lucilla hums thoughtfully, regarding you over the rim of her glass as she drinks. "You pledged yourselves to one another, did you not?" she asks.

You nod stiffly, and then she leans forward, surprising you by gently settling a hand over your chest.

"If he lives here," she murmurs, her fingers pressing lightly, "and you live in his heart, what more could the gods ask for?"

“I...I suppose,” you respond hesitantly, unsure how to finish the thought.

She smiles warmly at you as if the matter is settled, but you feel less sure. A slave, risen to the status of princess. Would the rest of Rome regard you so generously?

Lucilla seems oblivious to your doubts and with a soft, contented hum, she leans forward, turning her attention to the plate of fruits as she seems to contemplate her choices. She glances at you briefly before selecting a date, her movements slow and measured.

“When the time comes you will stand beside Lucius as his wife and the rest of Rome will see you as such. Because he will tell them to.”

The words hang in the air between you, but they do nothing to ease the gnawing discomfort building inside.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “Where I come from - what I am…it does not bother you?”

“What you were,” she corrects, holding your gaze for a beat before she continues. “But you mean, does it bother me you were once a slave?” She questions.

You nod. “I am also not Roman. I was just a fisherman’s wife,” you reply, though that title has long since been stripped from you.

“Lucius’s father was a slave and a gladiator,” Lucilla replies, her gaze softening when she speaks of him. The love and longing in her words feel fresh, as though Lucius’s father still lingers in her mind after all these years.

You clasp your hands together, your fingers curling slightly, stroking your thumb over your knuckles. You exhale and meet her gaze again.

“He was also once a general, was he not?” you question, half unsure why you’re still pressing the point. Maybe it’s the lingering unease, the feeling that you don't belong here. Why should it be so simple?

Lucilla sets her glass down with quiet deliberation. Her eyes meet yours, steady and unflinching.

“In the Rome my father believed in,” she begins, “anyone could rise to greatness, regardless of their past. It was not about where you started, but what you did with the chances the gods gave to you.”

For a moment you let yourself imagine the world she describes — one where people can transform, where their past does not determine their worth. You want to believe her, to let the fragile embers of hope her son ignited in you months ago bloom into something real. But doubt is a hard thing to shake.

“It’s a beautiful dream,” you say, unsure if you quite believe her words. “Your father sounds like a great man.”

Lucilla smiles, sadness flickering in her eyes. “He was,” she replies. “I see so much of Lucius in him. His strength. His sense of honor.” Then, with an unexpected tenderness, she adds, “I think he would have liked you.”

“You honor me,” you respond, lowering your gaze. The weight of her acceptance feels heavier than you expect.

Lucilla shifts closer, her knees brushing yours. She says your name quietly and you look up.

“I know you may not see it yet, but not everyone could have survived what you have and come out stronger,” she tells you, her voice steady but filled with a quiet conviction. “That is your gift. And now you must decide how you wish to wield that power.”

“Wield it?” you ask, confusion threading through your words. "I have no desire to rule."

Lucilla’s expression eases, but she doesn’t falter. "No," she agrees. "Neither did I. But that does not mean you cannot help Lucius rebuild Rome into something stronger, something better. If you choose to."

You’ve spent most of your life at the mercy of forces larger than yourself, swept along by events outside your control. The thought of the power she speaks of is daunting, almost uncomfortable.

“But what can I do?”

“In this world, there are many ways to hold power. Not all of them are visible, but they are just as effective.” Lucilla explains. “True strength lies in shaping the course of events without ever appearing to control them.”

You frown slightly. “I do not know how to achieve that.”

Lucilla tilts her head, her smile knowing. "You have already mastered the basics from your time in the arena. I can teach you the rest.”

You’re silent for a long moment, processing her words.

“You truly believe I am capable of this?”

“Yes,” she says.

There’s a certainty and knowing in her tone, so like her son’s, a belief that you are worthy — even if you can’t yet see it in yourself. A wave of emotion rises within you. You want to be worthy of Lucius’s love, and of Lucilla’s faith in you.

Despite the doubt you lift your chin and straighten your shoulders. “Teach me.”

–

As the weeks slip by, you fall into a rhythm with Lucilla that feels almost comforting in its predictability, and certainly far more steady than the chaos of your days in the Colosseum. Afternoons are spent learning to be a proper Roman woman. At first, the lessons are as expected: how to dress, how to speak, and how to move with the elegance and poise that mark a lady of high status. But soon the lessons grow more layered, more intricate. Slowly, you begin to learn to move through the world with intention, to shape it and, in time, make it yield to your will.

Yet, no matter how much of your time is occupied, your worry for Lucius never fully fades. It hovers at the edges of your thoughts, a persistent shadow on your periphery that remains there despite Lucilla's attempts to keep you busy. The only moments you can quiet your mind are in the early hours of the day, when the sun is just a faint promise of light that lingers below the horizon and the villa is quiet.

On those mornings you rise without the aid of the servants, draping a heavy cloak over your shoulders and heading to the kitchen where the remnants of yesterday’s meal sit on the counter. There you gather the bread still fragrant with yeast and ripened figs and wrap them in a clean cloth. When you step outside, a wave of dizziness passes through you, a light-headedness that’s become more frequent of late as your stress and anxiety grow. You pause to steady yourself against the cool stone of the villa before you’re able to shake the feeling.

Felix, the same young soldier you rode with from Rome, is waiting for you. He leans against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep, but he rouses himself quickly as he sees you approach. Without a word, he falls in behind you as you begin the descent down the winding path that leads to the sea. By the time you reach the bottom, the path opens up to the edge of the old fishing dock. You unwrap the cloth and tear off a piece of bread, breaking it in half, and hand it to Felix along with one of the figs. He takes a seat on the short stone wall and you continue to the dock.

The planks groan as you make your way to the end where the ocean stretches out before you into nothingness. You lower yourself until your legs dangle over the water. For a moment, there is only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, gentle and rhythmic. Then, over the quiet, you hear the fishermen further down the coast. Their voices carry on the wind as they begin their work for the day, preparing their boats and nets for the first catch.

The first time you came here, you expected the grief you carried for your lost husband would break over you like a swell, sharp and sudden. But it didn’t. That ache, that quiet, constant ache was still there as you suspect it always would be but somewhere along the way that wound had become a scar. Simply a part of you, like the salt in the air or the brine in the sea.

You break your fast with a fig, savoring the sweetness of its soft flesh until a sudden wave of nausea stirs in the pit of your stomach. It’s brief, but sharp enough to make you pause before swallowing. You will it to pass and it does though it seems to linger longer and longer lately. You brush the thought away and finish your meal, remaining on the dock until the sun’s light begins to break through the clouds, casting a soft, golden glow on the water. The heat sinks into your skin and you close your eyes, accepting its warm touch. In the quiet your mind drifts, as it always does, to Lucius and the pain of your separation deepens.

Was he sitting somewhere, feeling this same warmth? Was he safe? Had the plans he set in motion succeeded? The questions swirl in your mind like the restless current. You try to picture him as you saw him last, steady and focused, but all you can conjure is the look of fear in his deep, dark-set eyes the night of Macrinus' party. Anxiety and dread return to you and tears threaten to fall.

The urge to push the emotion down, to shield yourself from its pull is strong, but then, you remember Lucilla’s lesson. With a quiet exhale you drop your shoulders and accept the feeling, letting it pass over until it ebbs into nothingness. You take slow and steady breaths, gaining control of yourself once more.

“Princess,” Felix greets, wood creaking under his feet. “We must return.”

The title hangs in the air, a strange thing even after all these weeks. He says it so effortlessly, as if it has always been this way. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it.

“Perhaps there will be news today,” he suggests encouragingly.

“Perhaps,” you agree, accepting his offered hand.

By the time you finish your ascent, perspiration dots your hairline, and sweat clings to your skin. The gentle breeze that stirs through the air is a welcome relief, helping to lift the heat that has settled into your body. You reach for the clasp of your cloak, ready to shed it, when the sharp sound of metal on steel cuts through the air. Your hand freezes mid-motion, and you realize that Felix has unsheathed his sword.

Before you can question him, you register the presence of unfamiliar horses and men in the courtyard. The dust they’ve kicked up swirls in the air, and you cover your mouth with your sleeve.

“Stay behind me,” Felix urges. His free hand touches your hip briefly to guide you closer to him.

Though you do as he asks you can’t help but scan the gathered men for a familiar face, hope and dread tangling together. You find none and terror settles over you like a heavy shroud. Felix rolls his shoulders, widening his stance as he lifts his sword. There are too many men for him to fight but he stands firm, seemingly ready to lay down his life for you. It’s a sobering realization.

You glance towards the house, worried for Lucilla when you catch sight of a figure in the doorway. Even with his back to you, you recognize Lucius. His posture is stooped with weariness, but his presence still commands the air around him as he speaks with his mother and an older man beside her.

“Felix,” you whisper, fingers curling into the fabric of his cloak.

He shifts to look at you, but you cannot tear your gaze from Lucius, greedily drinking him in like a mirage in the desert, terrified if you blink that he’ll vanish. His dark brown hair is matted with dirt and sweat, his clothes torn and stained. You can see his bare arms are streaked with cuts and bruises and a bloody bandage, hastily wrapped around his left bicep, hangs loose. The sight of him is a brutal testament to his journey and your chest aches at the thought of all he’s been through.

But he’s here. Alive.

Before you realize it, you’re moving towards him. There is nothing dignified in the way you throw yourself into his arms when he turns to face you, colliding into him with enough force to send him staggering back. His arms wrap around you, steadying you both, and you bury your face against him. Your fingers twist into the hair at the nape of his neck as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to him.

Lucius says your name and a great, painful sob bursts from within you. He pulls away just enough to stroke your face and press his forehead to yours. His touch is gentle yet trembling, as though he's trying to reassure himself that you're real, that this moment is real.

“I am here,” he murmurs, “I have returned to you, just as I promised.”

You move closer to him, still shaking, and with a fierceness you can’t contain, you whisper, “Had you not, I would have gone to Pluto himself.”

“I have no doubt,” he replies, a wry smile on his lip.

Together, you breathe the same air, the rhythm of your heart easing. When you brush your nose against his, he tilts his head, letting his lips graze yours in an achingly sweet kiss. Every part of you longs to lose yourself in it, but you’re acutely aware of your surroundings — and of the role you must play.

With a quiet effort, you pull yourself from Lucius. Heat blooms in your cheeks when you realize nearly everyone is watching the two of you, but Lucius feels no such shame. He grasps your hand in his and with a proud tilt of his jaw, tugs you forward. Lucilla smiles warmly as you approach and introduces the man at her side as her husband, General Acacius.

“I have heard so much about you from Lucius,” Acacius shares, watching you with a mix of admiration and curiosity. “You are all he would speak of these last few weeks.”

You dip your head, both embarrassed and oddly pleased by the thought of Lucius talking about you to others.

“I have grown fond of her as well,” Lucilla admits. You feel her light touch on your arm before she withdraws and shifts her attention to her son and husband. “I wish to hear everything that has transpired in Rome, but you are both in need of a bath. Go,” she commands lightly.

Acacius turns to his wife with an affectionate look. He rests his fist over his chest, bowing deeply. “As my lady commands.”

You smile at Lucius, squeezing his hand. "Go," you encourage him. "We must see to it that the men are taken care of. They will need food, water, and a place to rest."

Lucius glances at his mother, and then his gaze shifts back to you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, surprise, perhaps, but he masks it quickly. He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, the gesture laden with affection. Then, with a final glance, he turns to Acacius and follows the older man out of the room.

You watch them leave and then look at Lucilla. She meets your gaze and offers a subtle but approving nod. It’s a quiet gesture but with it, the weight of responsibility settles heavily upon your shoulders. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, before stepping forward and catching the attention of two servants nearby. Their eyes meet yours with attentive expectation as you give them clear instructions on how best to tend to the garrison of soldiers gathered in the courtyard.

Every detail must be accounted for. These are the men who helped Lucius free Rome and brought him home safely to you. They deserve your care and your respect. But more than that, you understand something deeper: how you treat them now will not be forgotten. These soldiers will remember how they were received — whether with kindness, attention, and dignity or with indifference — and they will speak of it when they leave here.

Caring for them is not simply fulfilling a duty. You are establishing a connection, a foundation of trust and goodwill that will extend beyond this moment.

–

You find Lucius in your room sometime later, seemingly lost in thought. He drinks deeply from a cup of wine, and you take a moment to study his profile, content to simply watch him. The soft glow of the hearth casts shadows across his face, blurring the sharp lines of his features. His hair and skin are still damp from the bath, and he wears nothing but a simple towel, cinched tightly around his waist. Though weary, he seems more relaxed than you can ever recall seeing him.

When he lowers his cup, his eyes meet yours. "How are the men?" he ask with a smile.

“They are being taken care of," you reply. “They deserve it after what they’ve done for you."

Lucius steps closer, his hands reaching to cup your face. The familiar warmth of his calloused palms is grounding, a silent comfort.

"You have done well," he says, his voice thick with gratitude. "I am proud of you."

In his gaze, you see more than just affection – there’s respect. You try to look away, overwhelmed, but he holds your eyes, unwilling to let you break the connection.

"I am doing what needs to be done," you reply quietly. "For Rome. For you."

“For Rome?” He questions. “Since when do you speak so fondly of her?”

“Since I have fallen in love with a Roman,” you confess.

A smile tugs at the corners of Lucius’s lips, his eyes softening as he looks at you. You reach up, drawn to the familiar comfort of his touch, and curl your fingers over his. But when you brush over the bare skin of his finger, you realize the ring he’s worn as long as you’ve known him is gone.

“Lucius,” you breathe. “Your ring…”

His eyes close and a tremor passes through his body, an echo of a long-buried pain. When his hands fall from your face you mourn the loss of his touch.

“I returned it to the sea,” he says roughly, as if the words themselves are heavy. “Where it ended.”

You stare at him, shocked.

“I do not need it any longer,” Lucius continues quietly, trying to ease the air between you. “I have avenged her.”

A quiet ache blooms inside you as you think of your own wedding band, the one taken from you when you were made a prisoner of Rome. You remember its weight and shape, your thumb often tracing the space where it used to sit as if it could somehow conjure it back. You wonder if it hadn't been stolen from you, if you could let it go as Lucius has done.

“I carry Arashat with me. In my blood, in my bones.” His eyes open then, startlingly blue and clear. “It is the same way your husband still lives inside you.”

Your lip trembles and you sway, your body caught in the pull of something too deep for words. Before you ever fell in love with Lucius, before his touch became something that soothed the ache inside you, you forged a connection through shared grief. You could not escape those you lost, no matter how many years passed. But neither of you would ever want to.

Lucius’s voice breaks through the silence, his words raw and vulnerable. “More than that, it felt wrong to still wear it,” he admits. “When I love you the way a husband should love his wife.”

Your lips part, the words unable to form as they twist inside you. "A wife?" you repeat. You're unsure whether they should be a question or an answer.

He smiles, his lips brushing over yours in the gentlest of kisses. “My wife,” he confirms. “If you will have me.”

A bubble of laughter escapes your chest and you push forward, capturing his lips with yours in a possessive, claiming kiss. For Lucilla to bestow that title upon you was one thing, but to hear it from Lucius —asking you to take it — feels like something you didn’t realize you were waiting for.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely escaping in the space between you. “Yes, I will have you.”

Lucius urges you toward the bed, his mouth devouring yours. You fall together into the soft sheets and the weight of him almost steals your breath, but he hardly seems to notice. He pulls at your dress, baring your shoulder to his hungry lips.

"I have dreamed of this every night," he breathes against your skin. "Your warmth. Your sweetness."

Need flares hotly in your belly and you aid Lucius in removing your clothes. When you are bare to him he gazes down at you, his teeth catching his lower lip in an almost unconscious gesture of desire. Those sharp eyes see all, cataloging the way you sigh and arch your back when his large hands cup your breasts. Even his tender touch feels overwhelming and it’s almost painful the way his roughened fingers tease the sensitive peaks of your nipples

You tremble when his hands sweep lower, ghosting over your stomach to frame your hips. The brief pressure of his touch is soothing and you exhale as he moves down your body, finally settling between your parted thighs. In the flickering light, you see a hunger in his eyes, something so consuming it wipes away the weariness that’s clung to him since he’s returned.

“I fought for Rome, but I fought for this too,” he admits. "You are far sweeter than any honey.”

His words twist your stomach pleasantly and your fingers brush an errant curl from his forehead.

“Lucius…”

“Yes, touch me,” he encourages, lowering his mouth to you.

You drag your nails gently over the back of his neck, tracing the curve of his scalp, and feel him shudder in response. His breath falls over your skin and you lift your hips. Scars old and new catch on your fingertips as your hands roam over his broad shoulders. There’s nothing hurried about Lucius’s touch, it’s a slow exploration of your body, something he was denied last time.

Each brush of his tongue sends a surge of warmth through you and you respond by threading your fingers through his hair and tugging him closer. You need more and he gives it to you, delving deeper, greedy, and desperate for your taste. Your heart beats faster as one finger and then another slips easily inside you. He curls them up and seals his mouth over the most sensitive part of you, applying a dizzying amount of pressure. As he drinks from you his fingers move like a wave, a rhythmic caress that draws you closer and closer to the inevitable edge.

“Please,” you gasp, drawing your knees towards your chest and riding his face with a desperation that would shame you were it not for the way Lucius responds with a needy groan. There’s a fleeting moment where it feels like the sensations he drags from your body are too much to contain, but then they overflow and you let out a desperate cry of relief.

Lucius does not relent until you push at his head. Then, he stares up at you, his mouth slightly parted, his face flushed. Your fingers have made a mess of his hair and his beard glistens with your arousal. He looks entirely too pleased with himself as he crawls up your body, pausing briefly to pull the towel from his waist.

“My wife, my wife,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“My husband,” you whisper back, curling your leg over his hip as he sinks inside you, filling you completely.

A range of emotions flicker across his face — joy and pleasure, rapture and relief — each one passing like a fleeting wave, too intense to hold but impossible to ignore. You draw him close and his chest slides against yours. The air around you feels warm and heavy, thick with significance of the moment. Lucius’s labored breaths, slow and steady, fills the space, becoming the only rhythm that matters.

You stare into his blue eyes as you climb higher and higher together. There’s no need for words here, just him and the way he moves above you and inside you. He almost looks anguished as he strains and pants, pressing his forehead to yours. You hold him tightly, eyes sliding closed as something beautiful unfurls inside and everything goes quiet.

After, you remain entwined, bodies tangled, until the warmth of your skin cools and the cadence of your breath slows. Only then does Lucius pull away, and his absence creates a hollow ache that lingers. It only eases once he returns, drawing you close and wrapping his arm around your waist. He rests his head against your stomach, his gaze lifting to meet yours. You run your fingers through his hair, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I thought about this often,” he admits quietly. “Of seeing you. Holding you.” He pauses, and in the stillness of the moment, you can feel the weight of everything he’s been through, every battle, every loss, every moment of doubt. "There were so many times I thought this would not be my fate.”

The raw emotion in his voice makes your throat tighten, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. It’s a feeling you’ve carried too, that you might never see him again.

“But you are here now, with me,” you remind him, resting your palm against his cheek. He sighs and you study his face. “Yet something troubles you.”

He shakes his head in denial, but the movement is half-hearted, a fleeting attempt to hide what he feels. Your fingers gently brush over the space between his brows, where the faintest line of worry has settled.

“This tells me otherwise,” you say with a knowing look.

He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes search yours, as though he’s trying to find the words to explain what’s inside him.

“For so long I have been sustained by vengeance. It was always the next fight, the next battle, the next plan.” He closes his eyes and you can see the deep grooves time has etched into his face, the shadows of everything he's survived. “I did not let myself think about what would happen after all of this.”

“You rebuild Rome,” you tell him, the words simple but resolute.

His gaze doesn’t waver as he looks at you and he asks, “Is that what you want? Truly?”

“I want you. I want a life of peace and happiness,” you tell him, your fingers gently carding through his hair in a quiet reassurance. “Your grandfather’s dream would give that to me and so many others.”

“What else do you imagine in this life of ours?” he questions.

There’s a quiet intensity behind his question and he watches you closely, almost like he’s searching for something.

“What is it you imagine?” You ask.

"At times, I wondered..." he trails off, exhaling slowly, and turning his head so that his gaze drifts to the ceiling. The silence between you stretches and you watch the muscles of his throat work as he swallows hard. He seems to measure his words, as if what he’s about to say carries more significance than he’s ready to give voice to.

“I thought I might find you with child when I returned,” he whispers, the longing in his voice palpable.

With child. The phrase lingers in your mind, tugging at something just beyond your reach. A nagging thought, one you’ve pushed away too many times, starts to surface. But before you can grasp it, Lucius's next words pull you back.

“I imagined a little boy with your eyes…or a girl with your smile.” He continues, the corner of his mouth lifting wistfully to transform his face into something even more handsome. “Children that would have your kindness, your goodness.”

His confession is a painful one, unearthing a hope you buried so deep you almost forgot it existed. It was a dream you never let yourself entertain, because you knew, deep down, that if you planted that seed, nurtured it even for a moment, you’d never recover from its loss.

When Lucius looks back to you the question is clear in his eyes. Your answer comes before you can give it conscious thought.

“Yes,” you assure him. How could you not want a child with the same fierce tenderness that Lucius carries in his heart? Someone who would inherit the best of both of you.

Lucius rises from your lap and draws you into his embrace.

“The thought of your growing round with my child is a prospect I look forward to,” he admits, resting his hand on the soft flesh of your belly.

A jolt of something tightens in your lower abdomen at his touch, an unfamiliar flutter that gives you pause. And with it, the errant thought that had lingered at the edges of your mind, too fleeting to catch, comes rushing back into focus.

You think of the dull, almost cramping sensation you’ve been attributing to the coming of your menses. How it never quite felt right. Too mild, too inconsistent. And the waves of nausea and exhaustion that have plagued you over the past few weeks alongside the other subtle changes in your body, small things that you dismissed as stress and anxiety.

But now, as his hand lingers there, warm and steady against your skin, the truth unfurls in your mind, clear and undeniable.

You’re already pregnant.

Lucius senses the shift in your demeanor and his brow furrows in concern. "What is wrong?" he asks.

“I do not think you will have to wait long,” you whisper with a shaky exhale. “I-I…I’ve been feeling strange these last weeks. I thought it was stress but…”

Lucius’s finger flexes against your belly, his gaze briefly flickering to your hand where it rests over his. Then, his eyes return to your face, and his words come soft but certain. “You have not bled.”

You shake your head and the hope and joy that suffuses every part of your body is almost crushing in its intensity. You can't hold it back anymore. Tearful joy spills from your eyes, and a breathless laugh escapes you, fragile and free all at once.

“A child,” Lucius breathes.

The tender look of hope on his face and the love in his gaze is more beautiful than anything you could have imagined. His hand moves from your belly to cup your face, the touch so gentle it feels like something sacred. He pulls you into his arms, and for a long, perfect moment, you let yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace. His lips press softly against yours, so tender, almost reverent, as if this kiss is a quiet vow, a promise of everything to come.

When he pulls back, his forehead stays against yours, his breath mingling with yours. The love in his eyes is deep, unshakable and you know with certainty that this moment is not just the beginning of your child’s life, but the beginning of a life the two of you deserve. Together.

–

The chariot jolts, the rough motion throwing you off balance, but Lucius quickly steadies you with a firm hand on the small of your back. His touch seeps through the fabric of your white gown, grounding you as you lean into him instinctively. The chaos of the parade is overwhelming. Crowds line the street and the air buzzes with anticipation as the noise of their voices fills your ears. They chant your husband’s name, eager to see the savior of Rome.

Your fingers instinctively brush over the diadem resting delicately on your head. The unfamiliar weight of it pulls at your scalp. Despite the servants’ careful work in securing it to your hair, a small, irrational fear grips you: what if it slips off, and everyone sees you are not worthy of it all?

You were never meant to be in the spotlight like this but here you are, at the heart of it with Lucius beside you. He is poised and relaxed, lifting a hand to acknowledge the crowd. Behind you, Lucilla and Acacius ride in their own chariot, looking effortlessly graceful. Lucilla catches your eye, offering you an encouraging smile, and you return it.

As the chariot moves forward, your gaze drifts toward the Colosseum. It rises in the distance, dominating the skyline. You expect to feel something, fear or anger perhaps, but instead, there is nothing. The Colosseum, that life of struggle and survival, is no longer the centerpiece of your world. It is behind you and Palatine Hill rises before you, a symbol of your new home and life.

Hesitantly, your hand rises to offer a slow, deliberate wave to the crowd. The noise of their adoration intensifies and within the cries, you hear a shout of your own name and title mingled with Lucius’s. Hearing it sends a jolt through you. For a fleeting moment, the world seems to pause around you as the weight of everything settles in your chest. Like Caesar preparing to cross the Rubicon, you are standing on the precipice of something immense and there is no turning back. You can only move forward.

With that realization, you feel something shift deep within you, a quiet certainty taking root. It starts in your swollen belly, like the first spark of a fire, and spreads steadily outward, filling every part of you with a warmth you didn’t know you were missing. For the first time, you understand that you are not just here to fulfill Lucius’ dream and legacy. You are here for yourself and all those who once stood where you did — silent, powerless, nameless.

You came to Rome a slave, but now, you are so much more. You are a wife, a princess, and soon, a mother – empowered and loved. And for the first time, you find you are not afraid.

The future is open to you, waiting to be shaped, and you are prepared to meet it head-on.

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Post tenebras lux

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

#lucius verus #lucius versus x reader #lucius verus x you #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #paul mescal #Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife

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